“I’m sorry. I’ll do anything you want. Please tell me how to make it up to you.”
“It’s too late. Funny, because I thought I was over it. It helped that you messed up your life. Your rehab was my rehab. Then I read a stupid article online, one of those ‘Where are they now?’ bullshit pieces. And I realized, nope, you got away with it all, so I’ll never be over it.”
“Celinda, I—”
“Shut up. I came here, and that stupid bitch renter you had—Leslie—wasn’t you. So I moved her out of the way and started taking your life like you took mine. Your friends. Your mother. Gary, until he chose you. Your shop. Your house. Your reputation. I was working on your sanity. And Hank—well, I don’t think he’s going to be on my side in this. But I’ll still get to take him, one way or another.” She points the handgun at the gas can and mouths “pow” and mimics a recoil.
“Gary?”
“Yeah, he was fine sleeping with me until you called. Got him back, though. Not just the fire. Before that, I got into his email on his phone, just like I got into yours. His phone wasn’t password-protected. You let Leslie stay here with your password taped under your desk. Not smart, Maggie. Neither of you is very savvy about security.”
Maggie’s knees feel weak. Leslie. There really had been a renter named Leslie. If Celinda isn’t Leslie, then Leslie is missing. Maggie’s voice is a whisper. “Where is she? Where is Leslie?”
“Where you and Hank are going.”
Shit. Maggie touches the sliver of glass. It’s too small and won’t do her any good. This woman is a murderer, and Maggie and Hank are next. She needs to call for help. Where is her damn phone? She tries to picture it. Is it in one of her pockets? No. She gets a visual. Louise. The seat in the truck. That’s where it is. Beside Louise.
Hank jerks his eyes sideways, toward the window. He’s telling her to leave. She’ll do as he’s asking, but not for the reason he intends. She has to get to that phone. Call 911. Pray that because Celinda hasn’t killed Hank so far and knows Maggie is onto her, that she’ll just make a run for it. That she’ll leave Hank alone and look out for herself.
“Trust me,” Maggie mouths at Hank.
Then she wheels, fast as she can, and takes two giant steps and dives headfirst out the window. Leslie reacts, but too slowly. Behind Maggie, bullets rip through the air and embed in the window frame. She catches herself with one arm, but it collapses and her shoulder hits, then her head. The ground is harder than she expected. It knocks the wind out of her. Her shoulder feels like it’s broken. Her head rings from the impact. She drops her worthless piece of glass and tucks her shotgun under her arm. She wants to roll and groan and hug all the parts that hurt. She’s in no shape for combat or rescues or escapes, but she’s all Hank’s got. She staggers to her knees, then her feet, and runs for the truck.
Behind her, she hears an evil whoosh and more glass breaking. A shock wave knocks her forward into the air-conditioner condenser. Somewhere in her mind is her father’s voice: Your mom will be here soon, then Johnny Cash singing about the burning ring of fire. An excruciating pain in her ankle keeps her tethered to a world tilting back and forth. She presses down into the grill covering the fan blades, fighting to stay upright, fighting through the pain.
When her vision clears, she sees a figure running. The front yard. Celinda. A million miles away, but maybe not so far.
Celinda howls at Maggie. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Maggie tries to run, but her ankle gives way. She half skips, half hops, using the shotgun as a sort of crutch. An eternity later, she makes it to Bess and her phone, leans against the comforting metal. Celinda is almost to her own car, fifteen-feet away. Maggie takes aim and shoots wide and high. She pumps and shoots again. The car’s wheels blow out and glass shatters in a spray of shot.
“Bitch,” Celinda screams.
Louise howls and squeezes herself through the partially rolled-down window, squirting onto the ground like a newborn calf. She’s up in an instant, black-and-white fur aloft as she launches herself at Celinda. The woman falls, shrieking in a three-octave soprano, with the dog on her back.
