She spun, her gun pointed at Moral, and fired. But, instead of emitting a loud bang, the pistol whispered an impotent click.
‘I knew you had to be empty,’ Moral said, smiling, as if his comment was charming.
Knowing her options for escape were limited, Millie lunged forward, trying to grab Julio’s weapon before Moral could shoot. Before she was able to stretch far enough to reach, she felt the cold barrel of the US Marshal’s gun against her head. Closing her eyes, she waited for the explosion that would end her life. Instead, she heard Moral hiss, ‘Let’s go,’ as he gripped her neck, guided her to her feet, and pushed her ahead of him toward the dark street.
As he shoved her down the road toward the parked cars, he noticed people standing on their porches, watching cautiously. Most of them were older retirees, a few hunched over on canes, some with flashlights trying to peer into the road. They walked past them; it seemed to take forever from Moral’s point of view.
‘Get inside,’ he commanded as he continued shoving Millie down the narrow neighbourhood road. ‘I’m a law officer, and this is a dangerous crime scene. Police are on the way.’ A few residents moved cautiously inside, though many stood their ground.
Millie screamed, ‘Help, he’s going to kill me!’
One man, with grey brush cut hair and faded military tattoos on his forearms, stepped forward, coming down his drive, boldly. He had a handgun at his side. ‘Hold up, sir. We need to know what’s going on here.’
Another neighbour yelled, ‘What are you doing to that woman?’
Moral fired his gun into the air. ‘Drop your weapon and go inside, or the next round will be for you. I’m a US Marshal, and I am ordering you inside. This woman is a dangerous fugitive. Now, get back inside!’
The man laid his gun down and inched back, slowly, toward his home. Others followed.
Moral continued with Millie, shoving her ahead. She stumbled and he pulled her up by her hair and prodded her with the gun barrel. The street was eerily silent as they reached the Esperanza car. Moral opened the rear door and pushed her in.
Millie plopped onto the back seat and looked to the darkened gargoyle seated across from her. And, next to Emilio, sat a small but deadly, lightweight Kel-Tec PF9, 9 mm, single stack, seven in the clip and one in the cartridge, pistol with a rubber Suregrip, and nickel-plated barrel. It gleamed in the low light like the smile on Emilio’s reptilian mouth.
‘Hello, Millie,’ Emilio said. ‘You’ve been so much trouble.’
Moral slid into the driver’s seat. ‘We need to go. Get this over with.’
‘Where’s Julio?’ queried Emilio, calmly. ‘And Jose?’
Millie proudly answered, ‘They’re dead, you piece of shit. I shot them.’
Emilio’s face twitched, then he shrugged, turning down the corners of his mouth. He struck out quickly, like a coiled snake, and backhanded Millie across her face. He turned to Moral. ‘What about when they find them?’
Moral turned to face him, his arm across the back of the seat. ‘They won’t find us. And they won’t find her. There’s no connection to us. It was dark out there. No one saw us clearly. Julio takes the fall – he was acting on his own – and there’s no one to refute it. We’re golden.’
‘What about your car?’
‘It’s not in my name, and I wiped it down before I went into the house.’
‘Then, let’s go,’ Emilio said. ‘We finish this somewhere else down the road.’
‘Agreed,’ said Moral, and turned around to start the car.
Millie tried to shake off the blow from the old man but her vision was still rattled. She had come too far to die now. If she could come up with a distraction then jump from the car …
Thiery woke feeling as if his skull was cracked. Little did he know it was. He’d smashed helmets before when he was sacked, but it had been nothing like this. He felt his head with a sausage-fingered hand and thought he felt something sticking out along the scalp line. It felt wet and squishy and, somewhere deep inside the fog of his thoughts, he decided he shouldn’t play with it. It might be brains.
The lights were on in the room, and the brightness helped stir him. He remembered a sense of urgency; he remembered Millie, and his heart sped up, pushing blood back through his limbs, waking him. Where was she? Was she still alive, or had they gotten to her?
