slow and I wasn’t going to wait around for them. I ran along the back of the building, away from the gate. I needed a vehicle to get away, and a remote to open the fence. I could cut my way through the fence or the wall, but fleeing on foot would be suicide.
I ran around the building and spotted the sport van, still parked in the same spot. The gate was closed. They’d open it for the ambulance and fire truck, but I didn’t want to wait. I sprinted for the van, cut a hole in the driver’s window, and unlocked it.
Someone shouted, “There he is!”
Cynthia’s Escalade backed toward me. “Get in!” she yelled, and the passenger door swung open.
I looked back at the minivan. The remote sat on the dashboard. I grabbed it and jumped into the open Escalade.
Cynthia gunned the engine. The door swung closed on my ankle. I cursed at the sharp pain and pointed the remote through the windshield. There was only one button. I pressed it.
A gunshot shattered the back window. Cynthia screamed and ducked her head. Out of habit, she slammed on the brakes, but before I could say anything she hit the accelerator. The gate slowly rolled open. The parking lot was long, and whoever was shooting was going to have plenty of time to get a bead on us.
I slid closer to Cynthia and draped my arm over her. With my forearm hanging beside her head and neck, my tattoos would provide her some protection, but not a lot.
A bullet punched through the front of the driver’s side window and snapped a hole in the windshield. Cynthia cried out just a little. The gate slid farther open. I thought it would be wide enough for us to clear, but I wasn’t certain. I saw a woman running toward the opening. Her course put her in line with our bumper. Cynthia eased off the gas pedal, as though she was afraid to hit her. Something struck the back of my chair, passing inches from my ribs.
I slammed my palm on the horn. The blare made the woman look at us with a startled, furious expression, then jump aside.
More glass shattered, and I heard bullets punching holes in the SUV. Cynthia ducked low, barely peeking over the dashboard. She spit out a stream of curses. I would have cursed, too, if I could have unclenched my teeth. Instead I held on to the dashboard, hating guns, hating Phyllis Henstrick, hating Annalise and everyone who had led me into this mess, including myself.
Just as I thought the barrage had gone on too long, and that our luck couldn’t hold anymore, we were through the gate. Cynthia wrenched the wheel to the side and we skidded along the road. The bullets stopped.
An ambulance with flashing lights and blaring sirens raced at us. Cynthia swerved and slammed on the brakes, and the ambulance roared by. I turned around. Through the shattered back window, I could see a few people running through the open gate.
“Oh my God,” Cynthia said, her voice shaky. “Oh my God.”
I still had the remote in my hand. If I pressed it, the ambulance might have trouble getting the injured people out, but Henstrick’s amateur gunmen might be delayed long enough for me to get away. I didn’t press the button.
“Keep it together,” I said. My voice sounded loud in my ears. “Keep going. People are coming through the gates.”
She turned the car and gunned the engine. We roared up the asphalt road, passing the supermarket. Cynthia bared her teeth. She had tears on her cheeks.
There was a red light up ahead. She wasn’t slowing down. “Light! Light!” I shouted. I leaned over and stomped on the brake pedal. The Escalade skidded to a halt.
A woman in a Volvo station wagon loaded with groceries was waiting to pull out of the supermarket lot. She gaped up at the bullet-ridden SUV.
The light changed, and Cynthia eased into the intersection, carefully turning the wheel with shaking hands. She checked her speedometer several times. She drove like it was her first time behind the wheel. The car rattled and clanked.
“What should I do?” she asked me.
“Drive to your house.”
She did. We got out of the car and walked around it. There were two holes in the windshield. I hadn’t noticed the second, even though it must have happened right in front of me.
Three of the bullet holes were clustered low on the driver’s door. Those must have passed under our seats. Four more were sprayed across the back panel, two very close to the back left tire. Someone had tried to shoot it out. There were two more bullet holes in the front fender. Judging by the way her engine had sounded on the way home, I suspected her engine block had gone the way of the dodo.
“You’re bleeding!” Cynthia said. She touched my shoulder blade. I felt a tiny sting. I had no idea how I’d gotten hurt. “Come inside.”
She led me toward her front door. I looked up at the round tower room at the top of the house. Cabot had said that Charles spent all his time at the tower now. I wondered if he was up there, and what I would do if I found him.
Cynthia led me up the stairs to a large bathroom in the back. While I sat on the edge of the tub, she took a box of Band-Aids and a squeeze tube of disinfectant from the medicine cabinet. She took off my jacket, felt the weight in one of the pockets, and reached inside.
“You had a gun the whole time? Why didn’t you shoot back?”
“Someone might have gotten killed.”
We started laughing. It was a release for her, I knew, but my own laughter only increased the pressure building inside of me. I thought about Bobby’s tooth, and the chubby guy lying dead on the floor. I thought about the way Tiffany’s face seemed to
