THE PAIN OF OTHERS by Blake Crouch Page B

answered my question.”
    Mr. K thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.
    Donaldson contemplated his own death—the first time in his life he ever had—and decided dying would be a very bad thing.
    “I killed him,” Donaldson said quickly.
    Mr. K seemed to think about this. He nodded slowly. “Was it someone you knew?”
    “No. Jumped him in a parking lot in Sarasota. Wouldn’t have wasted the bullet if I knew what a piece of crap his car was.”
    Donaldson watched Mr. K’s eyes. They betrayed nothing. The two of them might as well have been talking about the weather.
    “How’d it feel?” Mr. K asked.
    “How did what feel?”
    “Killing that man.”
    What kind of freaky talk is this? Donaldson thought, but all he said was, “I dunno .”
    “Sure you do. Did it feel good? Bad? Numb? Did it get you excited? Did you feel guilty afterward?”
    Donaldson thought back to the day before. To holding the gun to the man’s ribs. Seeing the shock in his eyes when he squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Watching him flop to the ground in a way that had struck him as funny. The holes in his chest had made sucking sounds, blowing tiny blood bubbles.
    “Excited,” Donaldson said.
    “Did he die right away?”
    “No.”
    “Did you stay and watch him die?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How long did it take?”
    It’s so strange that we’re both so calm about this.
    Donaldson shrugged. “Few minutes, I guess.”
    “Did you do anything else to him?”
    “Like what?”
    “Did you hurt him first?” Mr. K raised an eyebrow. “Rape him?”
    Donaldson scowled. “Do I look like a queer to you?”
    “What does being a homosexual have to do with it? You had a human being at your mercy. That excited you. I’m asking if you capitalized on that opportunity. If you made the most of it.”
    Donaldson thought about it. The guy had been at his mercy. He’d begged for a while when Donaldson pulled the gun, and that was kind of a turn-on.
    “I didn’t rape him,” Donaldson said.
    “Could you have raped him?”
    Donaldson licked some dried blood off of his top lip, let the salty, copper taste linger on his tongue. “Yeah. I could’ve.”
    This answer seemed to satisfy Mr. K. He was quiet for over a minute.
    The road stretched out ahead of them like a giant black snake.
    Empty swampland and blue skies as far as Donaldson could see.
    I can’t believe I’m telling him this stuff. Is it because he’s threatening to kill me?
    Or because he understands?
    “How’d you know?” Donaldson asked.
    “Know what?”
    “That I stole that car?”
    Mr. K offered a half-smile. “I saw the gun in your pocket when you stopped, along with your clumsy attempt to hide it. You should get an ankle holster, or stuff it in your belt at the small of your back. You obviously aren’t a Florida native, or you’d have a tan already. That means you flew in or drove in. If you flew, you probably would’ve had a rental car, and those are usually new. That Pinto was an old model. When you first got in, I noticed the powder burns on your shirt, and under your rather oppressive body odor, you smell like gunpowder.”
    Donaldson was impressed, but he refused to show it. He knew a lot about being victimized. One way to stop being a victim was to stop acting like a victim.
    “I asked how you knew about the car, not my gun,” Donaldson said, sticking out his lower jaw.
    If Mr. K noticed Donaldson’s display of bravado, he didn’t react. “Your loose jeans didn’t jingle when you sat down in the car. When people abandon their vehicles, they take their keys with them. So I assumed it wasn’t yours.”
    Donaldson appraised Mr. K again. This was a smart guy.
    “How about you?” Donaldson ventured. “Did you kill the owner of this car?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Not yet?”
    “He’s tied up in the trunk. I’m taking him someplace private.”
      Donald worded his next question carefully. “Do you want to kill me?”
    Mr. K drummed his fingers on the