‘Miserable fuckin’ bastards,’ he mumbled to himself, his tongue feeling as though it belonged to someone else. But the words didn’t sound right. The words said, ‘Mizz-fu-tids.’ He pushed himself up using the wall, and nausea washed over him like a wave. There were two of everything; two dead men lying in front of him, two knives with blood on them, two overturned couches, two doors that led out of this charnel house. Now, which one to choose?
C’mon, you big tough quarterback, he thought to himself, incoherently. You’ve got another quarter to go in the game, and the other side is winning. He stumbled toward the splintered front door, trying to call Millie’s name, but it just came out, ‘Moo-ryyyrrrrgh,’ like the bellow of a gut-shot elk. He leaned over and vomited, and the effort made little molecule-looking things dance in front of his eyes like microscopic bees. He waved them away and took a deep breath as he plodded forward, telling himself, move one leg, now the other, but he noticed one of them was dragging. Looking down and noticing one of his feet was pointed in to one side, as if it was dislocated, he concluded some neurological damage had occurred. He assessed himself further and observed that the hand on the same side as his limp foot was curled inward, too. The words of some comedian from long ago drifted into his head: must be ‘dain-bramage’. He didn’t remember the knife wound in his back, or much of anything, except that there was an urgent matter to attend to.
Thiery made it out into the yard where the world began to spin, and he fell into dew dampened grass. It felt surprisingly refreshing as he stared up at the stars and watched them move about like a giant monochromatic kaleidoscope. If there were urgent matters, they would have to wait while he figured out if he was truly going to fall off the earth.
Disturbed by a tapping on his window, Emilio turned and uttered a surprised gasp as he stared at the bloody hand on the other side, pointing a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum. The hand was shaking, some of the fingers were missing, and the small man attached to it, aiming the weapon, was wavering, trying to stand erect on a leg that was missing at least a kneecap.
‘Get out of the car,’ Police Chief Dunham ordered. ‘You’re under arrest.’
Emilio smiled, as if he were merely an old man sitting in his car, minding his own business. Move along, nothing to see, here. He shot a warning glance at Millie before sliding the window down and lowering his gun so Dunham couldn’t see it. ‘What’s happening, officer?’ Emilio asked in his best ‘surely this is all a misunderstanding’ voice. ‘I was just sitting here and heard all the commotion … ’
Enough light filtered into the back seat for Dunham to see Millie. He knew without asking, without ever having met her, she was the teacher. This was the woman who had shot down two intruders who’d entered an elementary school Dunham’s children had once attended, a person who had survived several attempts on her life, someone who had come too far to be taken away by this creepy reptile; the old guy was obviously trying, but experience had taught Dunham it was nearly impossible to convey innocence through eyes with predatory slits that emanated evil as ancient and fatal as a cobra.
‘He’s got a gun!’ screamed Millie. Dunham didn’t have to see it. He fired the .357 through the glass and into Emilio’s head. The bullet hit at just the right angle to take off the top of his head, and send it flying out the shattered back window.
Millie threw open the door and rolled out onto the ground, covered with tiny cubes of glass, her ears ringing intensely from the gunshot.
Moral jumped out of the car, gripping his gun, and fired. He hit Dunham square in the chest, his breath gushing out of him with an audible ‘ugh’. The impact knocked him back several feet, an
d he slammed against the ground and did not move.
When Moral looked back for Millie, she was gone. He looked up and saw a pale figure in the distance, running down the road.
‘Shit!’ he said, and started running after her. ‘Stop … you … fucking …’ he began, already winded, but knowing he had no choice but to continue after her, and the distance was growing.
Millie ran east toward the ocean, toward what she hoped would be freedom. She thought of stopping at one of the houses along the way, hoping she could get in before Moral caught up with her, but she feared Moral might just kill her would-be benefactors as well, or maybe they would just give her up. Either way, he would win.
The wound in her side screamed with each pounding step, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be away from it all, even if she just got to the ocean and threw herself into the surf. Even if she drowned, she would do so knowing the Esperanzas, especially Emilio, were dead. Moral would be alive, but how could he explain all that happened? She could accept death knowing that, at least, he would get caught.
