Archie’s color immediately started to improve.
“Now, give me the key to the handcuffs,” Gretchen said.
Susan got up and got the key and came back. She told herself that she had to do what Gretchen said. Gretchen still had the gun trained on Henry. Susan put the little key into the lock on the cuffs and turned it. The cuff sprang open and Gretchen was free and in that moment Susan reached into her back pocket and with a movement faster than she thought possible she plunged the knife into Gretchen’s torso, below her rib cage. It was easier than she thought it would be. The knife slid in past the gristle with a series of knotty pops, bouncing off bone, then sliding below her ribs like it was going into hard cheese. When Susan withdrew her shaking hand, the knife was still there, driven into Gretchen’s silk blouse to the hilt, a ring of dark red around it.
She hadn’t even come close to the jugular.
But it was enough. Gretchen’s eyes widened and her mouth formed an “oh,” where a tiny sigh escaped as the knife penetrated her. Henry seized the opportunity and lurched forward, connecting his forearm with Gretchen’s elbow. Susan lost sight of the gun behind Henry’s frame as he dove for it, wrestling it from Gretchen’s hand and then sending it skidding across the carpet.
As Henry scrambled to recover the weapon, Susan watched as Gretchen slid her hand down her side, her fingers folding around the knife Susan had plunged into her.
“The knife,” Susan managed to say, as Gretchen pulled it out with a pop of her elbow. The silver blade was slick with blood. Gretchen held Archie’s head up by a fistful of hair, and pressed the knife to his throat.
“I like knives better anyway,” Gretchen said.
There was smoke in the house. It was just enough to soften the focus of the room. Susan wasn’t even sure that Gretchen or Henry had noticed it.
The wind had changed direction.
Gretchen slid backward on the floor in a modified crab walk, one arm now around Archie’s chest, the other holding the knife to his neck, pushing herself along on her elbows and haunches, dragging Archie with her like an animal with prey toward the open glass door to the deck.
“No,” Henry said. He was lying on the carpet on his side, his arms extended, gun raised, pointed at Gretchen.
“Have you ever killed a chicken, Henry?” Gretchen asked sweetly, pressing the knife against Archie’s flesh. “Some people use a chopping block. But you can also use a metal cone.” She smiled. “You tie the bird’s feet and stretch the neck through the hole at the bottom of the cone. Then you cut its neck.” She moved the knife along Archie’s neck, the blade turned on its side so it didn’t cut his throat. “The key is to sever the jugular, so it bleeds out. But you want to avoid the windpipe.” She winked. “They say it’s stressful for the birds.”
“Not another inch,” Henry said. “You don’t escape from this.”
“His body’s been through a lot,” Gretchen said. “How much blood do you think he could stand to lose?”
Henry sat up, the gun still level at Gretchen’s head. And then, slowly, he stood. “You won’t do it. He’s too important to you.”
Susan thought she saw Gretchen falter. Her eyebrows flickered and she held Archie closer, pressing her knees on either side of his torso.
Henry was right, Susan thought, gaining confidence. She wouldn’t kill Archie. She’d just saved him. Again. She needed him alive. Henry took a step toward her, gun raised.
Gretchen cut Archie’s throat. The knife pressed into the flesh, and it opened gently like the skin of an eggplant. Blood seeped from the wound, darkening Archie’s neck and chest.
Susan felt woozy from adrenaline and shock and fear. She wished she’d kept hold of the stick so she could have jammed it into Gretchen’s eye. It might not have killed her. But it would probably have gotten infected. And at the periphery of her consciousness she thought she heard the faint sound of sirens.
Gretchen’s eyes blazed at Henry. “Don’t ever think you can know what I’ll do,” she said. The knife and her hand were covered in blood, her hand like a red glove. Gretchen licked the blade and grinned. “I like a man with a damaged liver,” she said. “The blood is so sweet.”
Every vein in Henry’s head bulged. Susan thought she could see his pulse, racing, threatening to burst through his skin. His hands gripped the gun like it was Gretchen’s neck.
“Not yet,” Gretchen warned him.
Archie was still alive. He was bleeding. But there wasn’t any splatter; she hadn’t hit an artery. His color was pale, but he was still sweating. Dead people didn’t sweat, did they?