by M. S. Parker
I did what he said, keeping a wide distance. As I moved, I was absently aware of the fact that I was cold. The fire had died down, half-smothered by the Kevlar vest I’d had to throw in with the rest of my clothes. Not that it would matter much in a little while.
Mitchell wanted me dead, and I didn’t think Ridley was going to argue with that. For reasons I hadn’t quite yet worked out in my head, though, Detective Dale Mitchell seemed to have taken an opposing view.
“Where are his clothes, Dad?”
“Burned them.” Mitchell smiled, despite the tears that continued to track down his face. “The dumb-ass cops sent him in here with a wire, thought I wouldn’t check. My son’s a cop.” His lip curled as he said it and the way he spat the words my son made it clear just what he thought of that connection just then.
If Dale was bothered by it, he didn’t let it show. He just nodded and looked around. “This place is probably heated by the fireplace and a generator. It’s cold in here. You plan on letting him get hypothermia before you kill him or what? Let him get some clothes on.”
“I don’t care if he turns to ice in front of me,” Mitchell sneered.
“I do.” Dale glanced over at Ridley. “Get him a shirt, some pants.”
“Don’t,” Mitchell warned.
“Do it,” Dale snapped.
When his father rounded on him, Dale strode forward, his eyes blazing. “You going to shoot me because I don’t want a man freezing his ass off in front of me? Then do it. Go on! Do it!”
He was close enough now to grab the muzzle of his father’s gun.
For a second, I waited, motionless. I was afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to even blink.
Then Mitchell swore and lowered the gun, backing away. “How did I raise such a fucking pussy?” He turned his head and spat on the floor, the disgust coming from him in waves.
If he thought Dale putting himself in front of a loaded gun made his son a pussy, we had very different definitions of what that term meant.
A muscle pulsed in Dale’s cheek and he shot me a look. I couldn’t quite decipher it. If he hated me, fine. If he let his father shoot me right there, I would go to my grave thankful.
He’d gotten Haley out. He’d gotten Carly out. The two things in my world that really mattered and he’d taken care of them. I’d be indebted to him for the rest of my life, however long that ended up being.
A moment later, a bundle of clothes were shoved into my arms and I looked up just in time to see Ridley shuffle around me. He slid me a look then glanced down at the clothes. Then away. At the clothes, then away.
The clothes...
I tightened my hold on them. They were a damn sight heavier than they needed to be for a sweatshirt and jeans.
What in the hell?
Casually, I managed to turn slightly. It took more fumbling than I liked, and then my entire world froze down to nothing as I awkwardly shove the palm-sized pistol inside the front of my jockeys one-handed as I pretended to fumble with the sweatshirt. They were apparently Ridley’s clothes and too big. Ridley wasn’t much taller than I was, but he was massive, broad as a damn barn. The sweatshirt went past my hips, and the sweats weren’t much better. I felt like a kid trying to fit into his big brother’s clothes...with a gun lodged next to my unprotected cock.
“Hurry your miserable ass up, Cantrell,” Mitchell said.
“I am, I am,” I said as my teeth started to chatter. He’d kept Haley in this place for who knew how long. No heat on or anything, just that miserable little fire that hadn’t done shit to dispel the chill in the air.
I wanted to strip Mitchell naked and leave him up in the mountains to freeze to death.
“Why did you let Carly leave?” Ridley asked.
His voice was wrong somehow. Flat. Almost...well, if I had to make a stab at it, I’d say he sounded the exact way most people would assume he sounded. He was big and solid, and until you had to deal with him, Ridley struck most people as some all-brawn-and-no-brains type. He didn’t look like he had a near genius IQ. He was a mean bastard, and he sure as hell looked like he could be, but he was smart. Now, though, he sounded like the grown-up version of some high school bully who had fought and blustered his way through life.
“She wasn’t necessary,” Mitchell said.
“The only reason I even helped you–”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up.”
I chanced a glance in the mirror, and saw that Ridley had moved to stand between Mitchell and me. Taking the brief chance he’d given me, I palmed the gun and shoved it into the slash-styled pocket of the pants. I took a minute to tie the waistband as tight as I could and pull the sweatshirt back into place. The oversized shirt was baggy enough to hide the lump and I wondered if Ridley had picked his biggest clothes for that reason. Of course, hiding it there would hinder my chance to go for it, but there was no way to secure it anywhere else.
“You need to move your dumb ass out of my face,” Mitchell said when Ridley tried to push again about Carly. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re pissed your little whore’s gone.”
Ridley tensed and I imagined plunging my hand into the old man’s face, pummeling until blood flowed.
Dale’s gaze moved to mine, and I saw his eyes drift down, rest on my right hip.
Shit.
Then he looked back at his father, slid a casual glance toward the back door. He was trying to tell me something, and I had a feeling he knew about the gun.
How, I didn’t know. I didn’t think he’d had a chance to chat with Ridley, and I was almost positive there was no way he’d seen me palm it. I might have been out of practice, but I was still pretty damn good.
As Ridley and Mitchell continued to snarl and snap at each other, Dale gave a lazy nod to the back door. I looked at my bare feet and thought about hauling ass down the mountain. It wasn’t far and I’d made it through worse.
