by Gideon, D.
Dotty blinked. “You…Wilhelm?”
Bill grimaced and nodded.
“It was a beautiful shot,” Marco said, cocking his head and poking his fingers into a hole in the gym door. “Wish you hadn’t done it with us back here, but it was a beautiful shot.”
Simon walked up, casting large shadows over the gruesome scene. “What about the people?”
“Most of them were gone when we went through the gym,” Marco said. “I think they ran when the shooting started.”
“I should lock both of you in a cell to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed. Crossing that light was stupid,” Simon said.
“But necessary,” Marco countered. “We had to get behind them.”
Simon made a noise that could have been reluctant agreement. “We need to get back over to the prison before the townspeople come back,” he said. “And it’s going to be a bear doing it. Wind’s really picked back up.”
“What about these?” Preacher asked, pointing at the bodies. Everyone looked down, considering.
“You three figure that out. I’m taking her back,” Bill said, and steered her towards the light.
“Tell the other guys to come in here,” Simon called after them. “We’ll catch up to you.”
They made it past the big flashlight and into the relative darkness of the lobby. Bill pulled her to a stop.
“Hold on just a minute. We need to let our eyes adjust,” he said.
Wind and rain tore through the remains of the doors. A few men huddled there, rifles aimed out into the maelstrom.
“Fellas,” Bill yelled. “The Sheriff needs you.”
The men stood and turned on headlamps before making their way across the glass-strewn floor. The light caused the broken shards to glitter, and in the reflected light Dotty glimpsed at least two still, unmoving forms draped across the couches.
So many lives, she thought.
She tried to bring her hand up to wipe tears from her cheeks, and remembered her wrists were still bound. She turned and held them out.
“Get these off of me, please.”
“Oh, Dotty, I’m sorry,” Bill said. He adjusted a huge rifle hanging over his shoulder and pulled out a pocket knife much like the one Wilhelm had used. He cut through the zip-ties with a quick movement.
She rubbed her wrists and watched him put the knife away. When he reached for her hand, she stepped back. He blinked, clearly confused.
“You shot Kenny Wilhelm,” she said. “You killed him.”
He frowned and dropped his hand. Silently, he nodded.
“Why, Bill? Why you?”
His face hardened. “Because he was about to shoot you.”
“But Bill, you’re a preacher. Thou shalt not kill? You just...for me…”
Bill shook his head and held up a hand. “The translations changed over time. The commandment, written in its original form, says Thou shalt not murder. I didn’t commit murder, Dotty. I killed a man, yes. But I did it in defense of an innocent. That’s not murder.”
“And God’s going to be okay with you doing that? With a preacher doing that?”
Bill gave her a sad little smile. “He forgave me for all the times I had to in Nam. I think he’ll forgive me for saving you. And if he doesn’t…” he lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. “It was worth it to me. I’d pay any price for you, Mrs. Parker.”
He held out his hand again.
This time, she took it with both of hers.
Epilogue
Cathy Riggs had never been the sharpest arrow in her parents’ quiver. She realized that early on.
But she was crafty, and she could spot an opportunity the instant it raised its hand to knock on the door.
Those talents had allowed her to be the one who could hand the Lieutenant Mayor a crusade. She’d become the only person who could provide valuable information ensuring success for Cindy Stalls’ efforts. She’d wriggled her way into this tiny town’s upper echelon and secured herself a spot at the big boy’s table.
A spot that would allow her to keep living the nice, comfortable, air-conditioned life she damn well deserved.
When Frank Stalls had dragged Dotty Parker into her room at the Rec Center, her eye for opportunity had told her to get out before it all went to hell.
But she’d stayed, because Frank had gotten paranoid lately and it was just plain stupid to think that anyone would go out in a freaking hurricane to get one selfish old woman.
But that’s exactly what they’d done.
Now she was soaking wet, walking through the hurricane herself, trying to get home. The wind moved past her face so fast it was difficult to breathe. The moon that had been bright and beautiful when she’d run out of the gym to get away from the shooting had disappeared behind the storm clouds. Her flashlight couldn’t show her much past the dark, wet surface of the road five feet in front of her or the dark, wet green of the grass that the wind kept blowing her into.
She was bleeding from a bevy of cuts and scrapes. She’d been knocked down a number of times. At least three times the wind that was a steady, solid force she had to push through had suddenly gusted and thrown her off of the road. Once had been from a half-empty trash can that had come flying out of the dark without warning, and once more from the leafy tip of a big tree branch that had slid down the road almost as fast as a car. It had made a horrendous hissing noise as it approached, swept her feet out from under her, and kept going. The ankle it had hit was swelling up now, and pain lanced through her leg whenever she stepped on that foot. She’d probably sprained it.
Yet another thing she could lay directly at the feet of Dotty Parker.
She passed some strange tipped-over wooden contraption with a garden hose dribbling water onto the sidewalk—as if anyone needed more water right now, there was at least an inch of it on the road--and thought she was still a block or so away from her house. When her flashlight fell upon her own mailbox, her first thought wasn’t joy that she’d made it there alive, it was anger and indignation that someone would leave that trash out in front of her house.
She limped to the front steps and pulled herself up the railing. The screen door ripped out of her hand and smashed against the railing on the other side, bending in the process. She’d have Dan fix that tomorrow.