Maggie dives into the truck’s cab. When she has her phone, she dials 911 and holds it to her ear with her shoulder, grabs the shotgun again, and rushes back to the side of the house. Flames are shooting out the open master bedroom window.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
She sprints around to the front door. “Fire. There’s a man in the house. She’s getting away.” She shouts the address into the phone, then drops it on the front stoop.
Staring at the house, her heart hammers. She’s always the one running from, not running to. From that long-ago fire of her childhood. From home to chase a music career. From Hank in Cheyenne. From Wyoming last week, and even though it wasn’t her fault, from Gary’s house as he burned to death. But not now. She can’t now. Nothing can keep her from running into this fire, to this man. Nothing.
She tries the front door, but it’s locked. She throws her body weight into it, beats it, kicks it, but it won’t budge. Using the butt of the gun, she batters out the sidelight window beside the door. She can’t crawl through the space, but she can reach the doorknob and deadbolt. Broken glass slices open the not-yet-healed burns on her forearms. The pain will come later. Now, with a truckload of adrenaline coursing through her, she’s impervious. She turns the door lock. Celinda hadn’t thrown the deadbolt, and when she twists the knob, the door flies open. Maggie stumbles through, still clutching the gun under her left arm. She pulls her right arm from the sidelight, cutting it even worse and not caring.
Smoke billows out through the door, but no flames. She runs into her kitchen and rips off her shirt. With water from the sink, she drenches it, then puts it over her mouth with one hand. The cool water on her face is instant relief from the smoke burning her eyes, and it blocks the stench of gasoline and char. As she’s about to take off, she grabs the gun. It’s been an important tool so far, and she may need it again.
She pounds through the living room, running past burning furniture and who knows what else, down the short hallway toward the master bedroom. With all the smoke, she can’t really get a last look at the irreplaceable collection of art on the walls. Gidget’s treasures. A memory, fleeting, consumes her. Playing an art gallery opening in Houston. The wildly eccentric but gorgeous owner, Gidget, who took an interest in her. She’d never met her mother again. She’d only later discovered the woman Gidget was through her magnificent paintings and the personalized collection of artistic gifts she’d amassed from all the notable artists of her time. She hadn’t had enough time with her, with them, but there’s nothing she can do to save them now.
Maggie may be losing Gidget tonight, but she’s not going to lose Hank.
The bedroom door is locked. She leans over sideways using the shotgun as a fulcrum, kicking like a mule once, twice, three times. The door gives way and slams into the wall. There are things burning in the room—the area rug, the comforter, the trash can—but Celinda hadn’t taken the time to douse everything in the room thoroughly with the gas before setting it on fire. So Maggie can still see through the flames to the bed. Before her eyes, though, the wadded top sheet at the foot of the bed ignites.
“Hank,” she shouts through her shirt.
He coughs then says something, but the sound is too muffled for her to understand him.
She’s on him in an instant, dropping the gun on the bedroom floor. “The restraints. It’s steel cable.”
He wheezes. “Attached by spring latches.”
Maggie slides her hand up a cable. Sure enough, the chain is doubled around a bedpost and fastened on itself with a spring-tooth latch. She pulls back a lever and the spring releases. She unhooks the latch and loosens the noose around Hank’s wrist. Hank rolls away on one shoulder from a flame that’s crawling across the bed toward him. Maggie beats at it with her shirt. He groans and coughs, pulling the cloth gag from the corner of his mo
uth.
She makes quick work of his feet and other hand. “Can you hang on to me? Bury your face in my neck, and I’ll drag you?”
“Yes.”
She sits on the bed. He locks his arms around her shoulders, then pushes off the bed to help her stand. He’s big, taller than her and far heavier, and the drugs make him weak and unsteady, but the increasing roar of the fire gives her a strength she’s never had before. She holds her shirt over her face again. Leaning over as far as she can without faltering under his bulk, she walks under the worst of the fire, one arm out for balance. It’s achingly slowgoing. A few times, Hank yells as the flames claw at them. She’d scream, too, but she’s breathing too hard from the exertion of carrying him. The hallway—which has felt so short every time guests have loitered outside her bedroom—now feels miles long.
