Edge

near the end of a refinishing job. It all looked so innocent.
    For a moment I expected we would fall into a conversation. Some repartee. After all, we’d been opponents for years and had in the past two days been playing a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors over and over again.
    But he was as serious a player as I was and went about his task skillfully.
    What’s his goal?
    To find Amanda.
    What’s the most efficient way to achieve it?
    He pulled my right shoe off, then the sock. Toes, like fingers, I knew, had a plentitude of nerves. They’re among the most sensitive parts of the human body. He knelt on my calf to keep my leg immobile—which was in itself excruciating—and then selected a piece of sandpaper. He began to work on the front of my big toe.
    Nothing for a moment, then I felt discomfort and finally an intense searing burn that coursed straight up into my face. I gasped involuntarily and finally shouted out in pain.
    My nose hurt, my teeth, my throat.
    All from his gentle sanding.
    Loving reached for the bottle of alcohol and unscrewed the top, which he carefully put into his pocket. He didn’t bother to look at me or say a word. The rules of play were obvious. Either I’d tell him where Amanda had gone or I wouldn’t.
    He tilted the bottle and I felt a burst of cold—this too merely irritating at first. But then the excruciating agony rose again to my jaw. Pain like pain I’d never felt. It was a creature, moving where it wanted throughout my body. Living, pulsing. Clever and driven. I could see it as colors, I could hear it.
    “Rock, paper, scissors,” I muttered between teeth jammed together. “Rock, paper, scissors.” Through tear-filled eyes, I noticed Loving put the bottle down and pick up the sandpaper again.
    “Rock, paper, scissors.”
    Peggy, Peggy, Peggy . . .
    “Rock, paper, scissors . . .”
    He started on a second toe.
    I screamed.
    Rock paper scissors rock paper . . .
    Another scream.
    He picked up the alcohol once again.
    Then, as I gasped for breath, I heard two noises. The first was the snap of a branch not far away, in the direction of the road.
    The second was a metallic click. A particular click that nobody in my line of work would mistake.
    Loving knew it too, of course, and in an instant he’d dropped his implements of torture and was pulling my Glock from his waistband. He fell to his belly, wincing, as the first shot shook the night. It was a miss—but close. Dirt kicked up behind us.
    The lifter rolled away from me seven or eight feet—he couldn’t afford for me to get killed by a stray shot before he learned where Amanda was headed—and went prone again. We were in a lawn of low grass, which offered very poor cover.
    Another shot. I glanced in the direction it came from and saw a man lumbering through the bushes, a revolver held forward in his hand, cocking and firing toward Loving. Initially I was surprised to see the newcomer’s identity. But then I realized I shouldn’t have been.
    Ryan Kessler was one of the few people who knew where Pogue and I had been going.
    The cop wasn’t dodging or crouching. He didn’t even slow down or cringe when Loving fired a burst of three. I couldn’t see if Ryan had been hit; he just kept moving forward, squinting into the dark to find a clear target.
    Then there was silence. Even in the dim light he was well within range of the Glock and yet Loving didn’t fire again. I glanced up and saw why. Shooting my gun, he hadn’t known how many rounds were left. He’d emptied the magazine; the slide was locked back, awaiting reloading.
    Loving realized that I might have a fresh magazine on me, which in fact I did. He glanced toward Ryan, making steady progress, limping forward, trying to find a target.
    Loving moved and Ryan fired. Then he too wasout of ammo. I heard the click of the hammer on spent brass. He pulled a speed loader off his belt and flipped open the cylinder of the gun to eject and reload.
    Loving scrabbled toward me and reached for my jacket pocket. I immediately spun over on my belly, ignoring the excruciating pain in my toe, to keep him from getting the extra ammo. Loving glanced at Ryan, who was inserting the round rack of shells, and then he tugged my jacket out from underneath me, reaching for the pocket. Ryan started walking closer.
    Now, Loving was desperate.
    I summoned whatever strength I had left and jerked my knees up, striking Loving hard in the side, where I’d shot him earlier. He gasped