The doorknob didn’t turn. Locked. Why the hell would it be locked when she wasn’t home? Dan always left the door unlocked so she didn’t have to bother with balancing shopping bags while trying to get the key in the door. He’d learned years ago how that put her in a bad mood.
There was no candle light coming through the windows. The useless dolt had probably gone to bed. She banged on the door anyway, and then fought with her wet pants to get her keys out of her pocket.
The wind kept shoving her, knocking her against the screen door as she tried to get her key into the lock. It was throwing her around so much that the key wouldn’t go in. She banged harder, and yelled for Dan to wake up. The sound of the wind was too loud; she couldn’t tell if he was making his way to the door to let her in. He’d better be.
Hunching into the wind and shining the flashlight directly on the lock, she lined up her key.
That’s when she noticed the shiny, gaudy brass of the doorknob.
Her doorknobs were a trendy, sophisticated dark bronze.
Her first thought was that she’d mistaken the mailbox and come to the wrong house. But no, this was definitely her door, in the special-ordered Rustic Red with the little arched window at the top.
But it now had a cheap, brass doorknob. So shiny it could have been brand-new.
That weaselly, whimpering, sonofabitch husband of hers had changed the locks while she’d been staying at the Rec Center.
After all these years, now was when he finally grew a spine? Over what? One little black eye? No, it couldn’t be that. It wasn’t as if it were his first. And where in the hell had he gotten new knobs? There weren’t any stores open.
She’d bet money Dotty Parker
had something to do with it. That meddlesome woman got her nasty brown claws into everything.
Cathy looked at the knob again. The classless brass, mounted on her expensive custom door, enraged her. She beat on the door and screamed for Dan to let her in, but either he was cowering in some corner or he couldn’t hear her over the storm.
Wait, weren’t Dotty’s knobs that awful brass?
Had that woman switched knobs with Dan? That was exactly the kind of thing she’d do.
Well, Dotty wasn’t home. Her family was currently in a gun fight with Frank and the boys at the Rec Center trying to save the stupid woman, and it wasn’t like any of them were going to survive that. The Parker house was empty, and most likely had her expensive doorknobs on it.
If they’d switched knobs, she could hole up in Dotty’s house until the storm blew over. Then she’d come over here and teach Dan a lesson that would make sure he’d never pull this type of stunt again. Maybe she could have Frank arrest him for something. Throw his ass in jail. It would serve him right.
Cathy stumbled down the steps and pushed against the wind. She made it past the bushes separating the two yards, and finally butted up against Dotty’s porch steps. She half-crawled, half-pulled herself onto the porch. The screen door here was already open, banging hard against the house. On her knees, she leaned against the doorframe and brought the flashlight up, key at the ready.
The doorknob was made of cheap, shiny brass.
She screamed her frustration into the wind and beat her fist against the door.
Wait...the back door. Dotty must have switched her back door knob with Dan.
Cathy tucked her keys inside her shirt and crawled back across the porch. She gripped the bottom of the railing hard as she maneuvered out onto the steps.
The wind blew her clean off the steps and sent her rolling through the grass. The flashlight flew from her hands and lay shining at her about ten feet away, half-submerged in the standing water. She scrambled to it, picked it up, and crawled for the side of the house.
The wind was significantly weaker here. She was able to raise up into a crouch and scurry towards the back. The fury of the storm filled her ears, but as she reached the back corner of the house, she swore she heard a sharp CRACK.
Was that a gunshot? Is someone shooting at me?
Ducking low, she ran for the back porch. The screen door was completely gone. The wind must have ripped it off.
As she slid to her knees in front of the back door, she heard it again.
CRACK.
Where the storm had inspired anger, these sounds truly terrified her. She knew a storm wouldn’t kill her, but a bullet certainly would.
Who the hell is shooting? And how can they even see to shoot?
The shaking beam of the flashlight revealed yet another brass door knob.
Cathy screamed and beat the flashlight against the door. On the third strike, the beam cut off, leaving her in total darkness.
CRACK.
“Stop shooting at me!” she screamed into the night. “I didn’t do anyth-”
King’s big old pine tree crashed down through the porch with all of hurricane Michael’s force behind it.
Back of the Book Stuff
Hey ladies and gents!
Breathing a sigh of relief? Cheering for a tree? I’d love to know your reaction to IMPACT.
I’d also really like to apologize for the length of time that has passed since ADVENT was released. Thank you so, SO much for coming back to re-visit our folks in Snow Hill. I hope it delivered.
(I was cheering for the tree. Seriously. You should’ve seen me sitting at my desk when I finished writing that scene: arms pumping over my head giving the universal one-finger salute, tongue sticking out, maniacal cackling…I looked spastic.)
Thank you again, and until next time…watch for falling trees. ;)
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About the Author
Drew Gideon spends most of her time arguing with the characters in her head—the characters usually win. She lives with her “I’m an enganeer engeneer enginear…I’m good with math!” husband and the three coolest kids in the world in the sweaty armpit of the United States. She’s proudly owned by two cats and a dog, all of whom adopted her when she went to the shelter in need of a friend.
Drew longs for a time when she’ll have a self-sufficient homestead and cozy writing cabin in the mountains, where she can utilize her own personal shooting range clad in nothing but a good set of cans and her pajamas if she wants. Of course, she’d really prefer to dump the cans and use a nice suppressor.
To see what Drew’s up to and find out when the next release is, please visit her at any of the following online hangouts:
www.DrewGideon.com
[email protected]