Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 37

“SQUEEZE IT,” I told Phin. “But be soft and gentle.”

He looked up and grinned at me. “You’re turning me on talking like that.”

“Focus on the target, not me. And squeeze the trigger until you feel it break.”

“It’s going to break?”

“That’s what it’s called when the trigger gives. The.377 is going to kick, hard, and sound like you stuck your head in a thundercloud. But don’t hesitate with the second shot. Relax and fire another round as fast as you can.”

Phin was in a sniping position, on his belly, legs splayed out behind him, the big H-S Precision rifle resting on a tree stump. We were in a fallow field, a few miles west of I-94. Phin had taken a dirt road to get here, and there wasn’t another soul as far as the eye could see.

We’d spent twenty minutes attaching our scopes, configuring the crosshairs. Now we needed to zero them out, a task that had to be individually configured for each shooter. I’d already zeroed out my scope to about two hundred yards, and put four rounds into a target the size of a grape.

Phin had no experience with long arms. I set up his target-a Realtor’s For Sale sign we’d liberated from the front of an old farmhouse-thirty yards away, its iron legs stuck in the dirt.

“Aim for the letter O.” I’d shot through the E. “Line it up and squeeze. And do it after you exhale.”

“Who taught you how to shoot?”

“My mother.”

“My mom taught me how to make fried chicken.”

“Focus. Soft and gentle.”

“Soft and gentle.” Phin blew out a breath, pulled the trigger.

The rifle crack was loud enough to scare crows two counties over. The target twitched back, then righted itself.

“Again!” I yelled over the ringing in my ears.

He pulled back the bolt, ejected the brass, and pushed another round into the chamber. Then he fired again, but Phin did what every newbie did when anticipating the sound and recoil: He flinched and jerked the trigger, missing the target completely.

Without prompting he loaded the final round from the internal magazine, aimed, and fired more carefully, getting another hit. I waited for him to eject the round, told him to leave the breach open, and went to check his target.

The two bullets that struck were an inch lower than the E, and slightly to the right. I’d given Phin a penny and instructed him to turn the scope’s vertical and horizontal screws in the proper directions to adjust the crosshairs. He loaded three more rounds, rested the gun on the stump, and fired again.

This time the bullets all hit the E. I marched the sign back another fifty yards, wet dirt clinging to my new shoes, then got clear and yelled at him to try again. Phin put another three into the sign, faster this time. Only one hit the sign. He’d probably turned one of the screws too far.

My phone rang before I had a chance to tell him. I fished it out of my pocket, my mind blanking when I saw who the call was from.

555-5555.

Alex.

The text message came first.

THIS IS ALAN. HE’S YOUR HUSBAND.

Oh God. Oh no. She was lying. She had to be.

Please, be lying.

Then the picture. Alan, tied to a bed. His bare stomach sliced up, the blood dry, but the cuts on it forming unmistakable words:

TILL DEATH DO US PART

My legs stopped supporting me and I fell onto my ass. I kept staring at Alan-poor Alan-and thinking about that last awful argument I’d had with him. It was my fault he’d been grabbed by the monster. My fault he was in this mess. The very thing he’d been preaching at me all these years had come true.

Another text came. I opened it, trembling hands barely able to hold on to the phone.

HE DIES IN TWO HOURS.

Two? That wasn’t right. That had to be a mistake. Alan lived in Iowa. A three-hour drive from here. Alex wasn’t playing fair.

“That’s not fair,” I said, but it didn’t sound like me. “Two hours isn’t enough time. It’s not fair.”

“Jack?” Phin was standing over me, breathing hard, his hand on my head.

“Not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” He took the phone from me.

“I can’t save him in two hours. It’s not enough time.”

Phin looked at the text, pressed a few buttons. I stared beyond him, past the For Sale sign, past the field, to the horizon-that faint line where the brown earth met the gray sky, the great divider between heaven and earth. Except that there was no heaven. No hell either. But there didn’t need to be.

We were already in hell.

I had no spirituality. The little I was born with vacated the first time I saw a dead child, my second week on the Job. But I always had my morality. Always had my altruism. I was destined to be a Girl Scout, forever helping people cross the street, gaining what ever satisfaction I could from the meager act.

But my efforts weren’t meager. They were worthless. Completely fucking worthless.

Life had no meaning. It had no point. I’d chosen a career to do good. To prevent cruelty, and death, and suffering. To right wrongs. To fight for something important.

But nothing I did mattered. I didn’t change anything. And I’d brought upon myself the very things I’d tried to prevent.

There are no heroes. There are only losers.

“We have to go.” Phin grabbed me under my armpit, pulled me to my feet. “Where does he live?”

“We can’t make it.”

“We can try.”

What was Phin’s problem? Didn’t he know it was useless? Alex will just keep on doing this, over and over. And if not Alex, someone else will. You can’t fight darkness. Darkness comes. You can turn on some lights, lie to yourself that it will all be okay. But it never is.

“Goddamn it, Jack. You can have your breakdown when we’re in the car. Move your ass.”

“I’ve been lying to myself,” I whispered.

“No shit. You’ve been lying to yourself for your entire career. But this is a piss-poor moment to stop lying.”

His words settled in, gave me something to latch on to. Because he was right. Being hopeless had never stopped me before.

Maybe I couldn’t prevent tragedy. Maybe I couldn’t make a difference. Horrible things would keep happening, that was a guarantee, and maybe I’d never be able to stop them.

But I still had to try.

“Okay,” I said, forcing my voice to be strong. “Let’s save him.”

I sprinted for the truck, the moist earth sucking at my shoes. Tripped. Slid on my knees, banging into a rock. Scrambled on all fours until I was up and running again.

I beat Phin to the Bronco, wondering where he was, and then he was in the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“Iowa. I’ve got a GPS thing on my phone.”

All four tires kicked up mud, and we headed west.