Tick Tock

this place?”
    “I'm an heiress,” she said.
    He tied the shoelace and got to his feet. “Heiress? I thought your father was a professional poker player.”
    “He was. A damned good one. And he invested his winnings wisely. When he died, he left an estate worth thirty-four million dollars.”
    Tommy gaped at her. “You're serious, aren't you?”
    “When am I not?”
    “That's the question, alright.”
    “You know how to use a pump-action shotgun?”
    “Sure. But guns aren't going to stop it.”
    She handed the Mossberg to him. “They might slow it down—like your pistol did. And these pack a lot more punch. Come on, let's hit the road. I think you're right about being safe only when we're on the move. Lights out.”
    Following her out of the now dark study, Tommy said, “But… for God's sake, when you're already a multimillionaire, why do you work as a waitress?”
    “To understand.”
    “Understand what?”
    Moving toward the foyer, she said, “Lights out,” and the living room went dark. “To understand what the average person's life is like, to keep my feet on the ground.”
    “That's ridiculous.”
    “My paintings wouldn't have any soul if I didn't live part of my life the way most people do.” She opened the door to the foyer closet and slipped a blue nylon ski jacket off a hanger. “Labour, hard work, is at the centre of most people's lives.”
    “But most people have to work. You don't. So in the end, if it's only a choice for you, how can you really understand the necessity the rest of us feel?”
    “Don't be mean.”
    “I'm not being mean.”
    “You are. I don't have to be a rabbit and get myself torn to pieces in order to understand how a poor bunny feels when a hungry fox chases it through a field.”
    “Actually, I suspect you do have to be the rabbit to really know that kind of terror.”
    Shrugging into the ski jacket, she said, “Well, I'm not a rabbit, never have been a rabbit, and I'm not going to become a rabbit. What an absurd idea.”
    “What?”
    “If you want to know what that kind of terror feels like, then you become a rabbit.”
    Befuddled, Tommy said, “I've lost track of the conversation, the way you keep twisting things around. We aren't talking about rabbits, for God's sake.”
    “Well, we certainly weren't talking about squirrels.”
    Trying to get the discussion back on track, he said, “Are you really an artist?”
    Sorting through the other coats in the closet, she said, “Is any of us really anything?”
    Exasperated with Del's preference for speaking in cryptograms, Tommy indulged in one himself: “We're anything in the sense that we are everything.”
    “You've finally said something sensible.”
    “I have?”
    Behind Tommy, as if by way of comment, Scootie bit the rubber hotdog: tthhhpphhtt.
    Del said, “I'm afraid none of my jackets will fit you.”
    “I'll be okay. I've been cold and wet before.” On the granite-topped foyer table, beside Del's purse, were two boxes of ammunition: cartridges for the Desert Eagle and shells for the 12-gauge Mossberg that Tommy carried. She put down the pistol and began to fill the half dozen zippered pockets of her ski jacket with spare rounds for both weapons.
    Tommy studied the painting that hung above the table: a bold work of abstract art in primary colours. “Are these your paintings on the walls?”
    “That would be tacky, don't you think? I keep all my canvases in my studio, upstairs.”
    “I'd like to see them.”
    “I thought you were in a hurry.”
    Tommy sensed that the paintings were the key that would unlock the mysteries of this strange woman—
    —tthhhpphhtt—
    —and her strange dog. Something about her style or her subject matter would be a revelation, and upon seeing what she had painted, he would achieve the satori that had eluded him earlier.
    “It'll only take five minutes,” he pressed.
    Still jamming spare ammo into her pockets, she said, “We don't have five minutes.”
    “Three. I really want to see your paintings.”
    “We've got to get out of here.”
    “Why are you suddenly so evasive?” he asked.
    Zipping shut a pocket bulging with shotgun shells, she said, “I'm not being evasive.”
    “Yes, you are. What the hell have you been painting up there?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?”
    “I'm not.”
    “This is weird. Look me in the eyes, Del.”
    “Kittens,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
    “Kittens?”
    “That's what I've been painting. Stupid, tacky, sentimental crap. Because I'm not really very talented. Kittens with big eyes. Sad