with the action to push a round into the firing chamber-all of which she should have had the sense to do before she’d entered the house. The top snatched back, cocking the weapon. She had a terrible thought that neither she nor Sally had even bothered to check if the gun was properly loaded.
In that second, she did not know whether to flee or continue.
O’Connell’s father, his hands starting to rise in a gesture of surrender, suddenly let loose an immense bellow and threw himself across the room toward Hope.
As she raised the gun into a firing position for the second time, he closed the distance between them. As she pulled the trigger, he slammed into her.
She could feel the gun buck in her hand, heard a snapping sound and a thud, and then she spun backward, slamming into the kitchen table, upending it with a crash, sending empty liquor bottles flying across the room, shattering against walls and cabinets. Hope was knocked to the floor, the breath almost smashed out of her. O’Connell’s father, growling visceral, terrifying noises, fell on top of her. He was clawing at her face mask, trying to get his fingers around her throat, punching her wildly.
If her first shot had hit him, she could not tell. She tried desperately to lift the weapon, to fire again, but O’Connell’s hand suddenly clasped down viselike on her own, and he tried to force the weapon up into the air.
Hope kicked out, jabbing her knee into his groin, and she felt him gasp in pain, but not so much that his assault diminished. He was stronger than her, she could sense this immediately, and he was trying to bend the weapon back, so that its barrel would rest against her chest, not his. At the same time, he continued to pound her with his free hand, flailing away. Most of the blows missed, but enough landed so that sheets of red pain appeared behind her eyes.
Again she kicked, and this time the force of her leg slammed both of them back, sending more debris flying around the room. A wastebasket tumbled, spreading pungent used coffee grounds and empty egg shells across the floor. She could hear more glass breaking.
O’Connell’s father was a veteran of bar fights and knew that most battles are won in the first few blows. He was wounded and could feel pain shooting through his body, but he was able to ignore it, fighting hard. Far more than Hope, he sensed deep within him that this fight against the hooded, anonymous foe was the most important of his life. If he did not win, he would die. He pushed on the weapon, trying to force it down against his assailant’s body. It was not lost on him that he’d done almost exactly the same thing once many years earlier, when he’d battled with his drunken wife.
Hope was well beyond panic. Never in her life had she felt the sort of muscle that was pushing at her. Adrenaline screamed in her ears, and she grasped at air, trying to find the strength to win. With an immense thrust, she slammed O’Connell’s father sideways, and the two of them half-rolled against a counter. Dishes and silverware cascaded around them. The movement seemed to achieve something; O’Connell’s father bellowed with pain, and Hope caught a glimpse of red blood streaking against the white paint of the cabinet. Her first shot had caught him in the muscle and bone of his shoulder, and despite shredded tissues and cracked bone, he was fighting through the pain.
He grasped at the weapon with both hands, and Hope suddenly slammed him with her free arm, smashing his head against the cabinet. She could see his teeth bared, his face a mask of anger and terror. She raised her knee again, and again it found his groin. She pushed back and smashed at his jaw with her free hand. He was reeling, staggered by the blow, but still she remained pinned beneath him.
She pounded away with her left arm, keeping a fierce grip on the gun, demanding with every muscle she had to make certain that it did not turn and point at her.
And in that second, she suddenly felt the pressure on her gun hand diminish. She imagined that perhaps she was winning, and then, she gasped as an immense shock of pain creased through her entire body. Her eyes rolled back, and she nearly passed out. The blackness that threatened to overtake her spun her about dizzily.
O’Connell’s father had grasped a kitchen knife out of the debris that had tumbled about them. Holding her hand with the gun away with one arm, he had plunged the knife into Hope’s side, searching for her heart. He bent all his weight to this task.
Hope could feel the tip of the blade slicing into her. Her only thought was This is it. Live or die.
She reached across with her left hand and grabbed at the gun, jerking it toward O’Connell’s father’s face as it contorted with its own combination of pain and rage. She jabbed it up under his chin, just as the knife blade seemed to carve into her soul, and yanked on the trigger.
Scott wanted to glance down at the luminescent face of his watch, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the carport and the side door to the O’Connell house. Under his breath, he was counting the seconds since he’d seen Hope’s dark figure disappear inside.
It was taking far too long.
He took a step away from his hiding place, then shrank back, uncertain what to do. He could feel his heart pounding away. A part of him was screaming that everything had gone wrong, everything was messed up, that he needed to get away, right at that moment, right then, before he was sucked any further into some disastrous whirlpool of events. Fear, like a riptide, threatened to drown him.
His throat was dry. His lips were parched. The night seemed to be choking him, and he grabbed at his sweatshirt collar.
He told himself to leave right then, to get away, that whatever had happened, he needed to flee.
But he did not. Instead, he remained frozen. His eyes penetrated the dark. His ears were sharpened to sound. He glanced right, then left, and saw no one.
There are moments in life when one knows one must do something, but each option seems more dangerous than the next, and every choice seems to herald despair. Whatever was happening, Scott knew that somehow, in some oblique way, Ashley’s life might depend upon what he did in the next few seconds.
Maybe all their lives.
And, while desperate to give in to the panic growing within him, Scott took a deep breath and, trying hard to clear his head of all thoughts, considerations, possibilities, and chances, started to run fast toward the house.
Hope wanted to scream, opened her mouth in terror, but did not. No high-pitched fear emerged, just a raspy, weakened noise of harsh breath.
Her second shot had caught O’Connell’s father directly beneath the chin, crashing upward through his mouth, shattering teeth and shredding tongue and gums, and finally lodging deep in his brain, killing him almost instantly. The momentum of the shot had pitched him back, almost lifting him off her, then he had crashed down on top of her, so that she was almost pinned beneath his body, suffocating under the weight of his chest.
His hand still gripped the knife blade, but the force driving it into her body had evaporated. She almost blacked out with a sudden surge of pain. It sent streaks of fire through her side, into her lungs and heart, and sheets of black agony to her head. She was abruptly exhausted, and a part of her urged her to close her eyes, to go to sleep, right there, at that moment. But a force of will kicked in, and she gathered herself to push the dead man’s body off her. She tried once, but she didn’t have the strength. She pushed a second time, and he seemed to tumble a few inches. She pushed a third time. It was like trying to move a boulder, embedded in the earth.
She heard the door open, but could not see who it was.
Again she fought off unconsciousness, gasping for air.
“Jesus Christ!”
The voice seemed familiar. She groaned.
Suddenly, magically, the weight of O’Connell’s father holding her down, as if she were underneath an ocean wave, disappeared, and she surfaced. The shape that had once been O’Connell’s father slumped to the linoleum floor next to her.
“Hope! Jesus!” she could hear her name being whispered, and she gathered herself to turn toward the sound.
