Chapter Seventeen
Jim turned toward me, the blue duffel bag in one hand.
“Shall we go?” He extended his arm with the smile of a gentleman.
My hand shook so much, I could hardly take his arm. He pulled me close. “Cold?” he asked casually, as he shifted the duffel to the other hand and picked up his musket. Its bayonet was fixed and gleaming at the top.
“Is that thing loaded?” I asked in a squeaky voice.
Jim looked down at me with a smile. “Of course. A soldier never knows when the enemy might attack.” He threw a leather bag over his shoulder, and we ducked out of his tent and headed for the car.
The car. Maybe I could get free of Jim, just for a minute, just enough to jump in the car and drive away. My hands shook harder at the thought of maneuvering the Jaguar through the maze of tents, and then out into the nighttime traffic. Let the cops stop me for erratic driving—at least I’d be safe then.
I needed a plan.
I stumbled, faking a fall. Pulling heavily on Jim’s arm, I groaned, “Oh, I twisted my ankle!”
“Let me help.” He put my arm around his shoulders, concern on his face as usual. Had it always been just an act?
He supported me as I feigned a limp to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door, and I sank down on the seat, moaning. “Just pass me my bag, Jim. I’ve got a scarf I can wrap it in.”
Jim tossed his duffel bag into the back seat and handed over my shoulder bag. “Do you think you sprained it?” he said, kneeling down to run his hand over my ankle.
I rooted through the bag until I found Aileen’s can of pepper spray. I snatched it out with a quick shake and aimed it straight at Jim’s face. He raised his deep brown eyes to mine, and my finger hesitated for an instant on the button. It was all he needed.
His hand shot up to knock my arm away, and the can of pepper spray spun harmlessly off over his shoulder. Before he could get up, I planted both feet on his chest and kicked with all my strength. Jim toppled backward.
I leapt up from the car seat and dashed to the other side. Flinging myself into the driver’s seat, I cranked the key viciously, and fumbled for the gearshift, almost paralyzed at the thought of driving a Jaguar. My hands shook as I frantically punched buttons on the door controls. “Lock, lock, which one’s the lock?”
The passenger door flew open, and Jim slid into the seat beside me. He reached over and turned the ignition key, cutting the engine.
“So,” he said quietly, in a voice as cold as ice. “Now we know where we stand.”
“Now I know you’re a murderer,” I choked out, cringing away from him. “You killed Colonel Windstrom and Emmett, all for some jewels!”
“The next murder is always easier than the last,” Jim murmured, leaning in on me. “Looks like you’ll be next.”
I screamed and flung the door open. I hit the ground running, thankful that the sprained ankle had only been a ruse.
I sprinted for the darkness of the tents. Maybe I could lose him in that shadowy maze. I raced past the first one and dodged around a dormant campfire. Another tent loomed out of the darkness, and I veered off to avoid colliding with it. Heavy footsteps crashed behind me.
“Daria,” he called out in a harsh voice I didn’t recognize, “Cut it out. This is pointless. Where are you going to go?”
Where indeed? I ran on.
I darted between two small tents set close together, dodging one just as Jim burst into view, the musket clutched in his hand. Was that my fate—to die from a Civil War musket ball? I gritted my teeth—would Scarlett O’Hara let a soldier shoot her? No, and neither would I! I grabbed the rope holding up the tent and wrenched the stake out of the ground. I pushed away thoughts of plunging the stake through Jim’s heart, and pulled the rope taut. Jim barreled around the side of the tent and caught the rope smack across his chest. He went down flat on his back, and I ran, dodging through the tents, doubling back to the car.
Shoot, I should have grabbed the musket while he was down. He only had one shot, but he probably had pretty good aim after all those military drills.
Footsteps pounded behind me. I gasped, my lungs on fire. I couldn’t outrun him. I ducked inside one of the tents and flattened myself underneath the cot. I pressed my face into the crook of my arm, trying to smother the sound of my ragged breathing. His footsteps slowed as he searched around the tents. A flap rustled as he pulled it aside. I searched frantically for something to hit him with, but it was so dark I could barely see my hand in front of my face.
