Absolute Liability

by Jennifer Becton

  He took a deep breath, slowly raised the window, moved aside the blind, and crawled inside.

  He lay on his belly on the floor for long moments, listening. His ears had stopped ringing, but his hearing was still a bit iffy. He had to be extra careful.

  When he was sure no one was moving around the house, he began his search.

  The desktop computer was hibernating. Good fortune! He wouldn’t have to wait for it to boot up. He jiggled the mouse, but it still took a long time for the machine to wake up, as if she hadn’t used the thing recently. He’d seen her carrying a laptop, so that would explain the disuse. Still, it made sense to check every computer. He couldn’t be too careful. He began going through her files. He searched for the policy several different ways.

  No, dammit, it wasn’t there.

  That bitch was killing him.

  He went through the rest of the office, but the laptop was not there. Neither were any of the other Southeastern files.

  He was going to have to search farther into the house. And that was a much greater risk. She was a cop; she carried a gun. He was putting his life at stake. He went back to his bag and took out the hunting revolver.

  If she woke up, then she would have to die.

  It was as simple as that.

  That wasn’t the optimum plan, but he was fully committed now. He’d been careful with the break-in, and he was sure he’d left no prints, nothing that could be connected with him. If he had to kill the woman, he would be able to replace the file and disappear into the night. No one would ever be the wiser.

  Her murder would remain unsolved.

  Reassured, he slipped out of the office with the revolver gripped tightly in his fist. Even though he was sure she was upstairs asleep, he still crept down the hall and peeked around every corner.

  The downstairs was empty, so he took his time searching the kitchen and living area. There was no laptop. There were no files.

  He took a deep breath. He was going to have to go upstairs.

  He gripped the gun tighter.

  If that investigator so much as blinked an eye at him, he’d shoot the bitch.

  With that resolution in mind, he began to climb the stairs.

  One by one, he crept closer. The house was quiet, and he imagined that he could hear her breathing in the bedroom. He stopped, listened, and realized it was his own breath coming hard and fast now.

  It was a strange feeling, this power to take a life, and now that the prospect was once again before him, he found he quite liked it. Yes, his breathing and heart rate were elevated by excitement, not fear. Anticipation.

  It all came down to what happened in the next few minutes.

  Would he get away with the file as he’d planned, or would he have to shoot her?

  Either way, he would end the night a free man.

  I don’t believe in irrational fear. That in itself probably sounds irrational. There are lots of fears that seem totally ridiculous. I mean, why would anyone have a fear of milk? I can understand when someone says they don’t like milk, but to fear it? That I don’t understand.

  But here’s the thing. Fear is rational, and very real, to the person who feels it. It may not make sense to an observer, but that doesn’t matter. Fear is survival instinct.

  So when Maxwell woke me up sometime in the night by bouncing off my face en route to the floor, I didn’t dismiss the immediate, all-consuming terror that flooded me. Maxwell only acted that nervous when someone else was in the house.

  My mind flew to Ron Raleigh. I hadn’t heard from Vincent or Tripp, but maybe that didn’t mean anything. Maybe Ron was already at the station. He couldn’t be in my house.

  But if anyone deserved to panic just a little, it was certainly me.

  For a moment, I lay unmoving under the covers and watched Maxwell’s outline as he ran out of the bedroom, keeping his body low to the ground. I scanned the room slowly. It wasn’t very dark. My curtains were made of a filmy, gauzy material. I liked the way they blew in the breeze when my windows were open, but they didn’t do much for privacy or room darkening. The moon was bright, and in its light I could see the outline of my bookcase, the bedside tables, and the low footboard of the bed, but I saw no unfamiliar shadows. Sensed no movement.

  Still, the fear niggled at me.

  I sat up and dangled my legs over the side of the bed, straining to hear what might have startled Maxwell. My body was rigid as I listened.

  The clock showed me that five minutes had passed. But I heard nothing.

