Emma recovers Howard’s phone from his pocket—damp with blood—and then she crawls down the hallway to collapse against an armchair overlooking the shattered windows, the vast beach, and the snarling waves beyond. The storm is passing now to reveal miraculous glimpses of pristine sky. Messier 31 peeks through, just for her.
Laika sits beside her, still panting.
“You’re a good dog.”
Yes, I am.
Emma kisses her furry head. “The best dog.”
That’s me.
“Thanks for saving my life.”
You too, Mom.
She supposes they’re about even.
With smearing thoughts, she raises Howard’s phone—connected to Jules’s wireless network, with full signal—and tries to guess his passcode a few times before remembering that emergency calls bypass the home screen. Duh.
She dials 911, leaving a bloody thumbprint on each key. The line is silent for an anxious moment. A puff of static.
Then, at last . . .
Strand Beach Police Department
Incident No. 001373-12C-2023
11:58 PST
Operator: 911. What’s your emergency?
Caller: Send police to 937 Wave Drive, please.
Operator: Okay, ma’am. Tell me what happened?
Caller: I . . . uh, it’s hard to explain. Just send police. And an ambulance.
Operator: Okay. Can you please try?
Caller: A . . . total psychopath attacked me tonight with a ninja sword. Lots of people are dead. Jules Phelps. Deacon Cowl. I’m the only survivor, I think. And I’ve been shot, too. I’m losing blood.
Operator: Are you in a safe place? Where’s the attacker now?
Caller: I killed him.
Operator: You killed him?
Caller: Yes.
Operator: You’re . . . you’re sure he’s dead?
Caller: Pretty damn sure.
Operator: Okay. Stay calm. Units are on the way right now, and I’ll talk you through some first aid. Can you tell me where you’ve been shot?
. . . Ma’am?
. . . Ma’am, are you still there?
Emma freezes. She’s heard something.
The dispatcher repeats: “Ma’am?”
At her side, Laika’s ears perk. She heard it, too. And again, there it is—shuffling, bodily motion. It’s coming from the bedroom.
He’s still alive. Somehow.
Please, God, no.
It’s impossible. She’s certain she stabbed Howard in the heart. But still, the inexplicable sound moves closer. Down the hallway. Over disjointed footsteps, a wet and wheezing gurgle.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?”
No, she thinks. I killed him—
She waits as the choked sound comes closer. Closer. Until, clawing itself upright, the shadow of Howard Grosvenor Kline rounds the corner with Emma’s blade still jutting from his chest. His pale face swivels drunkenly to her. Hit by a car, electrocuted, impaled, still somehow animated with a few more minutes of hateful and impossible life; a ghastly creature with butter vape on his breath and greasy fingers.
In a story, the author is Go—
Emma raises the gun and shoots him in the face.
His head whiplashes, leaving a chunky spatter on the wall behind him, and he goes down hard with a rattling crash. She’d searched Howard’s pockets minutes ago, and she took special care to recover the downed killer’s phone and his gun. In H. G. Kane’s Murder Mountain, Prelaw forgets that and it gets her killed. But not Emma.
Emma Carpenter isn’t a fucking moron.
She sets the revolver down. Then she leans back into the armchair and rests her eyes.
Strand Beach Police Department (cont’d)
Incident No. 001373-12C-2023
Operator: Ma’am? Was that . . . was that a gunshot?
Caller: Yeah. Now I’m sure.