Kill Me If You Can apam-2

by Nicole Young

  I collapsed with my forehead against the floor. The ball of pressure in my brain had eclipsed my thinking mind. All I knew was the tiny pinpricks of light dancing behind my eyelids and the choking sound coming from my throat as time had slowed to a crawl.

  I lifted my head at the sound of the kitchen door. Ordinary people in blue jeans and T-shirts came through the arch, carrying a stretcher. “Let’s load.”

  Through my tears, vague shapes bent and hovered.

  “On three,” the man said. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  Shuffling. Rustling. Then the forms rose in unison. Brad’s body was gone, hidden in the circle of rescue workers.

  I followed into the yard, mute. Workers clung like vultures to the stretcher as it was loaded onto a waiting ambulance. The doors slammed closed and the rig pulled away, disappearing through the trees.

  I felt alone, though the lawn was a bustle of activity. Nearby, another stretcher was being loaded into a waiting ambulance. The insanity of the moment reduced me to a torrent of tears and half-laughter.

  My arm throbbed. I covered the bloodstained bandage with my hand. The warmth of my palm soothed it for a moment.

  A rescue worker saw me, her eyes squinched with concern. She put a finger in the air as if to say, I’ll be with you in a minute. Then she turned back to the blanket-covered body on the lawn.

  I wandered through the yard like a Night of the Living Dead costar. My heart was missing from my chest. My brain was numb.

  There was nothing here for me now.

  What had Brad said? Go to Del Gloria—a safe place to land. But I didn’t care about safety anymore. It would have been merciful if the bullet had shot me through the heart instead of my arm.

  Now all I cared about was getting away from here . . . away from the days of mourning that lay ahead. Sam could have her place next to Brad’s coffin. She was his sister. His blood. And who was I? Not a wife. Not even a fiancée. Just a friend.

  I didn’t want to be here when my loss would become reality. Then, Cupid’s Creek, my woods, my living room, all would become reminders. Reminders of this moment. This nightmare.

  But if I went to Del Gloria . . . I could forget. There were no markers to jog my memory. Only strangers and strange surroundings. No Brad. No death. No grief in my wretched heart.

  Fingers sticky with blood, I reached in my pocket and pulled out the note Brad had given me.

  Denton Braddock, he’d written. A mentor. A quiet, obscure life for me. I half-smiled, recalling the anger I’d felt when Brad first told me about this Denton guy. But now—

  The pain in my arm flared. Ahead was Brad’s SUV. The door hung open and the keys were still in the ignition, as if he’d just stepped out for a moment.

  I got behind the wheel, and hesitated. My driver’s license. My cell phone. My checkbook. I should get them.

  My foot flinched, ready to make a move.

  No.

  Ties to the past. Ties to my sorrow. That’s all those things were. I didn’t want them along. The debit card still in my back pocket from last night’s fill-up was all I’d take with me.

  A slam of the door. A turn of the key. The engine rumbled and I pulled ahead, past the array of emergency vehicles.

  In a minute I was at the end of the driveway. Then at US-2.

  I turned west. Toward Del Gloria.

  With a glance at the speedometer, I set the cruise. The melodic sound of the wheels on blacktop seemed to lessen the pain in my arm. Scenery whooshed past. A soothing calm gushed through my mind. I relaxed against the leather and let all thoughts drain away.

  A few more miles, and my time with Brad would be just a dream.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Vern Annelin for his arson expertise and great stories from his years as a rescue worker.

  Thanks to Ray and Kathy Young for their help with EMT details in the final scene.

  Thanks to Vicki, Barb, and Kristin for their patience and inspiration during the editing process.

  About the Author

  Nicole Young resides in Garden, Michigan, with her children, cats, and tiny Yorkie. Home renovation is a way of life for the author whose first project was converting a Victorian in lower Michigan into a thriving bed & breakfast. She returned to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in 2001, where she owns and upkeeps vacation rental homes. Nicole plays fiddle and sings with two local bands and enjoys horseback riding on the beautiful Garden Peninsula.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 965ef990-a063-410c-8781-c0b0fa481db7

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 11 January 2012

  Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

  Document authors :

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  Document history:

  1.0 — создание файла

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