He led her in a wide circle. Ethan stopped every few steps to listen. Joanna couldn’t hear or see anything. She said nothing. She felt her heart pounding, her breath catch in her throat. Truth be told, she’d rather have to fight a couple of black bears than Blessed and Grace. She knew they were close; she could feel them. She also knew what they could do to both her and Ethan with a single look. The flash of light they’d seen, it had to mean they weren’t asleep. Did they sense Ethan was close? Did they sense her? Were they waiting? Was the flash of light bait?
Ethan whispered, “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.”
She watched him slither between two scraggly pine trees, then he was swallowed up by the darkness. The night seemed to have turned blacker than the bottom of a witch’s kettle.
She waited until she couldn’t stand it. She took one step, felt his hand on her back, and nearly screamed. He said against her temple, “They’re asleep, Joanna. We’ve got a chance now.”
“But what about the flash of light?”
“One of them probably got up to relieve himself. We’ll wait another ten, fifteen minutes, just to make sure.”
He sank down to lean against an oak tree, Joanna next to him, and they waited. After a minute, she began to hear the night sounds re-turn, a cricket, an owl hooting, small creatures moving in the underbrush.
They waited. Joanna was stiff with cold, but she didn’t say anything. When she believed her teeth would begin chattering, Ethan rose, pulled her up beside him. They both stretched to get their muscles working again.
She followed him, her hand on his back, trying to move as quietly as he did through the underbrush, under the tree branches, trying not to trip on the rocks and the rotted vegetation. She could see only his outline in front of her. She heard a sound beside her foot and stopped suddenly. Ethan stopped too. It was a small animal, a possum or a weasel. Ethan smelled a whiff of smoke, the light taint of a burned-out campfire in the night air.
Close, they were very close. When they reached the edge of a small open space, not more than six feet across, Ethan saw the small fire they’d built was nearly out. There was no movement that he could see. On either side lay a sleeping bag. Everything was quiet, a postcard kind of night.
Another owl hooted. An answering hoot came quickly, then another.
The air was soft against their faces, soft and cold. Joanna shivered. She pressed against Ethan’s back. He whispered, “They must have stolen the sleeping bags, if it’s them. We’ll have to shine a light. I’ll take the sleeping bag closest to the fire, all right? You take the other. Remember, don’t hesitate. If ever our lives will be on the line, it’s now.” He stared down at her for a long moment. He knew she couldn’t see him clearly, but he could see her. He touched his palm to her cheek. She looked scared, and determined. It would be enough. “Let’s do this and get back to Autumn.”
She nodded, her throat suddenly dry as desert sand. She’d never really understood wanting to kill another person, but she understood now. She felt a wild need to kill Blessed, watch the life flow out of his mad eyes. Then at last Autumn would be safe. And Ethan, a man she’d known only for a week or so. That was amazing.
She stared at the unmoving sleeping bag not ten feet away from her. She thought she saw the shape of a head, but she couldn’t make out who it was. It didn’t matter.
They approached silently, their weapons raised, Ethan breaking away from her toward the closer sleeping bag.
Ethan felt something flutter behind him and froze. He knew without looking. He whipped the Remington up and whirled around, his eyes down, and fired.
He heard a little girl’s scream of pain. He jerked his head up and looked at Autumn, standing not six feet from him at the edge of the trees, and she was bleeding, a gaping tear in her small chest, a river of blood flowing from her small body.
Joanna screamed her daughter’s name but swung her gun around and fired down at the sleeping bag, again and again until the clip was empty. There was no sound, no movement.
“Ethan. Mama. Why did you shoot me?”
She was dead. Joanna had seen the huge bloody hole through her chest.
She was hearing her dead child’s voice.
50
“ETHAN, MAMA, that’s not me. I’m over here.”
Ethan watched as the little girl he’d shot fell slowly to the ground onto her back, watched that little girl change—a second, that’s all it took—like a shift in the air had lifted a veil, and Grace became him-self. Ethan shook his head, not wanting to believe what his eyes had witnessed. It was madness, but it was nonetheless true. His life had flown out of control since these two had come into it. Grace lay on the ground, his hands pressing frantically down on his gut, blood and fluid seeping through his fingers, and he was hissing with pain.
Ethan yelled to Joanna, “Where is Blessed?”
“I shot him in his sleeping bag,” Joanna said as she ran toward Autumn. “Finally he’s dead, thank God, he’s dead. I emptied my clip into him.”
“No, you didn’t, Joanna.”
She whirled around, stared him right in the face.
“No!” Autumn screamed, and launched herself at Blessed. He turned to grab her small arm. He looked at Ethan as he jerked up the Remington. “You don’t want to do that, Sheriff.”
Ethan froze.
“Autumn, my little niece, my little sweetheart, it’s all right now— no, it’s not, I can’t lie to you. He shot Grace, that sheriff shot your uncle, Autumn. Look at him, it’s bad.”
Blessed dragged Autumn to where his brother lay curled up on his side, his palms flat against his belly, his blood now gushing through his fingers, whimpering with pain. Gut shot, the sheriff had gut-shot Grace. Blessed knew if he didn’t get him to the hospital fast, Grace would die. His guts would twist up, and they’d turn green and black, and Grace would rot. He would die screaming. Martin was dead, and now Grace. He’d always protected both of them, always paid back, with bloody interest, anyone who bullied them because they were different, because they were special. But the bullies beat his brothers up only once, because Blessed nearly killed them. And now Grace was shot, shot bad, in his belly. Blessed had failed him. He wanted to howl, to shriek, but not pray, never pray, because Mama had told him prayers from him could bring up the devil and then things would re-ally get bad.
He stood there staring down at his brother, his brain squirreling about madly. He knew little Autumn was terrified, he couldn’t blame her for that, but Grace was lying on the cold ground, weeping and screaming. What was he to
Grace’s eyes fastened on his brother, tears running in dirty rivulets down his thin cheeks. “Blessed,” Grace whispered. “Listen to me, Blessed. Kill me, kill me. There’s no choice. Oh, Jesus, I can’t stand it.”
“Oh, no, no, you can’t ask me to do that, Grace. No!”
“Do it, Blessed. I can feel the bullet in me, feel it burrowed deep I know there’s no way to get me out of here. I shouldn’t have tried to fool the sheriff like that. He was afraid it was you, so he shot me before he looked at me, my fault.
“I love you, Blessed. Tell Mama I’ll look down on her. Tell her I’ll prepare a welcome for her and a special place for her. I know I’m dying, Blessed. Do it now, please, just do it now.” Grace drew up his knees, still clutching himself, and turned his face away. His sobs were all they could hear in the silent forest night.
Blessed said to Ethan, “Give him a kill shot.”
Ethan turned to Grace, brought up his Remington, and fired. The bullet struck Grace between his eyes. His body lurched up, then collapsed again. He died with his eyes open, his face riddled with pain, his hands still clutching his belly.
“Stand back, Sheriff.”
