Loud sobs cut her off. Kira locked the door behind her and followed the sound down the hall to Chloe’s room. Her roommate lay on the bed, her face buried in a pillow.
Kira pushed aside a tissue box on the nightstand to clear enough room for her package and sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She put her hand on her friend’s back. Chloe shuddered and turned to face Kira. Blotches covered her swollen face. “After the debrief, I went to confession.”
“OK.” Kira handed Chloe a tissue.
Chloe accepted it and blew her nose. “And Father Pierce was there. He said . . . He said . . .” Chloe burst into tears again, and Kira waited it out, presenting another tissue when the sobs came to a halt.
Chloe began again. “Father Pierce said I was”—Chloe’s face scrunched up with the effort of recalling the words—“‘obstinately persevering in manifest grave sin’ and I couldn’t come up for the Eucharist during Mass anymore.” Chloe pulled herself up on her elbows. “I mean, how can he even say that? I always do my penance, and I say the Breastplate of St. Patrick before every match, and I light my candles and my whole family prays for me and . . .” Chloe sank back into the bed.
“Because you’re a gunfighter?”
“Yeah.” Chloe blew her nose again. “Somebody decided . . . something.” She sighed. “I guess I didn’t really get all that. But anyway, it’s changed, and now the church says I can’t be forgiven if I keep doing this.”
Exactly how Chloe managed the contradictions between her faith and her life was an ongoing mystery to Kira. But Chloe had always knelt in a confessional, spoke her sins out loud, and did her penance, while Kira sat in an office chair and told Dr. Loretta Davis about being angry with her dead mother and noticing where her body carried stress. Then Kira and Chloe both went out and did their jobs.
Only maybe this time, it wasn’t going to work for Chloe.
Chloe started again. “If they’d said that at the beginning, I wouldn’t have done it. I mean, they didn’t say it was good, and I get that, but we all do stuff that isn’t good, and that’s what confession is supposed to be for, you know? And now it’s like they’ve changed the rules and I’m stuck.” She buried her face in the pillow again. “What am I gonna do?”
Kira rubbed her friend’s back some more.
“Well, the Guild says you’ve got at least forty-eight hours all to yourself before you have to do anything. When does Diana want you back?”
“Not until Friday at noon.”
“OK. That’s some time.”
Chloe propped herself up on one elbow. “Danny wants to go to Colby’s Country Cabins tonight.”
“The new ones out on Lake Panorama? With all the trails and everything?”
“Yeah, those. He got some kind of deal because it’s the first week in December.”
“That might be just the thing. Get out of town, clear your head, go for some walks, really talk things over.” Danny was probably no better at theology than Kira, but he seemed to be good for Chloe. Maybe that would be enough.
“I suppose.”
On the nightstand, Chloe’s handset buzzed. She picked it up. “Oh, crap. There’s a bunch of messages. Danny says he’s going to be here in twenty minutes.”
“Are you packed?”
Chloe looked around the room. “I was going to do that when I got back from confession, and then . . .” She tapped the handset, and it displayed her face. “Jeez. I look like a mess. Maybe I should just call and tell him to forget it.”
“Look, you hop in the shower, clean up, and get some makeup on. Finish packing. I’ll chit-chat with him in the living room until you’re ready, OK? If I get really desperate, I’ll feed him some of those brownies I made over the weekend. They’ll go good with the ice cream.”
“Oooh, ice cream.” Chloe swung her feet to the floor. “Thanks. That’ll help. You’re a good friend.”
Kira squeezed Chloe’s hand. “Hey. Like you said in the beginning, our chances are better if we stick together.”
Chapter 26
“Damn!”
Kira drops the pistol and tears at her tunic until she has a patch of fabric to stanch the entry wound. Niles is still standing, but he’s no longer her opponent. Pain, blood loss, and gravity will determine the outcome of the match.
Behind her, the ward’s voice sounds. “Please remember if anyone touches Ms. Clark while Mr. LeBlanc is standing, she will be disqualified.”
