The Killing Moon: A Novel

Ripsbaugh did not move at first. Maddox had no time to be shocked, kicking free of the splintered front legs, squirming with his hands still bound behind his back.

When Ripsbaugh did finally reach out to stop him, Maddox flailed, jabbing at Ripsbaugh's knee with a loose foot, kicking him back. Maddox writhed madly, his wrists getting looser, his knees pulling free.

He felt a new tension pulling on his waist. Ripsbaugh had taken up one end of the rope. He fashioned a loop with it and came at Maddox, meaning to slip the noose around his neck.

Maddox, helpless against a strangling, dug in with his heels and spun himself around, keeping his head away from Ripsbaugh, swinging another kick at his legs.

Ripsbaugh looped Maddox's foot, catching it. The broken chair back scraped against the floor as Ripsbaugh pulled the rope hand over hand, reeling Maddox in. His smooth, blank fingers.

Maddox went limp a moment, tempting Ripsbaugh with slack. Ripsbaugh took the bait, yanking back on the line, looking to bring Maddox close enough to fall on him with the rope and finish him.

But Maddox jerked as Ripsbaugh hauled, the line pulling taut, the rope ripping right through Ripsbaugh's fingers. Ripsbaugh let go, but not fast enough.

Ripsbaugh brought his hands up in front of his face as though they had been burned. Strips of shielding latex hung like layers of dead skin, baring his fingers beneath.

Maddox dug into the floor with his heels. He scraped away on his back, down the hall, away from Ripsbaugh. He knocked over the shovel by the kitchen counter and dragged it along with him, the ropes pulling looser with every movement.

Maddox got to one knee. Both wrists were free of their knots, his arms still tangled in the rope and chair behind his back. He shrugged one arm loose and used that to start on his legs. In the kitchen to his right, the sink was running.

Ripsbaugh remained at the other end of the hall, doing something with his exposed hands.

Maddox worked maniacally, shredding skin off own his fingertips as he stripped away the last of the rope and the chair. He picked up the shovel with the intention of running down the hall and braining Ripsbaugh with it, but the angry crack of a handgun froze him.

Ripsbaugh held Maddox's revolver in his peeling hands, having fired it into the floor. He raised the smoking barrel now, leveling it at Maddox.

"All right," said Ripsbaugh. "That's about enough."

61

RIPSBAUGH

PULLED FROM THE BACK of his waistband, the revolver felt cold against the bare parts of Ripsbaugh's fingers. He could almost feel his skin oils adhering to the wood grip. He had to be so careful now.

Maddox stood at the other end of the hallway, wild with desperation.

Ripsbaugh had to remain clearheaded. This was a critical time. This was where killers made their mistakes—in haste. In going off plan. Part of him was exposed, but he still had control of the scene.

He had the gun. He was okay. Nothing had gotten away from him yet.

"Put down the shovel."

Ripsbaugh didn't want to be too close for the kill shot, if it came to that. He wanted the round to lodge inside Maddox and not kick out. Not get lost in a wall somewhere with Maddox's DNA on it.

Maddox was doing something to the fingers of his hand. He was picking at the tips. A few drops of blood fell to the wood floor.

"That's for the FBI," said Maddox. He flicked tiny droplets into the kitchen. Up at the ceiling. He smeared some on the handle of Ripsbaugh's shovel. "Now what? What's this do to your master plan?"

Ripsbaugh knew that, even if he could find and clean every drop, there were chemicals that brought up old bloodstains. "Now that there's blood evidence, what's to stop me from shooting you?"

The plan had been to march Maddox through the woods behind his house to the top of the falls. Let the force of the water dispose of him without a trace. Then throw Sinclair's clothes in after him, the wig, the pager—everything. Flush the evidence. Flush Maddox and Sinclair. Leave nothing linking either of them to Ripsbaugh.

But, as with Frond and Pail, things wouldn't go exactly as planned.

All Maddox was doing here was making more work for him. Ripsbaugh didn't look forward to shouldering his dead weight all the way to the falls. But hard work was hard work. And he had found that killing—doing it right—was just about the hardest work there was.

The arteries of the chest. Same place he did Sinclair. Plenty of muscle to catch the round.

"It's for Val I do this," he said.

But Maddox dropped the shovel and darted fast into the cross hallway, the shot missing him. Ripsbaugh put another quick round into the intervening wall, tracking Maddox about shoulder high. Then he cut through the sitting room, beating Maddox to the front door.

Maddox wasn't there. Instead Ripsbaugh heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.

He was going to the bedrooms to hide. He was trapped and running scared.