Rand Paulus aimed his weapon as the other, now familiar shadow closed in alongside him.
“Sorry, son,” Rand said. “Has to be done. Everyone’s best interest.”
In the instant before Rand pulled the trigger, Jamie regained his balance and fired the pistol without aiming. Bullets ricocheted off the beauty salon and the sheriff’s vehicle.
“This ain’t real,” he jabbered. “It’s a freaking dream. Shit. Oh, shit. Not real.”
Undaunted, Iggy’s attackers advanced in no particular hurry.
“Once he’s down,” the woman told Rand, “empty your clip in him. No sense taking chances with it.”
Both open fired at once, and Jamie responded in kind. He felt a pair of stings and stumbled backward, then turned down the alley next to Jack’s. He grabbed his flashlight, dropped in the confrontation, and took off full speed into the darkness. His lungs burned and his tears flowed.
Bullets pinged the ground about him.
He did not slow down, his newfound pain an unbearable yet clear signal he was still alive. As he dashed toward the shadows, he heard muffled pops, originating farther behind. A bullet grazed his left shoulder.
Jamie didn’t know where he was running or why, fully expecting a bullet to rip through his back and end his pain at any second. He cursed Ben and cried out for his help. Jamie saw nothing ahead but empty streets, a lonely park and no one in this stifling little town to save him.
3
J AMIE SENSED THEY were all around, but he rarely saw them – fleeting shadows beneath distant streetlamps, a slow-moving car with the headlights off. The pain in his sides and belly grew sharper, his shirt soaked in sweat and blood. He didn’t know where the bullets hit him, only that as long as he stayed on concrete, he left a trail of red splotches for them to follow.
He made quick work of the business district, which was no more than a few blocks of tiny shops, a barbershop with a pole that no longer lit, and a diner where he used to eat all the chicken and dumplings he wanted for free (a gift to an orphan). He hoped someone might be about, a rogue light in a window offering sanctuary.
Yet only the pale hue of streetlamps gave him direction – as it did his pursuers. He raced through the town park, around which Albion was built. He cut past Horton’s Feed Store, dodged through an alley behind the Bowl-a-rama, sprinted across Coverdale Street, and ran into the woods bordering Alamander River.
He stood at the edge of a dense collection of low scrub, tall pines and fallen branches, none of which he saw well. Sweat fell as tears over his eyes, which he wiped clear. He heard the pressing echo of a runner less than a block away. He convinced himself to press on, even without hope of aid. Perhaps the shots he fired woke the town. Perhaps not. He heard their apathy: Fools with firecrackers. Go back to sleep. Nothing to see here.
“Nobody’s coming,” Jamie whispered. “I’m dead.”
He didn’t stop running until he stumbled into the river, which was no more than a turbulent stream and never reached the bottom of his shorts as he crossed, fighting a testy current that wanted to drag him downstream. The bottom was soft and sandy, and the water seemed a brief, cool refresher that lessened the sting of his wounds. He heard a dog bark in the distance then climbed from the river, ambling over a log, where he sat.
He set the gun on a rock then removed his shirt, fighting to contain a scream of agony, but he saw little in the dark. So many thoughts competed against the relentless pounding of his heart and the sudden, desperate thirst scorching his throat. He tried to control his breathing, something he did with ease when he jogged. He listened for pursuers but heard only the coursing of the river.
He used his flashlight to find the bullet wounds. He discovered a tiny hole about an inch from his side. Jamie felt little pain, more like a tingle, but the slow current of blood was undeniable. Then, right about where his appendix was removed years ago, Jamie found the second hole. He remembered some of Iggy’s last words.
“A thief shot dead. That’s how they’re going to remember me.”
With his last fumes came dizziness. He grabbed hold of the log for support, certain he lost far more blood than he realized. How long before he’d lose consciousness? Should he tear the shirt into strips, tie it together, perhaps wrap it around, put pressure on the wounds?
“No, this is stupid. Gotta find help. Gotta …”
He was cold, his teeth chattering, and Jamie asked one word: Why?
He thought he heard a twig snap.
“I’m so sorry it has come to this,” a soft feminine voice said. “Expected yet still somewhat surprising.”
Jamie froze and ducked. The voice came from several feet behind him, the second time someone stunned him from the darkness. He fought the dizziness and remembered the familiar voice of the woman who finished off Iggy with a silencer-equipped gun. This was not the same woman, her voice somehow softer.
She emerged from the shadows wearing high heels, a smart business ensemble, the skirt cut beneath her knees. She was hefty in the midsection, her face full and eyes soft below distinctive wrinkles. Her jewelry glowed in the thick of night; a necklace of pearls complemented pearl earrings. Her red hair was coiffed, fresh from the salon. She smiled like a reassuring grandmother and bent down beside Jamie. She stretched a
