She smiled. “I can see on your face that you know what must be done. It's the only way, isn't it. If we don't do this we'll be forever damned, forever shamed.”
“You need a doctor,” I whispered. “You've been under a lot of stress. You're not thinking right.”
“What do you know about thinking right? Do you talk to God? Are you guided by His words?”
I stared at her, feeling my pulse pounding in my throat and at my temple.
“I talk to God,” she said. “I do what He tells me to do. I am His instrument.”
“Well yeah, but God's a good guy,” I said. “He wouldn't want you to do bad things.”
“I do what's right,” Sophia said. “I cut evil out at its source. My soul is that of an avenging angel.”
"How do you know this?'
“God told me.”
A terrible new thought popped into my head. “Did Louie know you talked to God? That you're God's instrument?”
Sophia froze.
“That room in the cellar . . . the cement room where you kept Mooner and Dougie. Did Louie ever lock you in that room?”
The gun was shaking in her hand, and her eyes glittered under the light. “It's always difficult for the faithful. The martyrs. The saints. You're trying to distract me, but it won't work. I know what I must do. And you're going to help me now. I want you to get down on your knees and unbutton his shirt.”
“No way!”
“You will. You'll do it now, or I'll shoot you. I'll shoot you in first one foot and then the other. And then I'll shoot you in the knee. And I'll continue to shoot you until you either do as I tell you or you die.”
She took aim and I knew she was telling the truth. She'd shoot me without a moment's regret. And she'd continue to shoot me until I was dead. I stood, using the table for support. I walked wooden-legged to DeChooch and knelt beside him.
“Do it,” she said. “Unbutton his shirt.”
I put my h
and to his chest and felt his warmth, felt him take a shallow breath. “He's still alive!”
“Even better,” Sophia said.
I gave an involuntary shudder and began unbuttoning his shirt. One button at a time. Slowly. Buying time. My fingers feeling stupid and clumsy. Barely able to manage the task.
When I had the shirt unbuttoned, Sophia reached behind her and got a butcher knife from the wooden block on the kitchen counter. She tossed the knife on the floor beside DeChooch. “Cut his undershirt away.”
I took the knife in hand, feeling the weight of it. If this was television, in one swift move I'd have the knife plunged into Sophia. But this was real life, and I had no idea how to throw a knife or how to move fast enough to beat the bullet.
I put the knife to the white undershirt. My mind was scrambling. My hands were shaking and sweat prickled at my underarms and scalp. I made the initial stab and then ran the knife the length of the shirt, exposing DeChooch's knobby chest. My own chest feeling hot as fire and painfully constricted.
“Now cut his heart out,” Sophia said, her voice quiet and steady.
I looked up at her and her face was serene . . . except for the terrifying eyes. She was confident that she was doing the right thing. Probably had voices in her head reassuring her even as I knelt over DeChooch.
Something dripped onto DeChooch's chest. Either I was drooling or else my nose was running. I was too scared to tell which it was. “I don't know how to do this,” I said. “ I don't know how to get at the heart.”
“You'll find a way.”
“I can't.”
“You will!”