Still, she ran as though she wanted to live.
Thiery heard the shots in the street and rolled over nonchalantly to see what was going on. He watched hypnotically as Millie ran by, followed by a scurrying Moral, a moment later. It was the image of Moral that awoke his short-term memory. That’s the fucker who shot me, he thought, feeling his anger return. He let it give him strength, let it push him to his hands and knees, then onto wobbly legs that took one step, then another, and another, until he found he was actually able to trot. His numb side was beginning to come alive again and, while it felt as if a million needles were undulating along that side, it also gave him back some muscle control he sorely needed.
As he galloped unevenly, he came across an object in the road: Dunham’s pump shotgun. Part of the pump mechanism was missing, likely splintered from a round from Julio’s rifle, but when Thiery pulled it back, the gun ejected an empty cartridge, and he heard another slide into the chamber with an almost eager clink. He looked up and saw Millie dart across A1A without looking, illuminated by headlights of passing cars that beeped horns and yelled obscenities. Moral was about fifty yards behind, but he was forced to hesitate as a small but steady stream of cars passed.
He used the time to close the distance between them, his long legs functioning better with each step, his old gridiron pace coming back, an imaginary goal line just ahead.
Millie had disappeared over the sea oat-covered dune and, within seconds, Moral did, too.
Thiery got to A1A and could hear sirens coming, saw blue flashing lights at a distance down the road. But, they weren’t going to make it in time. He heard a shot ahead and prayed he wasn’t too late. Mounting the dunes, he hurled himself quickly over the side so he wouldn’t be silhouetted against the road, and forced his eyes to adjust to the dark shoreline. The bright light of the stars helped, and he could see Millie running north along the surf, her feet kicking up foam as she splashed forward. Moral had stopped and was carefully aiming; his arms locked-out tight as he slowly squeezed off one round, watched where it hit in relation to Millie, then adjusted, and fired again.
Millie went down and, at first, Thiery thought she might have been hit, but she must’ve only stumbled, because she got back up and moved into the ocean at a diagonal. She was going to make a swim for it, he thought, or duck under water. Neither strategy would work for very long. Moral’s aim was getting closer, kicking up little geysers of water each time he pulled the trigger.
‘Drop it, Moral!’ he ordered, levelling the shotgun at him, panting, his head reeling from the effort of the run and his wounds.
Moral twirled like a Peeping Tom that just got caught looking into a window. His arms were lowered, but the gun was still there.
Thiery fought off the bees that reformed in front of his eyes and the nausea that was returning and tried to steady the shotgun that seemed to be growing heavier by the second. He walked slowly toward Moral. ‘Said … put … it … down.’
Light reflected off the ocean, perhaps it was an illusion brought on by loss of blood, but to Thiery, it looked like stage lighting. For a brief moment, he could see Moral’s face as clearly as if the sun were coming up over the horizon. He saw his expression change from worried concentration to a benign, almost goofy smile.
‘Do you remember a woman named, Adrienne?’ asked Thiery, his tongue still thick and occluding his speech.
‘Who?’ said Moral, almost grinning, his grip tightening on his pistol.
‘In a restaurant, about ten years ago. New York. She was with a man named Gazmend.’
Moral’s brow was furrowed, but smoothed as the memory came back. Yeah, he thought, that was the beginning. The start of the downhill run, the fear of being financially underwater, the relief that there was a way out, if only he didn’t mind giving up everything that mattered. Moral shrugged. He couldn’t muster any more sympathy for the man in front of him than he could muster for himself.
They could both hear sirens growing closer, now, and a helicopter was looming over the street where people lay dead in the previously quiet community.
‘That was my wife,’ continued Thiery. ‘Now, put that fucking gun down.’
Moral nodded his head, but didn’t release the gun. ‘She was screwing around on you,’ he told Thiery.
‘That didn’t give you … the right to kill her,’ he mumbled, weakly. A blood vessel behind his eye began to make his vision look like a pulsing, red light.