“Daria,” he called, “come on out. I don’t want to kill you, Daria. I never wanted to kill you.”
His footsteps came closer.
“They don’t need me, Daria. They’ve got Chris and Pete. They’ll pick up McCarthy. They don’t need me.”
His breathing grew harsh as he jerked back another tent flap.
“We can go away, Daria, just the two of us. We’ll disappear, and no one will ever find us. I don’t have to kill you, Daria. We can just walk away.”
I pressed my body onto the dirt floor, trembling. Did he seriously think I would take his hand and walk away, leaving my brother to rot in jail with Chris, doomed to pay for Jim’s horrible crimes? Anger shot through me, right down to my fingertips. Not in this lifetime!
No longer trembling, I tensed my body like a spring. His steps came closer; he pulled back the flap of my tent. His feet were on the ground next to me. He bent down, the muzzle of his musket pointing straight at my stomach.
“Come on out, Daria.”
I heaved the cot with all my strength, grunting as I shoved it into his chest. I scrambled to my feet as Jim went sprawling into the side of the tent. The canvas buckled and collapsed in a billow of thick fabric. I fought against its clinging folds, Jim right beside me, clawing at the fabric as well. I broke free first, pausing long enough to kick Jim’s writhing form beneath the downed tent. There was a crash and a curse. I sprinted off into the darkness once more.
I ran toward the lights of Jim’s car, hoping for a second chance to drive away from this dreadful place. Suddenly an arc of light swung past me, as another car pulled into the camp.
I was saved! I ran, gasping for breath, toward my rescuer.
The car skidded to a stop next to the Jaguar, gleaming silver in the darkness. The door flew open, and the driver jumped out, leaving the engine running. I couldn’t believe my eyes—McCarthy!
I screamed and doubled back toward the camp. There was Jim, pelting out from behind the nearest tent. They had me cornered.
“Daria!” McCarthy shouted, running toward me.
I tried to dodge away from him without running straight into Jim’s arms. The can of pepper spray lay on the ground, inches away from me. I ran to it.
Jim leveled the musket.
McCarthy cried again, “Daria!”
McCarthy crashed into me with a flying tackle that flung us both to the ground just as the musket exploded in a roar of smoke. The musket ball whistled right above my head. I landed next to the pepper spray and snatched up the can as McCarthy rolled off me. He reached down, and I sprayed him full in the face.
McCarthy choked, doubling over and clutching his hands to his eyes.
I ignored him, scrambling to my feet to meet Jim’s charge. I shook the can, praying that there was more than one dose inside. Jim ran toward me, the bayonet pointing straight at my throat. His bloodcurdling Rebel Yell pierced the darkness.
I held my ground, oblivious to McCarthy’s groans as he rolled in the dirt at my feet. Jim was almost on me.
Jim lunged. I ducked, but the bayonet wasn’t aimed at me after all. Jim swung the musket over his head, bringing the bayonet plunging down. McCarthy rolled away just in time. The bayonet grazed his forearm and drove deep into the ground, pinning him by the sleeve. McCarthy cried out, straining against the blade.
Jim turned to me, empty-handed. “I don’t have to kill you, Daria.” He rea
ched out for me.
I shot the pepper spray straight into his dreamy eyes.
Jim went down, but not as dramatically as McCarthy. He must have only gotten a partial dose. He reeled away from me, his hands scrabbling at his eyes. A string of obscenities erupted from his mouth.
“You are so dead!” He ripped off his coat and wiped his face on his shirttail. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”
He straightened up and advanced on me, still swearing.
“Daria, get out of here!” McCarthy hollered behind me. I turned to see him struggling with his left hand to free himself from the bayonet. Dirt and tears streaked his face. The red pepper residue encircled his eyes like some freaky raccoon. “Run!” he yelled at me. “Run!”
Too late for that. I grabbed the musket with both hands and pulled with all my strength. The bayonet ripped free, slashing across McCarthy’s arm as I yanked it out of the ground. His scream echoed in my ears as I turned to tackle Jim. In another life, as recently as this morning, I would have cared, would have wanted to spare McCarthy pain. I didn’t give him a second thought.
