43
When the echo cleared, the whoosh of blood in my head dampened the shrill screams coming from the vicinity of the sofa. In front of me, Joel finally reacted, jerking his gun toward the doorway, but Candice and her hostage were gone.
The next few minutes were a blur.
Across the room, Brad seemed to fall almost gracefully to the ground. One hand rested over his chest like he’d been shot. Gerard reached him first, bending to look. An oath, then he was gone, bursting through the door. I jumped as more shots rang, this time from outside.
“Joel!” Sam screamed too late as Stick and Skuzz jumped him from behind. Skuzz wrestled the gun away and cracked it across Joel’s skull. My cousin collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
“Keep an eye on these guys. I’m going after Frank,” Skuzz yelled and raced toward the kitchen.
Stick scooped up Brad’s gun and waved Sam back to the sofa.
The rev of an engine. The spin of tires on gravel as a vehicle raced away.
Around me, screams. Shouts. A child’s cry. I walked in a state of stupor through the noise until I stood over Brad. Blood rose between the fingers that gripped his chest. A sucking sound came from the wound. I hunched at his side, leaning close, feeling nothing, as if I’d been put under a trance and watched my own body move around the room.
“Tish.” He said my name.
The spell was broken. My lower lip trembled. “Brad.”
I rocked back and forth next to him, squeezing his hand. Breath rasped out of me, along with moans. My fingers reached toward the wound, then pulled back, helpless. The salty smell of his blood filled the air.
A scream gurgled up in my throat like vomit. “Somebody help! Somebody help him!” My lungs ached from the force of my cry. I looked around but saw nothing but the blurry wash of tears.
From behind me came Stick’s threatening voice. “Back on the couch, Russo. Now.”
I ignored the command.
“Do you want me to kill you?” Stick sounded dead serious.
I bent my forehead against Brad’s shoulder. My answer depended on whether Brad lived or died.
“Leave her alone!” Sam yelled from the couch. “Let us get help, please.”
“Stow it, bimbo.”
Samantha made the growl of a mother tiger. From the corner of my eye, I saw her launch herself toward Stick. I jerked upright to see her black hair billowing behind like a witch’s cape. With an oath of surprise, Stick threw his arms out. Sam landed, and the two of them plowed against the hearth. Stick’s hand angled out and hit the rocks. His weapon wrenched the air with its thundering discharge.
The same moment, something hit my arm, nearly spinning me around with the force. A jolt of lightning seemed to flash through my mind as every pain receptor turned on simultaneously. I grabbed my arm. Wet heat. I held out my fingers and looked at them in horror. Sticky, hot blood. I looked at my shirt. The sleeve had a hole in it. The ragged rim seeped red. Oh, Lord. I’d been shot.
Over by the fireplace, Stick snarled and threw Samantha off of him. He jumped to his feet and hulked over her, pointing the gun at her chest.
She seethed up at him.
In the distance came the blare of sirens—Brad’s backup. Help was on the way.
Stick looked at his captives as if weighing his options. Then he bolted out the deck door and ran toward the lake.
I turned to Brad, leaning over him, ignoring my own pain. My blood mingled with his like oozing lava. “Hang on. Help is coming.”
His eyes were closed. His chest was still. “Brad? Oh, God, please! Brad? Hang on. Hang on.”
Arms pulled me away. I reached toward him. “Brad! Brad!” My voice was hoarse, nothing more than a rattle in my throat.
Sam crouched next to me, one hand holding me back, the other sliding out of her cardigan. She wrapped my wound with the thin cotton, tying the sleeves in a tight binding around my upper arm. Then we clung to each other with grips of desperation, rocking, crying, as police entered the room, weapons sweeping from side to side.
“All clear,” a trooper said into his radio. “We’ve got a man down. Gunshot wound to the chest. Where’s the ambulance? Let’s get some help in here.” The trooper bent near Joel. “A second victim appears to be unconscious. Pulse is strong.”
A moment later, the first response team rushed in and crowded around Brad.
“We’ve got another one down in here. Where’s our backup?” the female rescue worker spoke into her radio.
The radio crackled a reply.
Behind us on the sofa, Missy described the ordeal to an officer, her words murky in the background of my own sobs. The trooper escorted her and the children through the arch, their forms a blur.
A woman’s voice broke through the haze. “Not sure I have a pulse.”
A man’s bulky build obstructed my view as he barked orders. The woman raced out.
Sounds of a zipper. The whoosh of air. Then the tech’s shoulders moved up and down as he started CPR.
“One, two, three . . . ,” he counted under his breath.
The other EMT returned, a red case in her hand.
A zip. The tear of fabric. A ripping sound.
Then a feminine voice as emotionless as a computer. “Attach electrodes.”
The AED thing was talking.
“Analyzing.” A pause. “Prepare to shock.” An electronic whir like a siren winding up.
The male EMT spoke. “Stand clear.”
“Clear,” the woman repeated.
Brad’s legs jerked.
Next to me, Sam gasped and pushed away, scampering toward Joel and tucking her body next to his, as if hiding from the scene in front of her.
The man continued his pumping motions.
The woman spoke into her radio. “Medical control, we’ve got a gunshot wound to the chest. Confirm ALS is en route.”
The radio crackled a garbled reply.
Hot pressure raced to my head. A buzzing sound filled my ears. I let out a moan.
The computer spoke again. “Analyzing.” A pause. “No shock indicated. Check for pulse. If no pulse, continue CPR,” the electronic voice said as callously as an answering machine.
The man pumped and counted.
I couldn’t breathe.
No pulse. That meant . . .
He was dead. Brad was dead.
In silence, the workers did their obligatory repetitions.
I collapsed with my forehead against the floor. The ball of pressure in my brain had eclipsed my thinking mind. All I knew was the tiny pinpricks of light dancing behind my eyelids and the choking sound coming from my throat as time had slowed to a crawl.
I lifted my head at the sound of the kitchen door. Ordinary people in blue jeans and T-shirts came through the arch, carrying a stretcher. “Let’s load.”
Through my tears, vague shapes bent and hovered.
“On three,” the man said. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”
Shuffling. Rustling. Then the forms rose in unison. Brad’s body was gone, hidden in the circle of rescue workers.
I followed into the yard, mute. Workers clung like vultures to the stretcher as it was loaded onto a waiting ambulance. The doors slammed closed and the rig pulled away, disappearing through the trees.
