Page 31 of Dodge

The money gambit hadn’t worked. The great chess player, the great planner needed a new tactic.

“You want to know what I used on her?” Gasps. “Hurting people can be complicated. I think simple is better. Don’t you want to know?”

She came in fast but he blocked both blows, though she could feel his arms had grown weaker. Flailing does that. Compact movement is the only way to fight.

“A razor knife. And the lighter I use for my pipe. It’s like a little blowtorch.”

Marlowe noted that he was favoring his left shoulder.

“After you slip something metal under the skin, you can heat it up with the torch. Or you can just raise blisters with the flame itself. Depends on your mood.”

Marlowe observed too that his right ankle was weaker than the other.

“My, that woman could scream ...”

Left shoulder, right ankle ...

The body is a funny thing. Even before you feel the pain of a damaged foot, your wiring tells you exactly how much it’s going to hurt if you move a certain way and does what it can, all by itself, to take over your movement and keep you free from pain.

Marlowe now ducked and moved in to Offenbach’s right. To spare his damaged ankle, his body shifted weight automatically to his left foot and instructed the left arm to rise, steadying himself.

When she drove her blow not into his body but his left fist itself, she was prepared for her knuckles to meet bone. He was not.

Two of Offenbach’s fingers snapped—left ring and pinkie.

He barked a guttural cry. Unfair, somebody might say, to target a hand. But one could also put into that category distracting your opponent with details of torturing her friend.

His left arm useless, Offenbach now came in fast and low, then just before jabbing with his right, stopped and kicked hard. He aimed for her groin, as if momentarily forgetting the different physical structures of the two sexes. Marlowe let the blow land. It hurt but didn’t paralyze.

Ache, not sting.

She grabbed his foot and twisted.

Offenbach went down on his face.

He lay stunned.

She could easily have dropped a knee into a kidney, paralyzing him. Then rolled him over and done the same to his throat, concluding her mission in Wisconsin.

Marlowe did not do this, however. It wasn’t her boxing instinct that said you sportingly let your opponents rise and collect themselves before reengaging. No, it was that the fight had lasted only five or six minutes and her intention was to make him suffer for the same amount of time Cynthia had: at least a full ten.

He lifted his head and, when he realized she wasn’t attacking him from behind, took a moment to rest.

Or that’s what she thought.

In fact, Offenbach had been scanning the floor of the cabin, it seemed. He crawled forward fast and scooped up a handful of hypodermics and broken drug pipes, not caring about the damage to his own palm and fingers. He flung the handful hard. She dodged most but a shard from a shattered glass bong struck her on the cheek. She ignored the diversion and when he rolled to his feet and charged, she deflected his roundhouse.

In the ring, Marlowe was known for her unrelenting attacks.

And this was how she now advanced on Paul Offenbach.

Jab, jab, uppercut, driving him back.

His defense was in shambles. Her vicious left hook connected squarely with his chin, snapping his head back. Her right drove into his midsection—not always a good strategy in the ring with a pro, who’d do daily sit-ups to tighten the muscles into boards. But that was not Paul Offenbach. The blow was aimed perfectly into soft tissue, and air exploded from his lungs.

He dropped onto his back, gasping, paralyzed.

“Uh, uh, uh ...” His arms were spread out like he’d been making snow angels. Fingers curled, chest rising and falling.

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