  I crept out of bed and went to the window. Maybe Maxwell had heard something outside. I edged the curtain aside a half inch and peeked through the crack. I scanned the backyard, but I saw nothing.

  My heart rate started to return to a sustainable pace, and I was just beginning to feel like a major drama queen when I heard a stair creak.

  Every nerve in my body jumped to life, and every sense heightened.

  I knew exactly which stair had creaked. It was the one right in the middle of the staircase. And it only creaked under the weight of a human. Maxwell was too light.

  Someone was coming up the stairs, and they were almost to my bedroom. I only had a matter of seconds.

  Adrenaline shot through me, the blood began pulsing through my veins at heart attack pace, and I suddenly felt both hyperaware of everything and extremely clumsy.

  I dropped the curtain back into place and careened toward my bedside table. I pulled the door open and reached into the open gun safe, slamming my knuckles into the top of the safe as I reached inside for my gun.

  I sucked in my breath to prevent cursing out loud and hoped the intruder hadn’t heard me.

  I had just managed to wrap my fingers around the stock when I saw the figure begin to appear in the doorway. He was moving slowly, at first only peeking around the edge of the door.

  I was pretty sure the intruder was a male. I could tell by the amount of the doorway his body took up as he edged into the room.

  He hadn’t seen me yet, which was amazing because I was totally exposed.

  An easy target.

  Well, dammit, if I was a target and he was here to kill me, I wasn’t going to make it easy on him.

  The bed was not adequate cover. A mattress isn’t exactly bulletproof. And the bed was the first place this guy would head when he proceeded into the room.

  I turned and dashed toward the most solid structure: my bookcase.

  I had cleared the edge of the bed’s footboard when the intruder saw me silhouetted against the light that filtered through the curtains.

  He raised his arms. I saw the flash of metal in his hands.

  A gun.

  My eyes locked onto it, and everything else faded away.

  That gun was my world. My focus was so singular that I don’t know how I managed to continue my progress to the bookcase. I was vaguely aware that my feet felt like they were suddenly mired in thick mud. But I kept running even though the bookcase remained miles away, no matter how many steps I took.

  As I ran, I could hear nothing but my own frantic breathing and the rush of blood in my ears.

  Then I saw the muzzle flash, a column of flames blasting out of the barrel toward me. The burst of light was so bright that my vision went hazy and out of focus. Thank God my room was not pitch black or I would have been completely blinded.

  I dropped to the ground, scrambled the rest of the distance, and then pressed myself against the large piece of furniture, willing my eyesight to return to full capacity.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, probably only the space of a blink, but when I opened them again my vision seemed to have returned. In fact, it seemed even sharper, more focused on my survival. Adrenaline did funny things.

  Another muzzle flash illuminated the room.

  And another.

  But the bookcase kept me hidden from sight. The bullets hit the wood above me, and my vision was shielded from the bright light.

  Showers of splintered wood fell on me
.

  He was still aiming high, so he hadn’t seen me hit the floor. He was probably just as blinded by his own muzzle flash as I had been, but it wouldn’t be long before he drew close enough to find me cowering back there.

  And that’s when I knew I had to act. I would not die cowering on the floor.

  I adjusted my position, crouched at the corner of the bookcase, and leaned just far enough outside of my cover to peek at him, my gun ready to take aim.

  Immediately, I saw the intruder. His gun was now aimed low. Right at me.

  I was going to die.

  He fired.

  I fired.

  The moment my finger pulled the trigger, it was as if I’d fallen into a black hole. A void. I felt nothing. I did not feel the recoil of the gun. I did not hear the report as it echoed through the house. I could not smell the gun smoke that I knew permeated the room. I didn’t even see my own muzzle flash.

  But I was alive and I was looking at the man who was trying to wrest my life breath from me. He remained standing, gun still in hand and aimed toward me.

  Firing.

  He was still trying to kill me.

  I would not let him succeed.

  I fired—I’m not sure how many times—until he stopped.

  And then I stopped. Everything stopped.

