First to Kill by Andrew Peterson

at his watch.
    Knife’s face turned a bright shade of crimson and his chest began heaving for air. Nathan raised an eyebrow, silently saying I told you so . Knife coughed behind the tape and was forced to inhale his own blood. His body wrenched in a violent spasm.
    “It’s only going to get worse. Soon, you’ll be aspirating blood and vomit into your lungs. That’s a bad situation. You could get pneumonia, and after I’ve broken all your ribs, coughing is going to be a tad uncomfortable.”
    Fork’s bladder quit. The liquid ran down the legs of his chair and soaked into the carpet. The pungent smell of urine drifted.
    Knife’s desperate wrenching reached a peak and Nathan knew the guy was close to passing out. He yanked the tape free, reducing Knife’s mustache to 60 percent. Vomit spewed.
    “That’s disgusting.” Nathan looked at Harv. “Garden hose, please.”
    Harv walked out the front door and returned a few seconds later, dragging a green hose with him. He handed the business end to Nathan and stepped back out outside. “Say when.”
    Nathan removed the glove from his right hand. “When,” he called.
    There was a faint squeak from outside.
    Knife wrenched in his seat. “What the fuck you doing?”
    Nathan used his thumb to form a jet of water and summarily hosed the two men down like dogs. Water flew in every direction. As if washing off a driveway, he used the hose to spray the vomit in front of Knife’s chair aside, then soaked the carpet under Fork’s chair, diluting the urine. Knife shook his head back and forth, trying to clear his vision.
    “Okay,” he yelled to Harv. Another squeak.
    Harv returned from outside.
    “Once again, here’s the deal,” Nathan said, keeping his tone even. “We have all night and there are all kinds of things in an everyday household that are perfectly suitable for inflicting pain. Almost anything works. Take your pick. Scissors, screwdrivers, pliers, lamp cords. I once beat a guy senseless with a twelve-inch salami and then made myself a sandwich. Ever had your fingers inserted into a toaster? A frying pan is effective too. You know, those heavy-duty cast-iron jobs? What we do is heat it up several hundred degrees and then lovingly place it in your lap for safekeeping. Let’s see, what else works?”
    “A grinder,” Harv said.
    “Go take a look in the garage. I’ll bet they’ve got one.”
    Harv took a step toward the door.
    “Okay. Okay. What the fuck do you want from me? I don’t know where they are. My cousins are crazy. I don’t have nothing to do with them. I swear.”
    Without looking, Nathan reached over and yanked the tape from Fork’s mouth. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”
    “Tell him about the cabin!”
    Nathan squinted at Knife. “What cabin?”
    Knife twisted toward his brother. “You dumb shit.”
    Nathan asked again, slower. “What… cabin?”
    “There’s no cabin,” Knife said.
    Nathan picked up the phone and held it an inch from Fork’s nose. “Would you like to make a call?”
    “I don’t know where it is. I swear I ain’t been there.”
    There was fury in Knife’s voice. “Shut the fuck up, Billy.”
    Nathan nodded to Knife. “He’s been there?”
     “Lots of times. He goes hunting up there. It belongs to our dad’s sister, but she don’t want nobody knowin’ about it.”
    Nathan tore another piece of tape from the roll and secured Fork’s mouth. Avoiding the empty soup cans and milk jugs on the floor, he strolled into the kitchen and started rummaging around. He opened cabinet doors, tossed pots and pans aside, and purposely made all kinds of noise. He found what he was looking for, set it on the front burner with an audible clang , and twisted the knob. The rapid clicking of the stove’s igniter was followed by the distinctive whoosh of the gas catching.
    Harv said, “Uh-oh.”
    He returned to the living room and winked at Knife.
    “My cousins will kill me.”
    “He’ll do it,” Harv said.