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When Trevor finished telling Caitlin his story, she didn’t know whether she should believe it or not. It sounded so crazy.
She knew that Albert Cortez had gone missing and that the cops had found a dead man at the zoo. And not long before Trevor came to the DQ with his gun, that woman in Massachusetts went on national TV and said Albert had a secret past and had killed a man nineteen years ago.
But the rest of Trevor’s story? It came across as some sort of silly movie, like that one called Fargo her dad was always watching. It was twisted and gruesome and kind of funny, because all the bad guys were so incompetent, but nothing like that ever happened in real life.
Trevor was dangerous, obviously, and now Caitlin wondered if he was delusional, too. Maybe he was dangerous because he was delusional. Had Trevor killed the guy at the zoo? At this point, it definitely seemed possible.
That didn’t mean Caitlin was going to let herself be a victim. Time to act.
“I need to get a heavier sweater,” she said.
He just stared at her from his place on the bed.
“What?” she asked.
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
“That’s not true,” she said. “I’m just cold again, and I need to get another sweater.”
Why did her voice sound so weird? Because she was anxious. Like the time she’d had to give a speech in government class. It had terrified her—but now it seemed so trivial. What was there to be scared about back then?
Trevor shook his head and laid backwards, the bed springs creaking beneath him, but he didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to get another sweater,” she said.
“You need to go to a doctor or something,” he said.
“What for?”
“If you’re cold all the time like that,” he said. “It’s not cold in here.”
“Sometimes I get a little anemic,” she said. “I take iron for it.”
Total lie, but it was true for her mom, because of heavy periods.
“What does anemic mean?” Trevor asked.
“That you aren’t making enough red blood cells,” Caitlin said. “So you get cold. I even get cold in the summer. I need a heavier sweater or even a coat.”
“I never noticed it at work.”
“Because I’m always moving around.”
A long pause.
Then he said, “If you need another sweater, just get one. You don’t have to tell me.”
Where was his handgun? She couldn’t see it from here. It was probably lying on the bed on the other side of him, where he could grab it quickly, if necessary. So it was on his left side, even though he was right-handed. She felt proud to have noticed that, and it meant she might gain an extra half-second.
She rose from the floor and went to the closet door, glancing backward for just a moment. He hadn’t moved.
Was she really going to do this?
She had to remind herself that something was seriously wrong with him. He was dangerous. A psycho.
She opened the closet door.
Blood was rushing in her ears as she reached up and slid some hangers to the left, occasionally pausing, as if inspecting the suitability of a particular item.
She could see the stock of the shotgun in the corner, but the barrel was still concealed behind the clothing.
She was going to have to take a chance and pull it out, not knowing if it was loaded or not. If the shotgun was loaded, good. If it wasn’t, so be it.
Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t help it. The inside of her mouth felt like sandpaper. Her legs felt weak, almost to the point of buckling.
If it was loaded, what was in it? She hoped it was buckshot and not birdshot.
She slid more hangers to the left, one by one. She would hear the bedsprings if Trevor moved.
Her breathing was becoming ragged. She remembered the time she went deer hunting with her dad. Looking through the scope at a big eight-point. Buck fever. You have to think about your breathing, he said. Take deep, slow breaths. That will keep you calm.
Deep. Slow. Breaths. It wasn’t easy.
Sliding hangers. Almost there.
She would hear the bedsprings.
Three more hangers. Now two. And one.
The shotgun was right there, completely exposed now. A pump-action Winchester. Probably twelve-gauge, but she didn’t know for sure, and it wouldn’t really matter.
She had to do it. Right now.
Deep. Slow. Breaths.
With her left hand, she reached upward and jiggled some clothes hanging from the rod. With her right, she grabbed the shotgun by the barrel.
“What are you doing?” Trevor asked.
The bedsprings creaked.
No stopping now.
She dropped her left hand from the clothes rod and grabbed the shotgun by the fore-end, then swung it up and around, backing out of the closet while placing her right hand under the stock and lifting it to her shoulder.
Her right thumb found the safety button and turned it off.
Trevor saw and reacted immediately, jumping from the bed, lunging for the bedroom door, just as Caitlin pulled the trigger and the shotgun kicked hard against her shoulder.
The orange object hadn’t moved much, but it had moved, no question about it.
Marlin moved forward with the M4 in the low-ready position—the butt tight on his right shoulder, rifle ready to fire, but with the barrel pointing slightly downward. He had a clear view over the weapon and would be able to raise it and fire in a fraction of a second, if necessary.
Marlin took slow, careful steps, keeping his eyes on the orange object. The area was still brightly illuminated by the spotlight on the truck. Anyone looking in Marlin’s direction would be more or less blinded by the powerful light.
After three more steps, Marlin could now see plainly that the orange object was a person crouched behind a thick cedar tree, no more than twenty-five feet away. Marlin could just see the edge of the jacket sleeve. Marlin found a nearby oak tree and positioned himself behind the trunk. He took a deep breath and tried to slow his rapidly beating heart. Then it was time to act.
“State game warden!” Marlin called out. “Show me your hands!”
No movement. No verbal reply.
“Garrett Becker, I’m looking at you right now behind that cedar. There are four of us. Show me your hands!”
“Don’t shoot!” Becker finally replied.
“Show me your hands! Right now!”
“I didn’t do anything,” Becker said. “Just go away!”
“Show me your hands! I’m not asking again.”
Marlin could see that Becker was rising from his crouched position and was now standing upright, with his back against the cedar trunk. Stalling. Not following commands. What was he doing back there?
“I dropped the gun at Red’s place,” Becker said.
“Show me your hands and step out!”
“Red is lying about everything.”
“You can tell your side of the story, but first you need to—”
A shot rang out and Marlin quickly ducked behind the trunk of the oak tree.