Twenty-Six

“Jules, sweetheart, where are the keys to these handcuffs?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.”

Kate racked her brain, trying to visualize the key ring that Kimbal had taken out and probably dropped back into a pocket when he was interrupted by Jules. She couldn’t remember seeing a handcuff key, and there had only been half a dozen keys on the thing, but then she’d only seen it for a moment. She looked at the man speculatively.

Jules spoke up. “He doesn’t keep them on his key ring. They’re somewhere in his room.”

No time, then; he was stirring already. The wound in his hand, though dramatically pumping dark red blood all over him, would not be enough to keep him unconscious, and Kate was loath just to keep kicking his head until her backup arrived. She wavered; he stirred again; and she knew that she could not be standing there helpless when he came to. Jules could tie him—but one look at the girl’s face and Kate knew she couldn’t ask her to go near the injured man. That left two options: awkward flight, with the dogs behind them as soon as Kimbal woke, or Kate’s freedom.

“I have to get these cuffs off. You’re going to have to shoot them.”

Jules tore her eyes from the man who was her father. “There was only one bullet in the gun.”

Kate paused for a look of admiration. “God, girl, you sure made it count. Okay, there’ll be another shell in the shotgun; that’ll have to do.” She gently nudged the shotgun across the uneven ground until it lay at Jules’s feet. “Now, you haven’t shot one of these before, so I’ll talk you through it.” Words, Kate thought; words would keep Jules moving as nothing else would, her only tool to keep the shock in the girl’s face from immobilizing her completely. “Our word for the day is ballistics, okay? First of all, sit down, on the ground with your legs apart. That’s right—we don’t want you to shoot your nose off here. Now, pick up the shotgun and point it at the sky, kind of jam its butt into the ground to keep it stable, because it has quite a kick. Fine. Now, I’m going to try and get the chain of the handcuffs over the barrel, and you’re going to pull the trigger.”

Kate bent down close to Jules, facing the opposite direction, trying to look over her shoulder and see her hands, trying at the same time to put as much of herself as possible in front of Jules to protect the girl from stray shot.

“Maybe I should go look for the keys.”

“There’s no time, Jules. He’s waking up.”

“I don’t think he’ll—”

“Jules! We have to do this now or he’s going to bleed to death!” Kate didn’t think it likely, but she needed Jules to keep going. “Hold the butt steady and ease the trigger back slowly.”

“I don’t think—” Jules started to say, but over her voice and the noise of the frenzied dogs Kate thought she heard a groan, and cold panic shot through her.

“Jules, pull the trigger!”

Jules pulled, and for the second time, the gun exploded a foot from Kate’s head, sending her sprawling on the weedy ground, her shoulders feeling as if they had been ripped from their sockets. She got to her feet and stumbled over to Kimbal, fighting to unbuckle her belt with her sprained and trembling arms. With the remnants of the handcuffs riding her wrists like a pair of punk bracelets, she wrapped the length of fake white patent leather around the man’s arm, putting on pressure and watching the pulse of blood slow. She hoped it was because of the tourniquet rather than the approach of death—not that he would be any true loss to the world, but the girl did not deserve to see it.

“Someone’s coming,” said Jules.

“About time,” she muttered. Indeed they were coming, car after governmental car. It had seemed longer, but within four minutes of the shot, the tide of men began to spill out of the cars and wash over them, taking over the care of the wounded man and transforming the remote shack into a bustling center of forensic activity.

Sometime later, after Kimbal had been taken away but before the animal-control officer had arrived with the dog tranquilizers, someone thought to slap some bandages on Kate’s scraped knees and the parts of her hands that had been singed by the shotgun blast. She sat on the edge of her car’s backseat, brushed clear of glass crumbles, and looked elsewhere while the medic swabbed and taped. He finished, she thanked him, and when she looked up, Jules was in the door of the shack, wrapped in a blanket and cradled in the shelter of Al Hawkin’s arm. She was pale with shock and red-eyed, and she looked at Kate with an unreadable expression on her face. Kate got to her feet.

“I’m okay, Jules. Marsh Kimbal’s going to be okay. You’re safe.”

Jules did not answer, but in a minute she turned to Al and allowed him to fold his arms around her. He held her, looking over her head at Kate with a face nearly as devastated with relief as his stepdaughter’s.

“Kate, I…” he began, and choked up. She stumped over to where they stood and draped her own arms painfully around the two of them. They stood that way, oblivious of the activity and noises, until the aches in Kate’s arms began to turn into shooting pain, and she reluctantly stood back. Al blew his nose, Kate reached into her pocket for a Kleenex and blew her own nose, and finally Jules looked up and said in a small voice, “Can I borrow that?”

Kate began to laugh, and in an instant the three of them were dissolving again, this time in tears of laughter.

“Kate—” he started again, when he could speak, but she interrupted him.

“Take her home, Al. Jani’s waiting.”

He hesitated, then nodded, and with his arm still around Jules’s shoulders, he began to guide her toward the cars. When they had taken a few steps, Jules stopped and eased her head out to look at Kate.

“I knew you’d come,” she said. “I knew it.”