The EMT kneels directly in front of her. “Ms. Clark, do you wish to receive medical attention at this time?”
Kira shakes her head, and the EMT steps away.
Diana kneels in his place. Her face is drawn, but her voice is firm and upbeat. “Looks like this will take a little longer than we thought. How do you feel?”
Kira continues her self-exam, feeling her back for the exit wound. “Pretty good for somebody who’s been gut-shot.”
Diana grins. “Fair enough. Let me take a look.” She rises and walks around Kira, her hands behind her back to suppress the human urge to reach out to another body in pain.
Kira’s fingers find a small gash topped by a flap of muscle.
Diana’s voice, from behind. “That’s your exit wound. Wad the tunic up and put some pressure on it.”
Kira complies, but the awkward angle makes it difficult to press very hard.
Diana kneels in front of her again. “I don’t think he hit anything vital. You might lose some colon, but you can barely call yourself a gunfighter if you’ve got all the guts you started with.” Diana examines Kira’s fluid-soaked leg. “Blood is going to be the problem.”
Kira pants. “How much do you think I’ve lost?”
Diana’s brow furrows as she surveys Kira and the pseudograss beneath her. “Hard to tell, but it always looks worse than it is. Maybe a cup or two?”
Kira nods. Diana is probably bullshitting her, but maybe it doesn’t matter. She should be able to lose about two pints before passing out.
Kira’s heart races, and the fog moves closer.
Diana looks over her own shoulder, toward Niles’s side of the field. “You got a nice, solid hit to the chest. He won’t last long.”
If she’d managed a truly solid hit, Niles would be down and they wouldn’t be having this conversation. Kira bends a little to get more comfortable, puts more pressure on her wounds, and groans.
“Not too hard, baby girl, you don’t want to damage anything.” Diana bends down for a close look at Kira’s torso. “Is it time to use your tunic as a wrap-around?”
Kira shakes her head. “I don’t want to let up. I feel like I’m going to lose a lot if I do.”
“Too bad. You could get a sports bra endorsement deal.”
Kira chuckles until a stab of pain cuts her off. “Don’t do that.”
Diana nods. “It’s OK. You’re tough and you know how to stand through. This is going to be fine.” She looks across the field again and offers her assessment in the same voice she might use to report the morning weather. “He’s doubled over, but that won’t help a chest injury. I bet he’s got a collapsed lung.” She turns back to Kira. “Just a few more minutes.”
Kira shifts her stance and adjusts her grip on the fabric covering her wounds. It feels as if someone has driven a red-hot iron bar through her abdomen, but Niles can’t feel any better than she does.
The commentators must be milking the hell out of this. Closing the first professional match in two years with a bleed-off is like something from a producer’s wet dream. All over the country, people are fixated on their screens, pounding on tables, and screaming for her or Niles to fall. The Gunslinger’s Lounge is probably worse than the rest of the city put together.
Diana leans close to Kira’s ear and speaks softly to avoid the field mic. “How bad is it?”
Kira swallows hard. “I can’t see the walls anymore.”
Chapter 27
Kira flicked off the vid monitor, got up from the sofa, and paced to the fr
idge. How many times had she made this trip tonight? With Chloe out at Lake Panorama with Danny, the apartment seemed huge and dead. Something like hunger gnawed at her stomach the way the emptiness gnawed on her psyche. It was probably good that Diana’s lockbox arrangement sent the royalty check for the last batch of posters straight to her creditors. Otherwise, the temptation to pull some unis onto her handset for shopping might be overwhelming.
Diet Coke. Apples. Leftover lasagna. Nothing in the fridge looked good. She didn’t want more popcorn, either. At 10:00 p.m., it was too late to go out for coffee on a Wednesday night, even if she were willing to change out of her sweat suit and slippers for the chance to be around people. She should pack it in and get some sleep. With a match on Friday, she had a big day in the simulator coming up.
A sharp rap on the door. Who knocks instead of using the chime? And who the hell visits at this hour? Kira pressed the external monitor. Diana’s face filled the display. She crowded the camera enough Kira couldn’t see if anyone else was there, but not so close she couldn’t see the collar of Diana’s Guild jacket. Kira’s chest tightened.
