The Killing Season

fense mechanisms took over and all I could do was let it happen. I feinted with my eyes and snatched his wrist, hard. This time I was faster, and I felt the bones of his arm grind together in my grip. The knife clattered to the floor and I opened his lip with two quick slaps.

He had no tolerance for pain. He weakened instantly, but I had to force myself to ease off on his wrist. It was the legacy of my days in Viet Nam, and I was not proud of it. "Talk," I said, as gently as I could.

"Prescriptions. I wrote her some prescriptions." His throat sounded knotted up, and he was taking in a lot of air. "That's all."

"For what?"

"You know. Downers. Seconal, Valium, Quaaludes."

"How much?"

"Just a few, not often."

"Did she pay you to do it?"

"Christ no, man. Everybody does it. You think it's a big deal?"

"If it's no big deal, what are you so scared of?"

"The heat's on."

"How do you know the heat's on? It wasn't in the papers. The cops know b