Velocity

that just questioning Billy.
    The young mother, obviously preselected by the killer, would be murdered.
    What if the children awakened? As witnesses, they might be eliminated.
    The madman had not promised to kill only the mother.
    On damp night air, a musky smell wafted from the rich layers of mast on the woodland floor and drifted from the trees to the porch.
    Billy returned to the kitchen and closed the door.
    Later, whittling leaf details, he pricked a thumb. He didn’t get a Band-Aid. The puncture was small; it should close quickly.
    When he nicked a knuckle, he remained too intensely involved with the carving to bother attending to it. He worked faster, and didn’t notice when he sustained a third tiny cut.
    To an observer, had there been one, it might have seemed as though Billy wanted to bleed.
    Because his hands remained busy, the wounds kept weeping. The wood soaked up the blood.
    In time, he realized that the oak had completely discolored. He dropped the carving and put aside the blade.
    He sat for a while, staring at his hands, breathing hard for no reason. In time, the bleeding stopped, and it didn’t start up again when he washed his hands at the sink.
    At 11:45, after patting his hands dry on a dishtowel, he got a cold Guinness and drank it from the bottle. He finished it too fast.
    Five minutes after the first beer, he opened a second. He poured it in a glass to encourage himself to sip it and make it last.
    He stood with the Guinness in front of the wall clock.
    Eleven-fifty. Countdown.
    As much as Billy wanted to lie to himself, he couldn’t be fooled. He had made a choice, all right. The choice is yours. Even inaction is a choice.
    The mother who had two children—she wouldn’t die tonight. If the homicidal freak kept his end of the bargain, the mother would sleep the night and see the dawn.
    Billy was part of it now. He could deny, he could run, he could leave his window shades down for the rest of his life and cross the line from recluse to hermit, but he could not escape the fundamental fact that he was part of it.
    The killer had offered him a partnership. He had wanted no part of it. But now it turned out to be like one of those business deals, one of those aggressive stock offers, that writers in the financial pages called a hostile takeover.
    He finished the second Guinness as midnight arrived. He wanted a third. And a fourth.
    He told himself he needed to keep a clear head. He asked himself why, and he had no credible answer.
    His part of the business was done for the night. He had made the choice. The freak would do the deed.
    Nothing more would happen tonight, except that without the beer, Billy wouldn’t be able to sleep. He might find himself carving again.
    His hands ached. Not from his three insignificant wounds. From having clutched the tools too tightly. From having held the chunk of oak in a death grip.
    Without sleep, he wouldn’t be ready for the day ahead. With morning would come news of another corpse. He would learn whom he had chosen for death.
    Billy put his glass in the sink. He didn’t need a glass anymore because he didn’t care about making the beer last. Each bottle was a punch, and he wanted nothing more than to knock himself out.
    He took a third beer to the living room and sat in his recliner. He drank in the dark.
    Emotional fatigue can be as debilitating as physical exhaustion. All strength had fled him.
    At 1:44, the telephone woke him. He flew up from the chair as if from a catapult. The empty beer bottle rolled across the floor.
    Hoping to hear Lanny, he snared the handset from the kitchen phone on the fourth ring. “Hello” earned no reply.
    The listener. The freak.
    Billy knew from experience that a strategy of silence would get him nowhere. “What do you want from me? Why me?”
    The caller did not respond.
    “I’m not going to play your game,” Billy said, but that was lame because they both knew that he had already been co-opted.
    He would have been pleased if the killer had replied with even a soft laugh of derision, but he got nothing.
    “You’re sick, you’re twisted.” When that didn’t inspire a response, Billy added, “You’re human debris.”
    He thought he sounded weak and ineffective, and for the times in which he lived, the insults were far from inflammatory. Some heavy-metal rock band probably called itself Sick and Twisted, and surely another was named Human Debris.
    The freak would not be baited. He disconnected.
    Billy