“You die hard.” Kenji
opened the camera and pulled out the film, then grabbed the man
by his feet and pulled him out of the road and into a thicket
of stickers that tore at his clothing and more painfully his flesh.
He noted the distance between the giant electrical towers, about
halfway between. The blood would make the body easy to find.
Kenji remembered this power line,
knew it eventually intersected the logging road about a half-mile
from where his Rolls sat with Catherine, who by this time would
be shivering. He elected to walk back through the woods, letting
the trees thrash him, recalling that white people had whipped
themselves to receive some strange absolution from their wrongdoing.
Already he wondered whether tomorrow or the next day he might
feel something. Perhaps when he lifted his little boy over his
head or touched his wife in the night, he would feel the weight
of his guilt.
He reached the car and walked to the
back door on Catherine’s side, took off his coat and brushed
himself off. For a few moments he had allowed himself the luxury
of infatuation.
It would never happen again. But this time
there was no question that he would yet have Catherine physically.
“What was all the shooting? Thank
god you’re all right. I mean my god, no one should get killed
over pictures.” She was terrified, rambling. “The
photographer is all right. Please, dear God, tell me he’s
all right.”
Kenji paused. And then he lied. “He’s
fine. I was so pissed that I made him dance. He danced and I shot.
I stripped out the film. It’s okay.”
Kenji walked around the burgundy car,
noticing the gleam of the moon in the satin finish. He got in
the back on the other side and motioned Catherine to him.
The strain showed on Catherine’s
face. “Guess you took care of him,” she said a little
too brightly.
