fallen far, but I didn’t see it anywhere. I dropped to my hands and knees and spotted it under Luke’s truck. I scrambled between the back wheels. The truck was tricked out to have a high clearance, but I still had to scrape my belly through oil and antifreeze to reach the opener. I crawled to it, trying to be as quiet as I could. Arlene was dead already, I knew. Wooden man or not, I didn’t want to be next.
I closed my hand on it, feeling the slipperiness of the antifreeze and oil on the wooden handle. At the same moment, Shireen stuck her head under the carriage of the truck and snarled at me.
I felt something grab at my jacket and begin to pull me out from under the car. Shireen had caught the gun in my pocket, which I had forgotten about again.
I slashed and felt the opener strike bone. Shireen yelped and let go of me. I slid away from her, not that it would do me much good. She could be on the far side of the truck before I could. She could even grab hold of my feet and drag me into the daylight. Then the best I could do would be to kill her just as she was killing me.
But she didn’t do that. She came right back at me the same way, and this time she led with her face. Her mouth was open, and I could see blood smeared into her fur.
She was moving slowly. I held the letter opener tightly but didn’t attack. She was presenting such an easy target, I figured there had to be some sort of trick.
But she didn’t lash out at me. She kept creeping forward, getting closer and closer. It was almost as if she was daring me to strike-or she wanted me to. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I stabbed her, plunging the silver blade deep into her eye.
She shuddered. I pushed the blade in as far as it would go. She collapsed and fell still.
I slid away from her. I wanted that letter opener, but I didn’t want to take it out of her just yet. She became indistinct and Shireen’s human face returned.
I rolled out from under the truck as slapping footsteps grew louder. Three townspeople had rushed over to us and stood around the bodies of the two women, gaping. I ran around the back of the truck and shouldered a man out of the way. It took me a moment to realize that he was the cook from the diner.
“Everyone get out of here,” I said. I tried to sound commanding, but fear and adrenaline make my voice squeak.
“She changed,” the cook said. Shireen still lay half under the truck, her torn clothes partly covering her wrinkled flesh. She looked very human and frail. I tried not to think about that. “Did I really see that? Did I really see her change?”
“Nope,” I said. The two young women standing beside the cook stared aghast at the ruined bodies at their feet. “Now get away.”
I pulled Shireen out from under the car. Her head bobbled as it dragged across the ground. The handle of the letter opener scraped the asphalt. I felt a powerful urge to retch.
“You shouldn’t do that,” the cook said. I took the letter opener from the body and forced myself to stare into the bloody ruin that used to be her eye. It didn’t seem to be healing the way her broken limbs had. She was dead.
I moved away and knelt beside Arlene. She lay still and cooling on the asphalt, but the ragged tears in her throat and arm were slowly joining together. She was dead but healing.
It seemed unfair that she had wanted to go out fighting but now wouldn’t be able to. In just a minute more, she would be awake, and talking about how she wanted to die rather than become a second Shireen.
I slid the blade of the letter opener between her ribs. Her wounds stopped knitting closed, but she didn’t groan or sigh.
Behind me, I heard a door open. I turned to see Wiley Dubois step out of the police station, a shotgun in his hand.
No time for squeamishness. I ripped the letter opener out of Arlene, then threw my shoulder into the nearest of the two women. They both stumbled away from me. I ducked toward the back of the truck. “RUN!” I shouted.
The shotgun boomed as I hit the ground. The cook called out to Jesus, then beat a quick retreat. The two young women were already way ahead of him.
I scrambled to my feet and raced toward the other side of the truck. I heard the terrible clicks of the shotgun being pumped and dove behind the truck bed. Then came another boom, and I felt fire scrape along the back of my left calf.
I hit the ground and rolled. For a moment I was sure that the bottom half of my leg was gone, but that was just my imagination running wild. I had caught a couple of pieces of buckshot in my calf muscle.
I immediately peeked over the back of the truck and saw Wiley huffing down the front steps, heading for the narrow space between Luke’s wrecked truck and the damaged station wall. He pumped the shotgun again.
I held the ghost knife in one hand and the letter opener in the other. The gun in my pocket was useless. Damn. I didn’t have many choices left. I could run away and be shot in my unprotected back. I could backpedal and get shot in the legs or the face. I certainly couldn’t hide.
All I could do was charge him. Charge at a man with a shotgun, and hope I could get close enough to stab him before he killed or crippled me.
I took a deep breath. This is what a wooden man does. He plays decoy and he dies.
I stood. Wiley lifted the shotgun to his shoulder.
From inside the station came the sound of gunshots and a scream. Wiley turned toward the sound, and so did I. It was a man’s voice, high-pitched with panic. The scream was cut off with a strangled sound, and Emmett shouted Luke’s name. The gunshots continued, a dozen over the course of a few seconds.
The window shattered, and something the size of a soccer ball flew through it. It smashed into the windshield of Luke’s car. Wiley gaped at it for a second, then hustled up the stairs toward the front door. He had bigger problems than me.