She opened the door, and found Diana accompanied by Michael, Chloe’s oldest brother, looking awkward in the out-of-fashion gray suit he usually wore to Mass. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good news.
“Can we come in?” Diana’s question was matter-of-fact.
Kira stepped back from the door. “Sure.”
“It’s best if you sit.” Diana’s poker face was as perfect as ever, but instead of moving with her usual athletic grace, she seemed to push her body through each motion.
“Why?”
“Kira, sit.” The calm quiet in Diana’s voice demanded instant obedience.
Kira perched on the recliner, while on the far side of the coffee table, her visitors sat on the sofa. Michael drew back, his eyes a little wild, and let Diana take the lead. She spoke slowly, as if she were measuring the effect of each word on Kira before going on to the next. “We’re sorry to tell you this, but Chloe is dead.”
The tightness in Kira’s chest became a fist crushing her heart. “What?” It was a ridiculous thing to say, but Diana looked patient, as if she expected it.
Diana spoke again. “Chloe is dead. She died earlier this evening.”
“No.” Kira shook her head. “She’s on her forty-eight-hour break. She’s with Danny at some cabins up by Lake Panorama. That’s why she’s not here. She’s fine.”
Diana and Michael exchanged a glance. Diana spoke again. “This will be very hard to hear, but the man she was with is not Danny Jones. His real name is Walter Smith. He killed her.”
“Killed her?” Kira’s voice sounded high and ragged, but what Diana said didn’t make any sense. How could Danny not be Danny? How could anyone have murdered Chloe?
“Kira,” Diana continued in a calm, steady voice. “I’m sorry.”
Something cracked, and the reality of what Diana said flooded in. Kira shuddered. “H-H-How?”
Diana reached out and took Kira’s hand in hers. For the first time, deep sadness showed in her face. “Listen, I don’t like being the person to tell you this, but you deserve to hear it from Michael and me rather than seeing it in the news, OK?”
Kira nodded, but said nothing.
“Walter Smith is the younger brother of Quentin Smith. Chloe killed Quentin in a duel last November. Walter forged some ID and a public profile so he could get close to her. He got her to go off one of the trails around the lake, and then he shot her.”
“Shot her?” Kira’s voice ran off the high register, stopping just short of a shriek.
Cold, bass fury poured out of Michael. “He made her kneel and shot her in the back of the head.”
“Oh God.” Kira’s eyes stung. She shuddered and folded in on herself. Not just the idea of Chloe dying, but dying like that—not even putting up a fight. Not to mention dying at the hands of a man who’d sat right here in their living room a couple hours ago, talking and eating Kira’s brownies as if he didn’t have any agenda beyond a tryst in the country. Kira struggled for air, and her heart pounded.
God, how could she have missed it? She could read an opponent’s intent in the flick of a finger or the twitch of an eyebrow, and yet she’d sat within feet of murderous rage and saw nothing. And Chloe had died. Died because Kira told her the trip was a good idea.
It was too much. Kira dissolved into sobs. When she stopped, Diana sat on the arm of the recliner, her hand on Kira’s shoulder. Michael stood beside her, holding a towel from the kitchen.
Kira uncurled a little, facing Michael. “I’m so sorry. This must be so much harder for you.”
Michael nodded and handed her the towel. “I’ve had a little more time.” Tears welled in his eyes.
Kira sniffed and wiped her face.
“The good news is he’s in custody.” Diana’s voice remained astonishingly calm. “A couple kids out on a night hike heard Chloe and Walter arguing. They had the presence of mind to call 911, and one of them caught most of it on handset video.”
At least Chloe had argued. That was something.
Diana went on. “When the police arrived, he hadn’t cleaned up and he still had the gun. During questioning, he blew up and said he did it for his brother. That’s a confession.”
Kira squeezed her eyes shut. That much hatred, directed at Chloe. Could’ve been directed at her just as easily. She shuddered again.
