Not wasting time, I ease to my feet and gently shut the window. Then I stand stock-still for a few breaths, listening and hoping Adam doesn’t have to pee before I’m ready. But nothing moves. It’s almost as if the barn is empty.
I unzip my backpack, grab a handful of zip ties, and shove them into my left jacket pocket. The pistol occupies the right one.
I grip the stun gun in my hand. I flex my stiff fingers a few times to warm them. That’s all I need for the first step: immobilization. The rest of my supplies can stay here.
I crack the door an inch. The living quarters are dark. He’s probably been working in the studio since before sunset and didn’t bother to turn on lights elsewhere. Outside, the wind assails the walls and rattles the windows. Inside, near silence crushes the air. A brush sweeps over canvas. Fabric rustles. The door swings open at the touch of my fingertip, and I step through the opening.
Dirty laundry litters the floor, as if the hamper exploded. The bedding cascades onto the floor. Disgusted, I make my way across the main room. The studio light is stadium bright. I approach the half wall, pausing in the shadows for a second. Adam stands before his easel, brush in hand, studying his work. Brushes, tools, his palette, and tubes of paint are strewn on a table next to him. For a few seconds, the painting in progress rivets me. Emotions shift on the canvas, the colors and layers at once simple and complex. Texture builds nuance. The reds and blacks elicit anger, at odds with the calming blues and greens, as if peace reigns over conflict.
Love over hate.
The painting stokes my rage higher.
Adam has it backward. He sees hope where there is none. Tonight, I’ll show him how wrong he is. I’ll show the optimist that darkness always wins.
My fingers curl tighter around the stun gun. I creep forward, easing each foot down on the floor, wary of squeaky boards. I am just a few feet away when Adam freezes. His head cocks. Did he hear my breathing, or did his survival instinct sense my presence?
My muscles tense. He turns. I lunge. And for the second time that night, I’m surprised by my quarry’s speedy response. He’s quicker than I expected. With Farah, I realized my error. She’s one of the fittest, strongest people I know. Hauling yourself up vertical walls will do that. But this artist . . . He doesn’t do anything. He should be a slug.
His eyes register confusion, but he doesn’t dawdle on it. He draws a foot back and raises his hands in front of his body, palms facing me, in a classic defensive posture. I thrust the stun gun at him again. I don’t need a body strike for the first zap. A hand will do just fine to slow him down for a second, better-placed jolt.
He jumps backward and bats my hand away. Size-wise, we are well matched, about the same height and weight. I stay fit, while he paints all day. Overpowering him shouldn’t be that hard. It’s hard to swallow, but the artist seems to have some natural skill.
Continuing the physical conflict tempts me. I like a challenge, and I’d like to claim a true combat victory. But I don’t have the time.
Maintaining eye contact, Adam stoops and picks up a hammer.
Well, that settles it. I’m not interested in a fair fight that fair.
I step backward, draw the pistol from my pocket, and aim it at his chest. “Drop the hammer. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”
He hesitates, clearly weighing his odds. We both know that once I disarm him, it’s game over.
“I won’t miss,” I say.
His gaze drops to the gun as he considers his surrender. Will I have to shoot him? I raise the gun higher and extend my arm. Barely six feet separates us. I’m no crack marksman, but I’m a decent shot. I’ll hit him.
As if he comes to the same conclusion, he bends his knees and carefully sets the hammer on the floor.
“Turn around and put your hands on your head.”
He nods, but before he turns, I catch a gleam of defiance in his eyes. “What do you want?” he asks, the first words he’s spoken during our confrontation.
I consider the plastic ties in my pocket. The sleeves of his worn T-shirt ride up his arms as he laces his fingers behind his head, revealing larger biceps than a simple painter should have. It would take two hands to bind his wrists. I’d have to put the gun down. He intends to try and break free when I’m within range, which is why he’s placed the hammer so carefully at his feet, to keep it within easy reach.
Can’t have that.
With the pistol aimed at his back, I use my left hand to retrieve the stun gun from my pocket. I shove it at him, pressing the button and delivering a hefty jolt of current to his back. He goes stiff, and his body quakes. Angry at his defiance, I hold it longer than usual, and he goes down hard. His body strikes the table, and his brushes and other painting paraphernalia go flying.
Only when he’s on the ground twitching, his nervous system short-circuiting, his muscles unresponsive, do I put away the pistol. I make sure the zip ties are nice and snug on his wrists and ankles. I’m not taking any chances with him.
He’s done.
While I wait for him to regain a little control, I carry a kitchen chair into the studio. Then I force him to sit up. With two hands under his arms, I drag him onto the chair. He’s heavy and complete deadweight. I’m sweating by the time he’s seated. I cut the ties on his ankles and bind them to the chair legs. Then I do the same to his wrists, fastening each to a chair arm. For good measure, I use another tie to fasten one of the belt loops on the back of his jeans to a slat on the back of the chair. I bring another chair into the room and position it so that it faces him about ten feet away.
They can watch each other suffer. I stand back and survey my work. The scene feels Shakespearean. Two lovers doomed by their passion, locked in a tragic fate, a tale of deceit and betrayal. Goose bumps lift on my sweaty arms.
When I’m satisfied, I give Adam another quick jolt to make sure he won’t recover while I’m getting ready. He slumps. The plastic ties are the only things keeping him upright. He’s limp when I leave him. Time to set the rest of the stage for tonight’s performance. A thrill rides my spine. This kill will be different. I’ll have an audience, and I have a greater purpose. The sheriff’s brother is the ultimate target. His death will destroy her. And after Adam and Farah are both dead, I’ll get to watch the sheriff follow my carefully constructed trail of evidence to arrive at the wrong conclusion.
It couldn’t get any better.
With Adam trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, I head outside and open the cargo door of the Jeep. First, I pile the hand warmers on the mesh top of the snake’s tank, then I carry it into the house. The animal is still angry—and active—so the hand warmers must have worked. I set the aquarium down in the studio. Adam can’t move yet, but his eyes go wide as the snake goes through its usual hiss-and-rattle routine. I left the front door open, and the room is chilly.
I return to the Jeep. A frigid gust of wind rips across the open meadow. Tall weeds and grass bend to its strength. Farah isn’t wearing a coat, and she’s shivering. I show her the gun. “Follow my instructions or you die right now.”
She doesn’t respond, but her eyes shine with tears. I cut the binds to her ankles. She immediately stretches her legs. No doubt she’s cramped up after being in the same awkward position for at least an hour. I help her out of the cargo bay. I hope the bitch can walk. I don’t feel like carrying her. She’s thin, but muscular and surprisingly heavy. Getting her into the Jeep at my house was a task.