I hefted the musket like a baseball bat. “Home run!” I shouted, and swung to save my life.
The musket butt caught Jim just above his left ear. He dropped like a stone. I stumbled, my momentum carrying me around in a full circle. I checked myself, then bent to peer at Jim. He was out cold, but I didn’t think I’d killed him. I didn’t care if I had.
I swung around to see McCarthy pushing himself up off the ground with one hand. I hefted the musket again, and pointed the bayonet, stained with his blood, straight at his face.
“Don’t make a move, murderer,” I shouted, “or you’ll get the same as your partner!”
McCarthy froze at the fury in my voice. Then he shouted, “I am not a murderer!”
I held the musket steady, bayonet poised and ready to stab. “You killed Emmett and robbed his body,” I said through clenched teeth. “I saw his watch on your tie, like some kind of merit badge for murder!”
McCarthy stared at me, then he closed his eyes, heedless of the blade in his face. “Oh, God,” he whispered. He opened his eyes. “You saw the watch. That’s what sent you running off with Laker. Daria! The cops asked me to wear Emmett’s watch to the memorial service. They thought maybe the murderer would see it and betray himself.” He spread his hands wide, in a gesture of innocence. “Call and ask them.”
But I didn’t need to. I could see the truth in his eyes, and hear it in his voice. I should have trusted my feelings for him all along. I flung the musket into the darkness and fell to my knees in the dirt beside McCarthy. I threw my arms around him, and he held me, hard, his face pressed into my hair.
“Daria, thank God,” he whispered.
“I never wanted it to be you,” I sobbed. “I couldn’t believe it could be you. I’m so sorry, Sean, I’m so sorry.” Then I started to cough, and he pushed me off.
“It’s the pepper,” he said softly. “Serves you right.”
I laughed and cried, wiping his streaming eyes. “I’m so sorry. You’re such a mess. It’s your own fault—you put the idea in my head that you could be a murderer, and then you tried to get Pete arrested . . .”
He laid a finger on my lips. “Petty crimes.”
I brushed his hand away, then recoiled in horror. My hand came away wet and sticky with McCarthy’s blood. I pulled his arm toward me. Blood soaked his tattered shirtsleeve, flowing from a deep gash on his forearm. I gasped, and his eyes followed my gaze.
He drew a sharp breath and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to press over the wound. The thin fabric reddened instantly.
“Looks like you’ll need stitches,” I said, trying to sound calm.
“Well, maybe this will impress the ER nurses.” He staggered to his feet. “Last time I was in the ER, I got put on the nurses’ list of most embarrassing conditions. This is my big chance to redeem myself. What could be more macho than getting speared by a bayonet? We don’t need to mention the pepper spray.”
I laughed. He stumbled, and I grabbed his arm to steady him. “What was your embarrassing condition?” I tried to match his lighthearted tone.
He grinned, biting back a grimace of pain. “I shouldn’t have even mentioned it—you’ll think I’m a fool.”
“Too late for that,” I said. He laughed.
We made our way slowly to his car. “You know how, when you cook spaghetti, sometimes a piece gets stuck on the colander and gets all dried up there?”
I stopped to stare at him. “I thought we were talking about the ER.” We’d almost reached McCarthy’s car.
Jim’s Rebel Yell shattered the night.
I whipped around to see him tottering behind us, clutching the musket that I had so lightly discarded. He raised it to his shoulder, aiming straight at me. What was he thinking? He only had one shot.
What did I know?
Chapter Eighteen
The musket exploded in a jet of flame, and something hit me like a ton of bricks. It was McCarthy; another flying tackle to save me from the bullet. I hit the ground with him sprawled on top of me.
“Thanks,” I gasped, pushing him off me.
He grunted, a deep guttural sound that froze my blood. I crawled out from underneath him and stared at him. He’d been shot. He clutched his left thigh, his face bone-white. Blood spilled out between his fingers. More blood—how much could he spare?
He pushed me. “Daria, get out of here. Take my car; call the cops. Get out before he reloads!”