Twice she goes down. Once to her hands and knees. Another time, all the way to her chest. Hank’s weight flattens her. For a moment she pants, dazed, aching, and sure they’re both done for. Then she rallies. They aren’t dying now, not like this. Straining, she pushes upward. Her muscles tremble. Hank puts some weight on his feet, relieving her burden enough that she’s able to get to her knees, then push off her thighs with her hands, then stagger to her feet. Her hands burn. Even her boot soles are hot. She ignores it all and slow-marches on, only sure she’s heading in the right direction because she keeps bumping into the wall to her left.
Ahead of them, she hears shrieking and growling. Inch by hellishly hot inch, Maggie gets closer to the sound. As she tumbles through smoke down the steps and out of the house, she feels fur under her hand.
“Louise.”
A wagging tail hits her in the face.
“Get this fucking dog’s fangs off of me.”
Maggie ignores Celinda’s voice, even though it’s so close she knows she could touch the woman if she wanted. She hauls herself and Hank farther out into the yard, her thighs quivering. The heat on her back is still intense. She collapses. The grass under her cheek is a cool sip of mountain stream water. Hank touches her face, something blue clutched in his fist fluttering in front of her.
“Good dog, Fucker,” she croaks, then passes out.
Thirty-Five
“Louise deserves a medal,” Junior says, leaning over Maggie, who’s sitting on a stretcher while an EMT dresses her cuts and burns.
“She’s a good dog.”
“Can’t believe you stole her from me.” Hank’s voice is a barely audible rasp. It still sounds woozy from being drugged. He’s on a stretcher, too, but flat on his back, still holding his scrap of blue fabric.
Maggie pries it from his fist. “You foisted that mutt off on me. Now that she’s the second coming of Lassie, you want to rewrite history.”
“Sir, I need you to quit talking or we’ll have to tape your mouth shut.” The second EMT is teasing, but stern. “Seriously, I do need to put a mask over it now.” He holds up an oxygen mask. “Your bronchial tubes are swelling. They’re not letting in enough air. This will help.” He lifts the back of Hank’s head and slides the strap around it, placing the mask over his mouth and nose gently.
“Tape hers shut, too.” Maggie jerks her head toward Celinda, who is nonstop complaining about her injuries from Louise’s teeth. “She’s lucky Louise didn’t rip her throat out. It would have served her right.”
Maggie opens her hand to look at the blackened piece of scarf Hank had carried out of the house. Blue with dirty white stars. It looks familiar. She stuffs it in her pocket, then takes several long sips of water. She’s desperately thirsty, but the water still hurts going down. Her second fire in a week, before she’d recovered from the first one. She hopes it’s her last. For sure there will be no mirrors allowed in her near future.
Junior pulls on his chin. “I have news.”
“If it’s good news, I’ll take it.”
Before Junior can answer, the EMTs push Hank’s stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Maggie stands and attempts to climb in after him.
The EMT who had been helping Hank with his oxygen mask turns to her and says, “No, ma’am. We’ll send another for you.”
“I’m not letting him out of my sight.”
Junior puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll drive you. We can talk on the way.”
She winces and jerks away, trying to remember how she hurt her shoulder. The dive out the window? Glass? Burning embers? Wrenching Hank along and to safety? All of the above? “I’m riding with Hank.”
Karen appears, getting out of an unmarked SUV with a light on top.
“Shit,” Maggie mutters. “Tell me she’s not here to hassle me.”
Junior follows her gaze to the fire marshal. “I don’t think so.”
The EMTs start to shut the doors to Hank’s ambulance.
“No. Please.” Maggie blocks them with her arm.
“Sorry, ma’am.” The EMT removes her arm and closes the door.
Junior says, “Maggie, wait. We have an ID on the body from the Coop.”
Maggie tries to pull her hair back, but her bandaged hand makes it impossible. She flits her glance to Junior, her eyes wild. “Who was it?”
“Leslie DeWitt. And she was roofied. Like Gary.”
