Chapter 4

A/N – Caution: Strong language ahead. We all know how much Mort loves to swear :P

Alex fidgeted on the sofa as she waited for Mort to return. She looked around the cabin vaguely, more for distraction from the pain in her foot than genuine curiosity. Some of the decorative objects on the shelves appeared quite spooky in the dimness, one African-looking mask in particular. It stared at her with its gaping eye sockets, infinite in their blackness, blind yet all-seeing, its open mouth twisted in a fiendish snarl. Glaring menacingly, it held her gaze captive; she was almost afraid to look away.

A sudden smashing sound from above made her jump, and she heard someone swearing loudly. She wrenched her eyes away from the mask, craning her neck to look up the stairs. Seconds later, Mort dashed down the stairs, clutching his left hand in his right. Blood streamed from between his fingers as he rushed past her into the kitchen, cursing under his breath.

Heart racing, Alex listened to him crash around in the kitchen, drawers and cupboards banging open and closed until he found what he'd been looking for. He emerged some time later, holding a red-stained cloth tightly around the palm of his left hand.

"Are you okay?" Alex asked tentatively, eyes wide.

"Yeah. Left a switchblade in my shirt drawer. I think it snapped open while I was looking through there. Hence -" Mort held up the hand in question. "It's not that bad, don't worry." He gave her a brief smile and returned upstairs.

It never occurred to Alex that he might be lying.

XXXX

Mort peered into his bedroom cautiously. Seeing his bedside lamp in shards on the floor caused his mind to flash back to the incident that had happened only a few minutes prior. It replayed itself vividly in his head.

Mort rummaged through his drawer, searching for something appropriate to give to the young woman waiting for him in his living room. He pulled a black shirt out of his drawer, something that his great-aunt had given him for his birthday but that he had never worn. He threw it onto his bed. A twinkle of silver caught his eye as he turned back to the dresser.

He carefully pulled his old switchblade from on top of the mess of shirts in the drawer. He'd completely forgotten that he'd put it in there, after it had gotten stuck open during a fishing trip a few years back. He spun the handle between his fingers, admiring the way the silver of the blade caught the light. He threw it onto the bed beside the shirt, making a mental note to put it somewhere where he wouldn't accidentally sever one of his own fingers with it.

"She's seen me," a heavily accented voice drawled suddenly from behind him.

Mort whirled around so rapidly that he almost fell down. Chills ran up and down his spine, and he began to back away as Shooter advanced on him.

"She's seen me," Shooter repeated, his eyes blazing. "You know what that means, don't you?"

Mort had a very good idea of what it meant.

"She might tell people," Shooter continued. "And where would that leave me? You know what you need to do…"

"Fuck you," Mort hissed defiantly. "I'll do no such thing."

Shooter snatched up the knife from the bed and held it in front of him. "You will do exactly as I say, pilgrim. You won't be able to do otherwise. And you know it."

Mort seethed with anger. He fought to resist the urge to let his fist lash out and connect with Shooter's face; anywhere on his face. But, buried deep down, somewhere under that anger he was frightened. What if Shooter was right? What if he killed again? This time an innocent young woman, an utter stranger to him, someone he did not know, someone he felt nothing for. He had a hard enough time dealing with four murders, let alone five…His anger deflated, and he felt only despair.

Shooter nodded slowly, a wicked smile playing upon his lips.

Mort watched the derisive smile and anger boiled up in him again. He barely managed to repress it. Instead, he said calmly: "I'm not going to kill anyone. Get out of my house and stay the fuck away from me." He made to leave.

Shooter's eyes flashed, and he swiped the knife in a wide arc in front of his body. Mort stopped dead and quickly held up his hands to protect himself, cringing away from the blade. The knife sliced across his palm halfway through the arc, slashing open the skin. A spurt of blood sprayed from the cut.

"Fuck!" Mort yelled. He pressed firmly on his palm to stem the bleeding and rushed towards the doorway. In his haste, he knocked over his reading lamp, sending it hurtling to the floor where it broke with a crash. He heard Shooter cackling maliciously behind him as he sped down the stairs, past Alexandra, and into the kitchen to find a bandage for his hand.

He found a cloth and tied it around his palm tightly, all the while thinking anxiously about a believable story to tell his guest. He wasn't all that worried about what she might think; he was more concerned about what would happen if Shooter was still there when he returned to his bedroom…

Mort shook his head and shuddered. Shooter was gone, luckily for him.

He walked over to his bed and picked up the shirt, looking it over. It was still in good condition; it hadn't been stained by his blood. Speaking of which, was all over his blankets and his floor; his lamp had smashed into several large pieces. He knew he'd have a hell of a time cleaning up his bedroom later on.

He slung the shirt over his arm and went back over to his dresser, opening another drawer and pulling out a decent pair of pants, making sure that they had a drawstring.

He was about to walk out when he remembered something that he'd forgotten. He turned around and scanned the room, searching every corner thoroughly with his eyes.

The knife was gone.