I went to grab his hand, but my fingers slipped in his bloody grasp. “I can’t leave you,” I cried. “He’ll kill you!”
He didn’t deny it. “Go! Daria, go!”
“No!” I screamed, yanking his good arm. He groaned and let me pull him up. He staggered heavily against me—it was all I could do to keep upright. His blood stained the ground.
“Come on, Sean,” I gasped, stumbling under his weight. I tripped on the uneven ground, and we both went down—just as another musket ball sailed over our heads.
“Stay down!” McCarthy grunted, crawling doggedly toward the car. His left leg dragged behind him in a trail of blood.
I reached the car first and wrenched open the passenger door. I grabbed McCarthy’s shoulders and tried to heave him into the car.
He pushed my hands away. “Get in,” he gasped, dragging himself up and into the seat.
I bolted around the car and leapt into the driver’s seat. McCarthy slammed his door and leaned heavily against it. “Get us out of here,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.
My hands shook on the steering wheel as fear paralyzed me. “I can’t,” I whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks. “I can’t drive.”
McCarthy’s eyes shot open. “Sure you can! Daria, you laid out a Civil War soldier with his own musket. You can do anything!” He smiled at me through clenched teeth. “Listen, it’s all about missing. As long as you miss everything else on the road, you’re a great driver.” He waved at the gearshift between the seats. “You’ll be okay, just put it in gear and drive.”
I closed my eyes. “God help us,” I whispered and threw the BMW into gear. The car lurched forward, and the right rear window shattered.
I screamed, jerking my foot off the gas.
“Go, go, go!” McCarthy urged. “He won’t have time to reload.”
That’s when I realized that Jim had shot out the window. I pressed the accelerator once more, and the car leapt forward.
“Not too much,” McCarthy said. “Go left, to get to the road out of the park.”
I wrenched the wheel around, and the car careened to the left, then skidded as I over-corrected. McCarthy flew sideways, smacking into the passenger door. “Go easy, Daria,” he whispered.
“Sorry!” I spared him a glance. He huddled against the door, his eyes screwed shut. He clutched his left leg with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood. His face and lip
s were white.
“You gonna be okay?” I implored.
He exhaled sharply. “I’ve never been shot before. I didn’t need to impress those nurses quite this much.”
I choked back a laugh that could have been a sob. “So what does dried-up spaghetti have to do with the ER anyway?” A light flashed in my rearview mirror. I held my breath and pushed down on the accelerator.
McCarthy’s voice was weak. “I went to scrape it off with my thumb, and a big piece of it got shoved up under my thumbnail.”
The Jaguar roared up on my rear bumper. I pushed the pedal harder.
McCarthy’s voice was barely a whisper. “It broke off when I tried to pull it out, and there I was, with a half-inch of spaghetti wedged under my thumbnail. It hurt like hell.”
The Jaguar barreled up on my left side and sideswiped us in a jolt of metal. I caught a glimpse of Jim’s cold, hard face as he deliberately rammed the BMW again. I fought to keep control of the wheel. “So you had to go to the ER to get it taken out?”
McCarthy moaned softly. His shirt was stained red, and a pool of blood rose on the bucket seat, dripping down to soak the gearshift. His hands lay limp in his lap, and his eyes were closed.
“Hang on, Sean!” I cried, gripping the wheel even tighter. “Tell me what those nurses did, besides putting you on their list of embarrassing conditions.”
There was no answer.
The green light in front of me turned yellow. Blasting on the horn, I flew through the intersection, narrowly missing a white pickup truck as I careened around the corner to the left. The pickup skidded sideways, glancing off of Jim’s car before coming to rest in the middle of the crosswalk.
Jim barely slowed down.
He took the corner on two wheels, closing in on me as I raced down the highway. I could see hillsides looming across a large expanse of water—we must be coming up on the river. I bit my lip until I tasted blood and zoomed under an overpass. The road curved to the left along the riverbank, and I saw a sign to the Waterworks Bridge. Now I knew where we were—skirting the Schuylkill River down by the sewage treatment plant. I followed the road, hurtling along like a driver in a video game. But this was all too real. We bore down on the approach to the bridge.
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