trigger, though the gun is still aimed in my direction. “Tell me something,” he says. “How did you know Hurley wasn’t behind these killings?”
“I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t murder someone in cold blood.”
“I see,” he says with a smirk. “And judging from what I’ve seen and heard, you’d like to know him a lot better. Not exactly an objective judgment but fortunately what you think won’t make any difference. By the time they find your body, there will be enough evidence to clearly implicate Hurley in three murders, one attempted murder, and the arson.”
It doesn’t take me long to do the calculations and figure out that the third murder will be mine. “What possible motive would Hurley have for killing me?”
Colbert looks irritated by the question and he waves the gun toward the bedroom door. “Enough with your twenty questions,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Reluctantly I get up from the bed and walk toward the living room. “What about my clothes?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question. But it’s the only way I can think of to try to get my hands on the gun again.
Colbert confirms my stupidity by jabbing me in the back with his gun and saying, “You won’t be needing them, so quit stalling and head out to the car.”
I continue toward the door, feeling like a red-shirted Star Trek character that just got beamed down to the planet. My mind is scrambling for a way out, for any solution that might save my life. But I’m doomed. As far as anyone knows, I’m at the motel being guarded by one of Sorenson’s finest.
I open the door, step outside, and head for the passenger side of Colbert’s squad car utterly terrified and fighting back tears. Off to my side I hear a twig snap and at first I think it’s Colbert who made the noise. Then I realize he’s directly behind me. In the next second I hear Bob Richmond’s voice holler out.
“Stop right there, Colbert.”
I turn and look in the direction Richmond’s voice came from, and out of the corner of my eye I see Colbert do the same. He instinctively points the gun that way and the second I realize its muzzle is no longer pointed at me, I know my time is now or never. I fling my entire body back and to the side, colliding with Colbert as hard as I can. The two of us go down like fallen trees and I hear all the air leave Colbert’s lungs in a giant
Then I hear the best thing of all: Hurley’s voice.
“Colbert, drop your weapon!”
I can tell Colbert is momentarily stunned, but he still has his gun in his hand. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, I roll off him and scramble the ten feet or so to the still open door of my cottage. As soon as I cross the threshold I dash across the living room and into my bedroom, running low and hunched over to make a less obvious target. I half expect to feel the sting of a bullet in my back any second but I manage to make it to the bed without incident. I throw myself on top of it, grab the gun from beneath the pillow, and then roll off the other side, ducking down to use the bed as a barrier.
I hear shots outside: first one, then another, then a third. Instinct tells me to stay where I am, holding my gun at the ready in case Colbert comes back inside. I hear more shots exchanged outside and since this tells me Colbert is likely distracted, I scramble out of my hiding place over to the bedroom door and carefully peek around the corner. The front door is still wide open but I can’t see much because the couch is blocking my view. As quick as I can, I leave the bedroom and crawl over to the couch. Staying close to the floor, I make my way to the end of the couch closest to the door, and peer around it.
Colbert is squatting down—tensed and ready to spring—on the passenger side of his squad car, using it as a barrier between him and the other men. Movement catches my eye out the window off to the right of the door, and when I look I see Richmond making a dash toward the squad car. In the next second Colbert pops up, sees Richmond coming toward him, and fires off a shot.
Richmond drops like a ton of bricks.
I duck back behind the couch and sit there a minute, panicked and trying to figure out what to do next. With Richmond down I know time is of the essence, and in my gut I know I have to do something.
I look down at the gun in my hands and squeeze my eyes closed for a second to brace myself and muster up some courage. Then I open my eyes, stand up, aim the gun at Colbert, and pull the trigger. A nanosecond later, the driver side headlight explodes.
I duck back down behind the couch, expecting to hear another exchange of gunfire, but there isn’t any. Is Hurley shot too? If not, is he armed? Not being able to see what’s going on terrifies me because I realize Colbert could pop up on me any second. Like a turtle on speed, I thrust my head around the corner to look and then pull back. What I see reassures me a little. Colbert has moved down the side of the car toward its rear, farther from the house. His attention is focused on the woods and as I see him peer around the back end of the car, I raise myself up and look out the window, searching for Hurley. I don’t see him, but I do see Richmond lying on the ground, groaning. At least he’s not dead. Yet.
When I look back toward Colbert, I see him start to rise in preparation for another shot over the roof of the car. Seconds later he fires and ducks back down. Once again I wait for Hurley to return fire, but nothing happens.
Emboldened by this lack of response, Colbert stands and steps around to the back of the car, his gun held in front of him. I run hunched over to the door, ducking down by the front grille of the car. When I look toward the woods I finally spy Hurley standing behind a tree, his side to the bark, facing me. He sees me and gives a little nod. I breathe a sigh of relief that he appears to be okay, but then he shows me his hands, which are empty.
Colbert fires a shot at the tree and the bullet bites into the bark, sending pieces of it flying. Hurley flinches and hugs himself in tighter to the tree. Richmond moans and tries to pick himself up from the ground. I see his gun lying in the dirt several feet in front of him. And then I watch in horror as Colbert raises his gun and takes aim at Richmond’s massive form struggling helplessly on the ground.
Desperate, I rise up, take my stance again, and try to line the sights on my gun up with Colbert’s chest. My hands and body are shaking like I’m in the spin cycle of a washer but I pull the trigger anyway, knowing it’s now or never.
I see sparks fly up about ten feet to the front and left of Colbert and realize the bullet has struck a large decorative boulder in Izzy’s yard. I line Colbert up in my sights again and prepare to pull the trigger a second time, figuring if nothing else I might be able to rattle him enough to distract him, but then the most amazing thing happens; Colbert slumps to the ground.
At first I think he’s merely trying to avoid my shots, but he’s lying very still, not moving at all. Not trusting him, I keep my gun pointed at him and step around the front of the car.
Hurley peers around the tree, takes in the scene, and steps away from his protection, too. Slowly the two of us approach Colbert, who remains utterly still. Then I see the blooming red stain on the left side of Colbert’s shirt and realize that when my bullet ricocheted off the boulder, it hit him.
Hurley closes the final gap with a few long strides and kicks Colbert’s gun off to the side. Then he looks over at me. “Take your finger off the trigger and lower the gun, Mattie,” he says in a calm reassuring voice.
I do as he says and he walks over and takes the gun from my hand. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod, staring down at Colbert. “Is he dead?”
Hurley kneels down and places his fingers along Colbert’s neck, feeling for the carotid. After a few seconds he looks up at me and says, “He’s got a pulse.” As if to confirm this fact, Colbert moans. “Good thing he’s a reckless, stupid rookie and wasn’t wearing his vest.”
Off in the distance I hear sirens approaching, and though I should feel relieved that the craziness is over and help is on the way, all I can think about is the fact that I just shot a man.
I shake it off and shift my attention to Richmond, who is lying on his back looking up at us, blood seeping from his belly. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing a vest either and I suspect it’s because he couldn’t find one that would fit. Kneeling beside him, I start to undo his jacket so I can look at his wound.
“Will this get me out of going to the gym for a while?” he asks with a grim smile.
I smile back at him. “A little while,” I say, ripping his shirt apart. The bullet hole is in his right lower abdomen and though there is a fair amount of bleeding, it appears to be slowing. “But I’m not going to let you off the hook forever,” I add.
Cop cars come screaming up the drive, parking willy-nilly wherever they can. Junior Feller is the first out of his car and after quickly taking in the scene, he radios for a couple of ambulances. I take off my jacket and push it