But then I looked at Ridley. What happened if he messed up and–
“I swear I should have just killed that cunt and the kid!” Mitchell said, shoving past Ridley and moving closer to the spot where his son and I waited.
So much for that silent conversation we’d been sharing.
“You.” Mitchell’s lip curled at me, while behind him, Ridley’s face went red and his eyes narrowed down to dangerous slits.
With his temper, I’d known better than to turn my back on him, but I wasn’t the one standing that way right now.
“You, your little cunt, that bitch kid–”
Ridley’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenching shut.
Dale lifted the gun he had yet to holster. “Dad.”
“You ain’t shot me yet, you ain’t gonna do it now,” Mitchell said, mockery in his voice. “Told you that you was a pussy. Came from living with your mama all those years. Why don’t you just get on out of here now?”
But Dale wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were focused behind his father and I knew he’d seen the true danger in the room.
“Ridley. Don’t. Okay?”
Mitchell glanced over his shoulder.
The next moments were a blur of noise and screams and bellows of rage.
Ridley grabbed Mitchell, one big arm snaking around his neck.
Dale pulled the trigger on his gun. His father got a shot off too, and glass shattered somewhere in the cabin.
Then, it was over and Ridley was on the ground. I grabbed the suede blanket from the back of the couch, and shoved it against his shoulder. His face was pale, his eyes glossy with pain.
In front of me, father and son faced off, guns raised. They were just a few feet apart, so almost any shot fired would hit its target. The only difference was, Derrell Mitchell, Sr didn’t look at all disturbed by the idea of killing his son. Dale, however, looked more torn than anybody I’d ever seen in my life.
“Kill the fucker,” Ridley whispered.
I looked down at him.
He reached up with his good hand, pantin
g.
I’d been thinking the same thing until the moment Ridley had spoken it out loud. If Dale hadn’t been there, maybe things would’ve been different, but I’d watched Dale save Carly and Haley’s life. He’d tried to save mine. I might have still wanted to kill Mitchell, but I wasn’t sure I could do that to Dale. Not again. I’d taken his brother from him. Could I take his father too? And right in front of him? Could I be that kind of monster?
But...
Haley’s face flashed into my mind. Carly’s.
Then I looked down at Ridley.
No, I didn’t like the son of a bitch, and if he hadn’t been bleeding out from a gunshot, I might’ve tried beating the shit out of him, but he hadn’t been the mastermind here. Mitchell had used him to get to my daughter. Mitchell had been ready to kill anybody he could just to get to me.
Now it looked like anybody included his own son.
The least I could do for Dale was save his life, no matter what it meant for me.
Slowly, I slid my hand into the pocket of the borrowed pants, closed it around the grip of the gun. It felt heavier than I knew it was. I’d taken lives before and they each came with a weight.
Like before, though, this was something I had to do.
“Put that toy down, Dale, or use it. Because I ain’t gonna wait much longer.” As he threatened his son, he smiled.
“Dad, don’t do this,” Dale pleaded.
I had no doubt Dale could do it. He was a cop and if the man in front of him hadn’t been his father, he’d probably already be dead. But Dale didn’t have much family left. He was being forced to choose between his dad, and the man who’d killed his brother.
I couldn’t let him make that choice.
I took a step forward.
“Why are you pointing that at him, Mitchell?” I said softly. “I’m the one you want dead.”
“Bobby, shut up!” Dale shouted.
“Come on, Mitchell,” I said, ignoring Dale as I continued to walk. They hadn’t looked away from the other, and I could see the tension they had on their respective triggers. “Put the guns down. Mitchell, you and I can leave here, get in my car and just leave. You get the keys, you decide where we go.”
“I’m not looking to take you on a Sunday cruise, boy.”
“The cops are going to be swarming this place soon.” I shrugged, layering on the bullshit as fast as I could. “They weren’t too concerned about sending an ex-con up here, but you had a kid. You had Carly. Once she gets to the cops and tells them that it’s just us, well, you screwed yourself right there.”
He swung the gun in my direction. “You think I don’t know what’s going to happen? I’m a dead man already! I just plan on taking you with me!”
Dale lunged.
Mitchell swung the gun back and pulled the trigger.
The impact stopped Dale in his tracks. He went to his knees, his hands going to his chest.
Mitchell let out a sound that was part roar, part denial and then he spun around to face me. “You see what you made me do! You see!” He stormed toward me and grabbed my left arm. He half-dragged me toward Dale’s body as I struggled to keep my grip on the gun with my right hand.
I stared down at Dale, at his slack face, his closed eyes – at his moving chest.
There was no blood.
No blood.
My eyes caught the tear in his shirt and I almost choked, trying to keep quiet as I saw the dark fibers of a Kevlar vest.
But Mitchell didn’t see any of that.
He swung back to face me and I didn’t move in time to dodge the butt of his gun. Pain exploded across my face and I fell, unable to catch myself and still keep the gun hidden in my pocket.
“You stupid, stupid...”
Dully, I saw him move to kick Dale and I crawled, placing my body between them. “Don’t,” I muttered. Blood filled my mouth and I choked, gagged. I spit out a mouthful and then another.