She stood, pulling at her sweat suit. Diana and Michael stood with her. Kira looked back and forth between them. “I-I’m not sure what to do, here.” She faced Michael. “If you want to come get her stuff—” She caught herself. “Wait. That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? That’s not why you’re here.”
Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking. You’re making everything worse.
Helplessly, she looked at Diana. Surely she’d know what to do.
But it was Michael who took Kira’s hand in his. His eyes were wet. “What we need to do now is cry. All of us, together. That’s why I came. We’re all coming to Mom and Dad’s house and we’re going to cry for Chloe tonight. We want you to come cry with us.”
Kira stood and threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Chapter 28
Nothing felt right. Beneath the Death’s Angel regalia of cloak, hat, and black leather, overnight grit and oil clung to Kira’s unshowered skin, and body stink vented up from the collar of her blouse. Definitely not the way she wanted her first gunfight after Chloe’s death to begin. There was nothing for it now, though. Standing at the doors of Waiting Room Two, she repeated her breathing exercise, forcing the exhale to last twice as long as the inhalation.
It wasn’t helping.
There was no way this could end well, an opinion she’d shared with the scheduler who summoned her just before 7:00 a.m. for an 8:00 a.m. match. In tones that managed to be both apologetic and firm, he explained both Tom Bucknell and his backup, Stan Casey, were suffering from severe stomach flu. He stiffly described the tertiary, Jim Watson, as “indisposed,” which probably meant roaring drunk or hopelessly hungover. He went on to note that the two-week exclusion Diana negotiated for Kira after Chloe’s death expired yesterday afternoon, and since the company faced a forfeit for failure to appear, one-hour notice was deemed sufficient under Guild rules.
Kira hated everyone involved. Especially Watson.
She attempted the breathing exercise again without success. The clock over the door gave her three minutes before the outer lock closed and she forfeited as a no-show.
She channeled all her anger and frustration into her appearance, hardening her face and body. Forget fake empathy or a slowly building sense of menace. She’d blow this one out of the waiting room on a blast of sheer, undiluted terror. Kira yanked the double doors open and propped them apart with outspread arms. Silhouetted in the doorway, she’d look like a raptor swooping in to claim her prey. Fear this, bitch!
Inside,
a dark-eyed, curly-haired young woman greeted Kira’s entrance with an excited grin, as if she’d caught sight of her favorite vid star in a restaurant. Her mouth formed a soundless wow.
Could this day possibly go any further off the rails? Kira fought down the impulse to retry her entrance and nearly stumbled as she made her way to the receptionist’s desk. From there, she assessed her opponent. The woman’s profile gave her age as nineteen, but she looked younger and softer—more like a teenager or even a pre-teen than an adult.
Kira checked in and picked a chair close to the door, far from both her adversary and the receptionist. If she could collect herself for a few minutes, she could figure out what was going on. The bolt to prevent late entry closed with its distinctive clunk.
Kira jerked and turned to the source of the sound. When she turned back, the young woman sat directly across from her. Her opponent leaned across the aisle, a conspiratorial grin on her face. “Ms. Clark, I am so excited to meet you.”
Excited to meet? What the hell was this? A fan? In the waiting room?
Before Kira could respond, the girl—there was really nothing else to call her—pulled an autograph album from her bag. “Will you sign?”
Kira’s mouth dropped open. “S-Sure.”
“Use your red ink! That’s the best!”
OK, what were the rational possibilities? Among poor children, developmental delays, even serious ones, often went undiagnosed and untreated. Was that what she was seeing?
Kira’s cousin Matilda had a cognitive impairment that caused people to mistake her for a teenager well into her twenties, and Matilda always got the best care available. If she’d been left without support, would she be like the person facing Kira right now?
Kira fumbled in her bag for a pen. One with her signature red ink. The girl’s T-shirt, shorts, and sandals were cheap, mass-produced designs, patterns several years out of fashion. Scrupulously clean, but worn, as if they were part of a very limited wardrobe. Possibly bought used.
Kira steadied herself and accepted the book. “Who is this for?”
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