He landed on the blankets, dropped to an inadvertent crouch and fell sideways. But he sprang at once to his feet and hollered, “Come on! I’ve got you!”
I mimicked his movements, refusing to look down; gripping the sill I beat aside a deep, primal fear of heights and let my body slide downward until I hung like a pair of jeans on a clothesline.
“I’ve got you!” Malcolm repeated and I trusted him enough to let myself fall.
Patricia was next, Monty enfolded in her arms. Cole helped them out the window and fear clamped my chest in a stranglehold.
“Oh God,” I moaned, staring up at them. “The baby…”
“We’ll catch them,” Malcolm said. And to Patricia, “Come on!”
Patricia dropped like a stone but we were there to cushion her fall. The rain whitewashed the sound of my wrist bones breaking; so hopped up on adrenaline at that point, and relief that she and the baby were unharmed, the pain took its time surfacing.
Before he jumped, Cole bellowed, “Look out!” and tossed down the rifles. By the time he hit the ground his clothes were on fire – he landed hard and immediately sprawled flat, rolling on the wet ground to beat out the flames. Not a second to spare; the window above shone orange with deadly light, coils of acrid smoke rolling forth into the storming night. And no respite in sight; Malcolm and Cole were quick to gather up their weapons and hustle us to the safety of the adjacent barn, where they checked on Aces High and Cole’s horse, Charger.
“You think we got him?” Cole demanded, the four of us, plus Monty, clustered together near the wide double doors, out of the rain but in view of the burning boardinghouse. “We must have dumped a dozen rounds each.”
“I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted, slightly out of breath. “I pray at least one or two pierced his filthy hide.” His observant gaze darted across the street. “We best wake the Lunds, yonder. They ain’t gonna be any too happy about all this.” He looked down at me, tucked close to his side, and his sweet smile lifted his lips. I would, forever after, remember him exactly that way – suspended in that moment, both of us wet, wounded, dirty and disheveled, but safe in each other’s arms; his beautiful dark eyes full of tenderness and love.
Had I sensed the finality rushing toward us?
I must have, at some deep level, because I had the foresight to say, “I love you, Malcolm,” before I disappeared.
We could not flee the vibrations and were forced to crouch, huddling together to remain upright. Our jaws clacked, our bones jounced. Talking became impossible. I tipped my chin to my chest, gripping Derrick’s forearm in one hand, cupping my belly with the other. I held a picture of Marshall in my mind, imagined him whole and hale and safe, looking my way with his wide, knowing grin. I envisioned him holding our son in his strong arms, nuzzling the baby’s cheeks and kissing his downy hair. I added my family, and Marshall’s, to the picture; let’s say it was December, snowy and bright, and we were all gathered at Clark’s to celebrate. Marshall would present me with the little Conestoga wagon carved by his ancestor, the most honorary ornament on the Rawley family Christmas tree.
It’s your turn this year, angel.
A hand latched around my bare ankle and I shrieked, recoiling so violently the momentum knocked Derrick and me sideways.
Flat on his belly, Fallon sprawled no more than arms’ length away from us.
Derrick lurched to his feet, stumbling to put me behind him. We had neglected to haul along Derrick’s boots in our concern over the sudden insubstantiality of our surroundings and so we faced Fallon unarmed.
“He’s been shot!” Derrick shouted.
I saw it for myself in the next second; wherever Fallon had materialized after vanishing from our strangling grip had not been a welcoming environment. His clothing was dark with blood. His lips parted, exposing teeth rimmed in red. His pale eyes held mine, flat and unremorseful to the end; he braced with one hand against the vibrating floor while the other clutched a large hole in his side.
“Who shot you?!” I cried, suddenly fearful of the damage Fallon may have inflicted before this incapacitation. “Where did you come from?!”
Derrick knelt, with difficulty, and demanded, “How do we get out of here, Fallon? Tell us!”
“You don’t.” Fallon’s lips twitched in a smile; he was almost inaudible. “You don’t. There’s no way out.”
“Tell us!” I screamed. A rippling swell, like surf crashing upon dry land, knocked me to all fours. “You fucking son of a bitch, tell us!”
“This place is self-destructing!” Derrick hollered, unable to find his footing.
Fallon rolled sideways, head lolling.
“It’s because he’s dying!” I yelled. Something else occurred to me – what if Fallon vanished yet again? Though it seemed impossible, what if he escaped somewhere and was subsequently patched up?
We couldn’t chance it.
Derrick realized the same thing and crawled forward, reaching to grasp Fallon’s head in both hands. And with a deft movement, before he could reconsider, he snapped Fallon’s neck.
Chapter Thirty-Four
MY EYES WERE CLOSED BUT I HEARD MY SISTERS CRYING. Both of them nearby, sobbing and talking fast.
No…
Oh, please no…
I was freezing and ached from head to toes, as if I’d spent a long day waterskiing or jogging, pushing the boundaries of my physical limits.
But you haven’t done anything like that lately…
You’re pregnant.
I sat up fast, my vision immediately mottled by dense purple spots.
What in the hell…
Camille scrambled to my side from the left, throwing her arms around me and almost taking both of us to the pavement. Because, I realized, sense returning in halting increments, we were sitting on cold, wet pavement between two rows of
