The gun turned inward, seeking, groping, hunting for its target. Dad's arm trembled with muscle fighting muscle, nerve wrestling with nerve. He brought up his other hand to grab the gun and force it away, but the muzzle still turned toward him.
"And now you've harmed a woman, lifted your hand against your wife and daughter and an old blind stranger. You remember the last of the curse, mister man? The words you wrote on your forehead like Cain's own mark for all the world to see? May your own hand turn against you and be your death!"
His hand turned the gun. Veins stood out on his forehead, streaked with sweat under the cold fluorescents on the ceiling. Strangled noises forced their way past gritted teeth. Jo could stop him with a word. She knew it. She saw her mother's blood dark on the white linen, felt again the shock of the bullet tearing into the wall instead of her own heart.
I will not say it. Her nails bit into her palms where she clenched her fists. No. Die and burn, you bastard.
Her eyes wouldn't close. That was part of the magic. She had to watch it through, or it wouldn't work. The gun's muzzle touched his head, pressed into his temple, then skidded sideways on sweat-drenched hair. She saw the hammer inch back on the Smith, shudder for an instant's pause, and then blur forward.
The shot seemed muffled, as if sound had changed into the explosion of blood. His hand flew back and chunks of something spattered the wall where the pistol bounced free. He stood for a moment and then fell sideways, rigid, like a tree.
Jo stared at the empty space where he had been. She couldn't move. She couldn't blink. Her back pressed against the plaster wall, cold and hard, gritty with shards blown out of the hole by her left shoulder. She slid down the wall, bit by bit, until she sat huddled in the corner and her eyes sank below the level of the bed. That broke the spell's hold, and she could blink the searing memories out of her eyes. Red seeped over the edge of the mattress, spreading, dripping. Plastic sheet under the linen, she thought, liquids can't soak in. Need it in a nursing home.
Something dark covered her eyes, a searching hand gentle across her face. Warmth and softness enveloped her, rocking her head in comfort. "It's over, child. It's over. Your momma's free. The Lord knows why it happened, and He understands."
Tension and shock leaked out of her as tears. She heard noises in the distance, the crash of the door flung open and then screams and then the more precise shouts of professionals who saw crisis and death on a weekly basis and knew what to do about them. Someone tucked Jo's head down between her knees and wrapped a blanket around her. Someone lifted her into a chair and then it moved, rolling, turning, rolling, bumping and scraping along a wall as it skirted something on the floor. Warm comfort held her hand, rested on her arm, spoke quiet words of care and safety and love. The warmth smelled of mothballs and wool and old woman, not starch and medicine.
"But you weren't there," Jo whispered. "You can't have heard the curse."
"Planting Woman told me, child. She heard you call the powers of the earth and sky. That was her voice that spoke, not mine."
"He shot you," she whispered.
Breath touched her cheek, warm, slightly spicy of chewed spruce gum. "Lordy, no, child. Your magic wouldn't let him. You think I was being brave?"
It was quiet and warm and safe and dark, like talking to Mother Mary under the protection of her blankets. "I let him shoot Momma."
Arms enfolded her again, soft arms with hard old muscles underneath a padding of old fat. "Your momma let him shoot your momma, child. She wanted to die. I could feel it, come midnights. I felt her spirit beating at the walls like a trapped bird. Now she's free."
Free at last.
Sirens whined and homed in on the nursing home. Feet squeaked by at a run and then returned at a walking pace when they found . . . what they found. Hands touched her, medical hands smelling of medical care. She didn't need them and shook them off. More feet arrived, black shoes instead of white, attached to blue legs. She followed the legs up to uniforms and badges.
"I killed him."
Dark bulk pushed between her and the uniforms. "You leave her be. Child just saw her daddy kill her mommy. You got questions, you ask Mary. I was there."
"I killed him."
"Hush, child. How could she kill him, from the far side of the bed? Look for the bullet holes, po-lice man. Child has plaster dust all over her, from the bullet hole by the bathroom door. Mary can't see good, but I sure can hear. I can feel the dust. Mary heard where she was, where he was. He shot his wife, tried to shoot both of us, shot himself. Four shots. Man gone crazy, grief."
Jo stood, shaky, leaning on one arm of the wheelchair and then inching around it to take the pusher grips and force herself upright, letting the blanket's protection fall to the floor. "She's blind. I could have stopped him from shooting Mom. I let him do it, and then I took the gun and killed him. He deserved to die."
The old Indian kept her bulk between Jo and the uniforms. "The child's off her head. Look at the room, look at the bullet holes, check the fingerprints on the gun, figure out the spaces and the angles. Old Mary knows what you cops do. Ask little Bobby Getchell. Ask him about his old Aunt Mary. He'll tell you Mary's not as crazy as she looks."
"Sergeant Getchell?