“Your fault.” Mitchell stumbled a few feet away. “I lost it all because of you. My wife. My boys. It’s all you.”
He turned and stared at me.
I saw the gun lifting.
I dragged mine free, but I already knew I was too late.
The crashing noise mingled with white-hot pain.
The last thing I remembered was the look of surprise on his face, and then he was falling, right down on top of me.
Epilogue
So that’s it. That’s my story.
Eighteen months ago, I was shot, point-blank, in the head.
I’ve gotten bits and pieces of what happened since there’s no memory of anything after Mitchell falling.
The cops rushed in, apparently, and started CPR, but Mitchell died en route to the hospital. Dale survived the bullet he took in the chest with only a bruise.
I found out he left the police department and took up working with troubled kids. He and his wife are expecting their first child in a couple months.
Ridley lived too. He confessed everything, from what he’d told Mitchell to how Carly had ended up in the house. There had been some questionable involvement with the letters, but since Carly had spoken to the prosecutor on his behalf, he’d been let off with probation and a shitload of community service.
Of course, Ryan fired his ass, so Ridley had to move out and find a new job.
I didn’t know any of this for quite a while after it happened because I spent the next few months in a coma.
Then I had to learn...well, pretty much everything all over again.
I had to learn how to talk, walk, feed myself, take a fucking shower and tie my shoes. I was like some giant fucking toddler.
The one thing I hadn’t needed to re-learn was her. The day I woke up, the first thing I saw was Carly, sitting at the side of my bed, reading to me.
She had a copy of Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone. Harry had been sitting in Snape’s class for the first time.
I don’t remember which line she’d been reading. Those memories of the first few days are still kind of weird. I do remember sitting there and staring at her and just...waiting.
She looked up and didn’t even seem surprised to see that I was awake. It was like she’d been waiting too. Just waiting for me to wake up.
I had to spend months in rehab, and then more months yet going to outpatient rehab, and I still have a few more appointments before everybody thinks I’ll be as good as new, or at least as good as I’ll ever be.
I’ll never think I’m good enough to go back to guarding Carly. I couldn’t trust myself to be strong enough to save her. Ryan had immediately understood when I’d told him. Carly had taken a bit more convincing, but when she realized I wasn’t trying to quit us, just the job, she’d relented.
Like I’d ever give her up.
Even at my darkest moments, Carly had been the one thing that had kept me going. And there had been some pretty shitty moments.
The walking part came pretty easy.
Feeding myself? Even easier. I always liked to eat. Even if I did make a mess of myself for a while. Certain more personal things took a bit longer, and those were humiliating enough.
The worst part though was not being able to talk.
I couldn’t even say the simplest things. Hell, Dave’s daughter was talking better than I was. I’d go to say hello and the word just wouldn’t come out. It had taken weeks before I could make my mouth form words. It had been almost two months before I could even say Carly’s name.
We’d both cried when it finally happened, and I hadn’t even cared that there were people around.
The speech therapist told me all of this was normal.
Even when I could say simple things, or when I could look at a comb and say, comb – and I could remember what to do with it – I couldn’t remember other things. Like my mom’s name. I could remember the way she’d looked when my father had been beating her. I could remember how she’d held me. And I could remember how she’d looked the officer in the eye as she’d lied and s
aid he was gone, that he’d left and she didn’t know where he went
But I couldn’t remember her name.
Except…even when I couldn’t speak, I was able to write it down. It had been pure accident that I’d discovered it, in the middle of a therapy session. It wasn’t the speech therapist, though. It had been my shrink. I wouldn’t have gone, but Carly had asked. I couldn’t tell her no, so I went. And I ended up being glad I did.
The therapist had been asking me to explain how I felt about something. I’d been talking fine that day, but then the words hadn’t wanted to come.
Frustrated, I shoved off the couch and paced. Movement still didn’t want to come easy. Sometimes it felt like some puppet master was in control of my legs while I had to deal with the rest of me, and make sure everything still moved in tandem. I’d still been falling a lot then. I’d tripped, and couldn’t right myself. I’d fallen down, ended up on the floor for what had felt like the hundredth time.
The doctor hadn’t offered to help. Some people did. Most people, really. But I’d fumbled my way up without a word from her. I’d also tried to fumble with the cuss words that filled my head. I could see them, I just couldn’t say them.
When I’d fallen, I’d knocked a pen and a notepad from her desk so, without even thinking, I’d grabbed it and started to write.
Every damn cuss word I could think of. Then I’d started writing all the words that had been trapped inside my head. The words seemed to tangle on my tongue, but if I wrote? They came out easier and once I wrote them, I was able to speak them...sometimes.
I’d been almost laughing by the time I finished, and when the doctor had come to sit beside me, she’d been smiling.
A week later, she gave me a journal.
“Write down what you remember, Bobby.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not dealing with everything like you want to think you are. You’re just hiding from it.”
It took me a while to get around to accepting the fact that she was right, but in the end, I started to play around with it. I started and stopped probably half a dozen times, and I kept having to hide the thing from Carly. She kept finding it anyway.