‘You got it all wrong, Thiery,’ Moral said, stalling, weighing out one last gamble, one last throw of the dice, wondering if, maybe, there was a way he could win one last time. ‘You need to know the truth. If you’ll let me explain … ’
Thiery knew Moral was trying to distract him until he could make his move, talking shit until Thiery passed out, or fell over dead. How much longer am I gonna last, anyway, with a knife wound in the back and a gunshot wound to the head? He saw Moral draw a deep breath, his elbow start to bend, but didn’t wait for him to move. He tightened the shotgun against his shoulder so it wouldn’t kick too hard, and pulled the trigger.
Moral took the blast midsection, and it seemed to cut him in half as he was kicked back into the surf.
Thiery could see his eyes, wide with the recognition of death, dim out, like the lights of a boozy, sweat-scented, casino, blinking out as the gamblers shuffled off at closing, their pockets and hopes empty.
Crumpling to his knees, Thiery dropped the shotgun and rolled onto his back on the sand, allowing its cool, granular embrace to comfort him. He could see the star formation of Orion, ever the hunter, ever the fighter, behind the kind and pretty face of Millie Adkins as she stroked his face, gently, with her nurse’s touch. He closed his eyes and felt his body float up and into the stars.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Four Weeks Later
Thiery’s doctor began to decrease the thiopentone that had kept him in a drug-induced coma for a month while his brain healed and the swelling subsided.
He awoke several times over the next few days. Initially, he opened his eyes to see a lovely woman who seemed recognizable, but whose name he could not remember. Her hair was its natural colour now, with a few incongruent streaks of grey poking through on one side, where that childhood swing injury had healed. She smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and gave him, with the doctor’s permission, a tiny sip of water. Then he was off to that foggy state, again, that allowed neither comprehension nor creative dream sequences, just a mental limbo.
The next time he woke up, his hand was curled in what he initially thought was a bird’s nest, then the ‘nest’ moved and below it was the face of his oldest son, Owen, his curly hair grown out and a ragged beard outlining his jaw. Leif, the younger, was standing behind him with his usual gum-showing grin. The woman was there again.
‘Wha … ’ Thiery croaked, his throat dry. The lady gave him another sip of water. ‘Why are you guys here?’
‘We thought you
might check out,’ replied Leif, ever the smart-ass. ‘We were hanging around, waiting for that big inheritance.’
Owen nudged his brother in the ribs. ‘Just checking on you, Dad,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Ha,’ he chuckled, not without discomfort. ‘I feel like someone kicked a field goal with my head.’ He noticed one of those stainless steel trapeze bars hanging from a chain above his chest. He reached up, noticing how pale and small his arms looked, grasped the bar, and pulled himself up a few inches with his good arm. The woman practically flew to his side and assisted.
‘Th … thanks,’ he said. Trying to focus his eyes, he looked at her and added, ‘I know you, right?’
She smiled. ‘Enough to almost get yourself killed for it.’
He smiled lopsidedly at her, ‘Millie, right?’ Then added, ‘you look like you were worth it.’
Her face blushed, and she looked at his sons. ‘Some people come out of anaesthesia crying. Some people wake up making jokes.’
‘I don’t think he was joking, Millie,’ said Leif.
They kept it light that day. Getting caught up, filling him in. A nurse came in and brought horrible hospital food. The boys promised him a pizza with meatballs if he could ‘keep that crap down’. Later that night, they smuggled one in.
His surgeon stopped by the next day and told him he was healing as he should. He went over the injuries: a small crack in his skull where the bullet had ‘bounced off’ (‘hard head,’ Leif had added), and his scapula was cracked from the knife wound. He’d had some swelling in his brain, but it was under control. He would probably need balance therapy when he walked again, which the doctor encouraged him to do as soon as he felt up to it. ‘Might experience some double vision, initially,’ he’d said, along with a ringing in his ears, but that should pass. His shoulder would actually take longer to heal and require physical therapy to regain motion and overcome the muscular atrophy.
‘Maybe you can actually beat him arm-wrestling, now,’ said Owen to Leif.
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