Gone 'Til November

THIRTY

The shots sounded almost as one. Sara saw Billy spin away, the Colt fly from his hand. He twisted, fell hard, and then she was running down the stairs, and when she reached the bottom, Morgan was pointing his gun at her.

“Just stay right there,” he said. “No need to come any closer.”

She didn’t move. After a moment, he lowered the gun, crouched, turned the bag right side up, gathered the bricks of money from the floor, put them back in, watching her. When he had them all, he tugged at the zipper, got it halfway closed. Then he lifted the bag by a carry strap, looked at her, slung it over his left shoulder. He shook his head.

“Foolish,” he said. Then he turned his back on her and walked away.

• • •

Morgan went back the way he’d come. Up the steps to the loading dock, through the ruined door. The bag was heavier than he expected, the strap cutting into his shoulder. It felt good.

He scrambled down from the loading dock. The man in the dirt hadn’t moved. Morgan headed for the trees.

Billy was still breathing. She ripped his shirt open, the flannel already soaked through with blood. Four entry wounds, three in the chest, one in the stomach.

He coughed once, looked up at her. Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Don’t die on me. Not like this.

“Your cell, Billy. Where is it?”

His eyes seemed to drift in and out of focus. He raised his right hand toward her.

“Where’s your phone?”

She patted his jeans, felt the bulk in his right pocket. She reached in, got the phone out. A handcuff key tumbled after it.

She opened the phone, fingers slick with blood, turned it on. She waited for it to glow into life, then punched in 911. As the call went through, he touched her face gently. She could feel the warmth of his blood.

Halfway through the woods, he ejected the clip from the Beretta, replaced it with a full one. The moon was high and bright, made it easier to find his way.

He began to feel flush, hot. He stopped for a moment, let the dizziness pass, felt the first glow of pain in his right side. He caught a tree limb, held on to it for balance. The strap slid from shoulder to elbow.

He stayed that way for a moment, breathing in, filling his lungs. Then he let go of the branch, pushed the strap back up his shoulder, kept going.

She worked the key in the lock and the cuff came loose, the shiny metal smeared with her blood. She tossed the cuffs away, saw the cuts left on her wrist.

Billy’s eyes were open, his chest rising and falling slowly. She’d taken the lamp from the crate, set it beside him.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “An ambulance is coming. It’s on its way. You’re going to be all right.”

He half-smiled at her and then coughed, pearls of blood on his lips. She put a palm on his face, and he laid a bloody hand over it, held it.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said and felt the wetness in her eyes spill onto her cheeks.

She watched the light go out of his eyes, a soft breath escape his lips. His eyes half closed, as if he’d grown drowsy without warning. His hand slipped from hers. She knew he was gone.

Morgan reached the first service road sooner than he expected. The vehicle was still there, in front of the shacks, and he saw now it was the woman’s Blazer. He thought about shooting out a tire, but there was no time to waste. Others would be here soon. He had what he’d come for.

The pain was still sharp in his stomach, but the dizziness seemed to be gone. His skin felt cool where the sweat had dried.

He pushed through trees, undergrowth, branches snagging at the bag. Twice he had to stop to pull it loose. Then the trees thinned, moonlight shining through, and he was at the second road. He started down it, saw the outline of the Lexus. The driver’s side door was open, the interior light on. He saw the dreadlocked boy sprawled there, half in the car, half on the road, trying to pull himself up onto the seat, his face dark with blood. Morgan raised the Beretta.

Sara could hear sirens far away. She knelt on the concrete beside him, his face turned to the side, his chest still. She’d checked his carotid pulse twice, known what she would find.

She stood, wiped her bloody hands on her jeans. The sirens grew louder.

He’s still out there, somewhere close. Maybe waiting to open fire on them when they get here. They could be driving right into it, not knowing.

She could stay here, let him get away. Let the danger pass. No one would blame her.

She knelt again, reached beneath Billy, felt his warmth, gently tugged the Glock from his belt.

She fumbled with bolts at the front door, pushed against rusty hinges to get it open. She went out into moonlight, a wide clearing. A figure in a ski mask lay sprawled in the dirt, face up, not moving. She pointed the Glock at him as she went past.

At the metal frame gate, she bent, squeezed through the horizontal bars. Then she was on the service road, moving up it with the Glock in a two-handed grip in front of her. She saw the Blazer ahead, went around it to make sure no one was there. She looked at the dirt and saw no tire tracks other than her own.

He didn’t walk here. He’s got a vehicle someplace.

Her tac bag was in the backseat where she’d left it. She got the Kevlar vest out, pulled it on over her sweatshirt, worked the Velcro snaps.

Then, in the distance, she heard the single gunshot.