THIRTY-ONE

As soon as he entered the porch, he smelled it, the acrid stench of burned plastic and leather. He shouldered through the kitchen door, came in with the shotgun up, finger on the trigger.

Chance was gone, just a puddle of blood on the floor there now. Eddie swung the shotgun toward where he’d left the woman. He saw the orange glow of the burner, the smoking gloves on the floor, and then she was coming out of the shadows, a knife in her hand.

*   *   *

Crissa went for his face, jabbing with the paring knife, trying for the eyes. He got the shotgun up, blocked it, and her next thrust went through his right coat sleeve and deep into his upper arm.

He grunted, swung the shotgun at her, and she grabbed it with both hands, tried to twist it out of his grip, couldn’t. He spun her, drove her back, and she felt the refrigerator rock as she hit it. But she had a solid grip on the gun now, wouldn’t let go.

His lips pulled back, and she could see his teeth, smell his breath. He was trying to get the shotgun across her throat, the knife still dangling from his arm. She let him get in close, then used her knees, jacking them up into his thighs, trying for the groin. He twisted away to protect himself, his grip on the gun loosening, and that was all she needed.

She pulled him to her, drove the top of her head into his face, and then he was falling back, sliding in Chance’s blood, and she had the shotgun.

He came up faster than she expected, getting his footing, drawing her .38. She swung the shotgun. The stock cracked into his wrist, and the .38 flew away, hit the wall. She turned the muzzle toward him, and he was diving for the porch, throwing himself into the blackness as she squeezed the trigger.

*   *   *

He heard the blast as he hit the floor. The center porch window exploded and collapsed. He rolled away, heard her pump and fire again, buckshot shredding the floor where he’d been. He got to his feet, lunged for the porch door, hit it, and tumbled out into the snow. The window above his head detonated, blew glass over him. He ran into the darkness.

*   *   *

She tracked him through the shattered windows, the shotgun up, glass at her feet. The garage light was out, the yard lit only by the moon. She saw the solidity of his shadow, fired, the gun kicking back hard. She worked the pump again, the smoking shell flying to her right. The breech closed with a hollow click. Empty.

She went back into the kitchen, tossed the shotgun on the counter, picked up the .38. Her hands stung. She shut off the stove light, ducked below the level of the kitchen windows, listened. The only sound was the wind.

Staying low, she moved into the dining room. Chance lay where she had dragged him.

She knelt beside him. He opened his eyes.

“Hey,” she said. “You’re back.”

He shifted, winced.

“Don’t move.” She set the .38 down, opened his jacket.

“He got me good,” he said. His voice was weak.

“Yeah, he did.” She gently pulled the sweater away from his wounds. He gasped as she ripped the material along the pellet holes, exposing his chest and shoulder. The wounds were clustered high, all of them steadily oozing blood.

“A little lower and that would have been it,” she said. “But what you caught doesn’t look too deep. Can you move your right arm?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

“Where is he?”

“Out there somewhere.”

“You hit him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Too bad.”

“Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

She picked up the .38, went upstairs. Wind blew down the hall from the broken back window. She crouched beside it, looked out on the moonlit snow. There was a maze of tracks from the three of them. She couldn’t tell which were his.

In the bathroom, she closed the door tight, turned the light on, set the gun on the sink. Her hands were throbbing, both wrists bright red and spotted with pale blisters. She ran water over them, the pain shooting up into her shoulders. After a few moments, the burning began to subside.

In the medicine cabinet, she found rubbing alcohol and a box of large gauze pads. She took a clean hand towel from the shelf, then turned the light off, opened the door to listen. He might not run, she knew. He might just double back, try to find a way into the house.

She carried everything downstairs. Chance had worked himself into a sitting position against the wall.

“I told you not to move,” she said. She knelt, set the .38 on the floor.

“I don’t want to pass out again.”

“You may anyway. This is going to hurt.” She pulled the ragged edges of the sweater wider, uncapped the alcohol, looked in his eyes. “Easy now.”

She poured alcohol down his shoulder and chest, washing through the clotting blood. He cried out, stiffened, closed his eyes. The pungent smell of it drifted up.

“You still with me?” she said.

He nodded, opened his eyes. She shook three gauze pads from the box, tore them open. She laid them on his chest and shoulder, covering most of the pellet wounds. Almost immediately, the gauze began to darken.

She folded the hand towel, placed it on his chest. “Hold this against yourself. Keep up the pressure.”

She guided his left hand to the towel, helped him hold it there. He winced again.

She sat back on her haunches. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

He looked up at her. “You think he’s still out there?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

She picked up the .38.

“Go find him,” she said.