  The world was absolutely still when I pulled back behind the cover of the bookcase. Even the air, which had previously buzzed with electric fear, was calm. I took a deep breath and inhaled the reek of burned gunpowder and the coppery sweetness of spilled blood.

  I peeked at the gunman’s body for any signs of movement. I detected none, but I could hear his breathing, quick and labored. Painful. I peered harder into the semi-darkness, and I thought I could see the gun lying beside him, no longer in his hand.

  Was it empty?

  I shrunk back. Uncertain how many times he’d fired. Or of the type of weapon. Or of how many cartridges it held.

  I listened to his ragged breathing for another moment while I considered approaching. I peeked out again. He hadn’t moved.

  We were at an impasse. I was trapped behind my bookcase while this bastard blocked my doorway with a gun that may or may not be empty.

  The man groaned, and I shrunk deeper into the shadows and watched as he pushed himself off the floor and struggled, almost doubled over at the waist, out of my bedroom.

  I heard him lumbering down the stairs. This time the gunman wasn’t so stealthy. I heard the exact moment he crashed onto the first floor. Feeling safe to leave cover, I pulled myself into a standing position. Keeping my gun at the ready, I stepped out from behind the bookcase.

  The first thing I saw was the gun. He’d left it lying on the floor when he’d fled.

  I knelt to examine the large, stainless steel revolver. No way to tell the make or model in the dim light, but I could also see shadowy indentations along the front of the barrel. Ported, I guessed. No wonder the muzzle flash had been so bright.

  Was this McKade’s missing Tracker?

  A crash sounded from somewhere downstairs and I flinched.

  I braced myself against the wall and peeked down the hall toward the stairs. I shifted back, and my bare feet encountered something moist on the carpet. I jumped back.

  Why was my carpet wet? Was there a leak in my roof? And why was it so warm?

  And then I realized: blood.

  I had stepped in the gunman’s blood.

  I stifled a gag as disgust and revulsion roiled through me, and I wanted nothing more than to wash myself. Perhaps with bleach. And definitely with boiling water.

  I listened for movement below. It sounded as if the gunman might have flung the back door open so hard it hit the wall, but I couldn’t be sure.

  He was getting away.

  But it didn’t seem so important to discover his identity. I knew he was Ron Raleigh, and based on the amount of blood he’d lost already, he wasn’t getting far.

  I had to call the cops, but I had no idea where my phone had ended up in all those files from Southeastern. I didn’t have time to search, and I really didn’t want to turn on the light and see the carnage in my room in that much detail. I had to go to the kitchen phone.

  I gave up the pretense of creeping since I was fairly sure he was gone, ran down the stairs as fast as I could, and skidded across the kitchen tile, leaving smears of blood in my wake.

  As tempted as I was to cleanse myself of the gunman’s blood, I snatched the cordless phone off its base, lowered myself to the floor—hidden behind the cabinets just in case he returned with a shotgun—and dialed 911.

  I was almost hysterical—okay, I was totally hysterical, I admit it—and it manifested itself in my need to get the blood off my feet. I began trying to rub them against the throw rug beside the sink. I continued to wipe them with rough, hurried strokes.

  I kept scraping my feet on the rug, the phone pressed to my ear. Before the emergency operator even answered, I heard movement outside.

  I sandwiched the phone between my shoulder and my ear and peeked around the side of the bank of cabinets that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. Gun ready, I looked past my quaint kitchen table to the windows.

  I could see him clearly in the bright moonlight as he lumbered painfully across my yard.

  I saw his hair, his profile.

  It was definitely Ron Raleigh.

  I watched him disappear into my backyard.

  He was gone, but I still clutched the gun in my right hand. I became conscious of the operator’s distant voice coming through the phone.

  I returned to my reclined position against the cabinets and heard my own voice saying, “There’s been a shooting.” It was high-pitched. I didn’t sound like myself, and my mind felt like it was powered by a hamster on a wheel. I had to pause for what seemed like an eternity before I could remember my own address. My words came out in a rush, but I managed to repeat them so the operator could understand.