“And like Hank.” Although Junior’s words don’t surprise her, they’re a gut punch nonetheless. Leslie. The real Leslie. Her arm drops. Her hand finds the scarf in her pocket, and suddenly she knows why it looks familiar. She’s seen it before. In the hair of a pale, braided woman, rocking in her room at Michele’s, left in the chair. How had it gotten here? She pulls it out and squeezes it. Oh, Leslie, I’m so sorry. “It’s my fault.”
“Why?”
“Celinda. Her.” Maggie points at her old bandmate. “She came looking for me and found Leslie. All of this. Gary, my shop, even befriending my friends and family, Hank, and now the house. All of it was for revenge.”
“She’s not just a sick puppy?”
“Oh, she’s sick all right. But she claims I’m the reason she’s sick.”
The ambulance engine fires up.
“Let me drive you, Maggie.”
She hesitates for a split second, then pounds on the ambulance door. She shouts, “Let me in.” Then to Junior, “Make them let me in.”
He doesn’t move.
“Make them, Junior. After all you guys have put me through—that you’ve been a part of—you owe me.”
He sighs, walks to the driver’s door, holds up a hand. She peers after him, watches him speaking. The rear doors open, knocking into her, but she doesn’t care. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees Karen join Junior.
The EMT inside the door says, “He needs care. Either get in, or stay out, but choose fast.”
Maggie’s inside and holding Hank’s hand in a blink.
Thirty-Six
Two days later, under the midday sun, Maggie takes Louise to the charred ruins of her home. “All of this would have been yours, girl.”
Louise whines and strains. The dog is on a leash, since the entirety of Maggie’s compound is a crime scene.
The usual suspects are arrayed around the train wreck of her life, but Maggie ignores them. Media. Curious neighbors. Gary’s groupies. Karen. Junior. Sheriff Boland. Other county personnel in uniform. Maggie’s doctor had refused to let her be interviewed the day before, to give her voice a rest after the smoke strain. She’d given a statement first thing that morning, though, so the law enforcement types leave her alone now. She’s no longer under suspicion, either. Not just because she and Hank could have died, but also because they were corroborating witnesses to Celinda’s crazed confessions. Just for good measure, Maggie had told them about Lumpy and her goats, and about the redheaded woman who’d kicked his ladder over and left him treed for days. She wishes the authorities could pin that one on Celinda, too, but she feels certain Jenny did it. With Lumpy’s ID, they should be able to nail her for it. The county is currently over its limit in crazy women who’d be better off locked up.
Maggie lifts a hand in greeting. “Merritt.” She walks the rest of the way to the older woman, assisted by Louise pulling ahead of her.
“Maggie. I read what happened. I came here as fast as I could.” She holds up a twelve-pack of Lone Star.
Tears prick Maggie’s eyes, but she blinks them back. “Does this mean I can come to Gary’s service?”
“Better you than those dickheads Tom and Thorn.” She sets the beer in the chair. “You were right. They were stealing from Gary, for Thorn and Kelly’s tour. Which went in the crapper when Gary got Thorn fired from The Singer. Served him right. I’ve already sicced the cops on them both. They were arrested this morning.” Merritt’s face droops. “But I don’t think Gary ever got over Kelly quitting on him. He thought he was doing right by her.”
“And Kelly?”
“She coughed up the whole story when I confronted her. Even signed affidavits against them.”
“Did she know about the money?”
“Says she didn’t.” Merritt shrugs. “She’s my baby girl. Corrupted by older men who should have known that if you mess with one Fuller, you mess with them all.”
“I’m glad she did the right thing.”
Louise winds her leash around Maggie’s legs. Maggie twists in the same direction to avoid getting tangled up.
“She loved her brother. And she feels real bad about everything.”
Now that her tour is on ice and her manager and boyfriend are being charged with embezzlement. If the world is a decent place, Thorn will get an adder for statutory rape, too. Maggie has a strong suspicion that Kelly should be in the clink with them, but maybe she’s learned her lesson. “But you’ve kicked her ass, right?”
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