  “Is anyone injured?”

  “Yes,” I said. I had shot someone. I had shot Ron Raleigh. Perhaps Amber’s murderer. James Gerwalt’s killer. Definitely the man who wanted to kill me. My feelings of panic took over then.

  “Are you injured?”

  Was I? I took quick stock of myself and noticed a discoloration on my left arm. I was surprised to find that I’d been wounded. All the adrenaline coursing through my body had muted the pain, and it didn’t seem to be major enough to impede my ability to use my arm. But yes, I’d been shot. “Yes,” I told the operator as I placed the gun carefully aside and scooted across the kitchen floor to grab a towel from the handle of the oven.

  As I began to wrap the towel around the wound, my breathing started coming fast and shallow, and my eyes began to lose focus. The cabinets seemed to tilt around me. They suddenly seemed incapable of supporting my weight, and I slid lower, closer to the floor. I could no longer even hold the phone in my hand. It fell with a clatter. I heard the operator’s tinny voice, but I couldn’t respond. My hands were shaking too much to pick up the phone again.

  My vision went hazy. The polka dots on my pajama pants started to blur together. I tried to keep those dots still, but they continued to dance and swirl.

  I heard sirens in the distance and struggled to stay awake until the emergency personnel arrived. I wanted to tell them it was Ron. But it was useless. The darkness was growing, even as the sirens drew nearer.

  My last conscious thought: I had really hoped to be one of those people who held it together. Apparently, that wasn’t meant to be.

  I woke up on my sofa.

  When my eyes opened, I sensed a great deal of motion around me, but I couldn’t focus on anything.

  I blinked a few times.

  “Jules?”

  I finally managed to focus on Tripp, who knelt beside me with my right hand in both of his.

  “She’s awake,” he said to someone over his shoulder. Then, to me, he said, “Everything’s fine now, Jules. You’re fine. The paramedi
cs say you were grazed by one of the bullets. You lost a good bit of blood, but you’ll be fine as soon as we get you to the hospital and have you patched up. They’ve given you something for the pain already.”

  I continued to look at him, and I knew my expression was blank. I couldn’t process what he was saying. I’d been shot. I was doped up. I supposed that was a good thing.

  A paramedic in a dark blue jumpsuit joined Tripp by the couch. He poked at me for a bit, took my pulse. “She’s experiencing mild shock.”

  “Shock?” I rasped. God, that was embarrassing for a law enforcement officer.

  I hoped no one would hear about that.

  I looked over the paramedic’s shoulder and the rest of the house crystallized in my vision. The front door stood open, and I could see the flash of police and emergency vehicle lights in the background. I couldn’t discern details, but I knew that my neighbors would all be outside, wondering what was going on over here.

  Then I looked around the house.

  There were people everywhere. When had they all arrived?

  Everyone was in motion. Some took pictures, some gathered evidence, but one remained still. My attention was drawn to him.

  Vincent stood at the divide between the kitchen and the living room, as if he couldn’t decide whether to assist with the investigation or to follow his concern for me.

  And I knew he was concerned.

  His eyes had not left me since I’d awakened. Even though I had only just noticed him standing there, I realized that I had felt him watching me the entire time.

  I met his eyes. Nothing in his facial expression or posture altered—he was just looking at me—but I knew he cared. I knew.

  Tripp patted my hand, breaking my focus on Vincent. “You remember what happened?”

  I shook my head. I thought I probably could remember if I tried, but my brain was pleasantly cobwebby. I was in no real hurry to return to rational thought. I’d rather just hear what happened from someone else, like listening to a fairy tale.

  “Ron Raleigh broke in here tonight,” Tripp said gently.

  I nodded, swallowed hard. I remembered.

  “Did you catch him?” My voice came out stronger than I’d planned, and my throat ignited with pain. I pointed at the back door with my good arm. “He went out that way.”