THIRTY-TWO
She went out the front door. The wind had stopped. She listened, then cocked the .38 as quietly as she could. Rounding the corner of the house, she looked up the driveway. Moonlight gleamed on the snow.
She started toward the rear of the house, staying close to the wall. When she reached the back porch she stopped and looked out into the stillness of the yard. The snow began to darken. Clouds moved in front of the moon.
The garage was a darker shape ahead. He might be inside there, waiting for her to show herself. Or anywhere in the trees, with another weapon, waiting for a clear shot.
She raised the .38 in a two-handed grip, pointed it into the yard, searching for a silhouette, a shadow. Hoping she’d be quicker on the trigger than he was.
She started toward the garage. The clouds parted again, bathed the ground in moonlight. A gleam in the driveway caught her eye, right on the edge of the woods. Something metallic there in the snow. She moved closer. It was the paring knife, the blade shiny with blood. So he’d gone that way, back into the trees. He’d have a car out there somewhere, on the other side.
She was in the center of the driveway when she heard the click of the Toyota’s ignition, the roar of its engine. She turned toward the garage just as the car came skidding and screeching out of it, aiming at her. She twisted to run toward the house. Knew she wouldn’t make it.
* * *
Eddie looked over his shoulder, steered at her, heard the fleshy thump as he caught her with the left rear fender. Halfway down the driveway, he hit the brakes hard, and the Toyota slewed to a stop, pointing toward the house.
He turned on the headlights, saw the woman in their glare, struggling to stand. It had only been a glancing blow, not solid enough to put her down for good. She was on her feet now, dragging one leg. She looked down the driveway at him, blinded by his lights.
He slammed the gearshift into DRIVE, pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
* * *
She heard the Toyota’s engine, the buzz saw whine of its tires fighting for traction. In the blaze of the headlights, she saw the .38 a few feet away, lying in the snow.
She dragged her right leg, bent for the gun. She heard the tires grip and squeal, and then the car was coming at her, and she had the gun, was turning with it, into the lights. Aim, she thought. Make it count. Even if he kills you.
She fired at a spot above the headlights, the gun jumping in her hand, fired again, and then the car was veering toward the house. She threw herself to the left, the front fender missing her by inches, and landed hard on the frozen ground.
* * *
When the first shot came through the windshield, Eddie turned his face away, the glass spraying across him. He aimed the car at her, standing there in his headlights, and the next shot starred the windshield above the steering wheel, scored his neck. He twisted the wheel to the left, and then the woman was moving to the side, out of the way, and he slammed hard on the brakes, but it was too late. The house filled his vision.
* * *
The Toyota hit the house just under the dining room windows, the front end punching into the siding, then bouncing back with the impact. She saw the driver’s side air bag bloom open.
The engine was still running. It steadily pushed the car’s crumpled front end back into the wall again. Steam hissed out from under the wrecked hood, then a puff of darker smoke.
When she got up, her right leg and hip were numb. She opened the .38, picked out the empty shells, reloaded. Moving to the center of the driveway, she raised the gun, the car about fifteen feet away.
The whine of the engine grew louder, higher, and then there was a burst of black smoke from beneath the hood. Flames began to dart out from around its edges, blistering the paint. The engine coughed and died. Ruptured fuel line, she thought, spilling gasoline onto the hot manifold.
The air bag had deflated. Santiago was slumped motionless over the wheel. Her only angle on him was through the passenger side windows. She steadied the .38, centered the front sight on his silhouette.
But she couldn’t squeeze the trigger.
* * *
The heat woke him. He opened his eyes, and the loose air bag was in his lap, the gunpowder smell of it in the air. He was powdered with white dust. Faint steam rose from the floor.
He touched his forehead, felt blood there, his hand a blur. There were two wide holes in the windshield, the glass spiderwebbed around them. More blood on his neck, the shoulder of his trench coat.
He could see flames coming from under the hood. They were running up the wall of the house, blackening the siding.
He yanked on the door handle, pushed. It groaned, held. The impact had jammed it. He butted it again, felt it give slightly. Smoke began to filter through the dashboard vents. He could hear the crackle of the flames now, the windshield darkening.
The third time he hit the door, it popped open, stiff and creaking. He slid out, fell into water, the heat from the fire melting the snow. Thick black smoke was filling the car now. The air stank of burning plastic and rubber.
He crawled through the slush, staying low, knowing the woman was somewhere on the other side. He leaned against the left rear fender, the metal warm against his back, got the guns out. He cocked the Ruger, then the Star, had a sudden memory of finding it in Casco’s safe, taking his money. The day he’d gotten out. The day it had all started.
Steam rose off the ground around him. The fire would reach the gas tank soon. He had to get up, find the woman, end it.
* * *
The wind was back up, blowing the smoke in her direction. She moved away, her eyes watering. Her right leg had no strength, but the numbness had turned to pain, and that was good.
She’d heard the creak of the door opening, had seen Santiago slip out of sight. Now smoke all but obscured the car, and she couldn’t tell where he’d gone.
Flames were climbing the wall. The dining room windows had shattered from the impact, and the curtains were on fire. She thought of Chance inside.
She pointed the .38 into the wall of smoke and waited.
* * *
Eddie stood. He held the Star in his right hand, the Ruger in his left. He drew in breath, tried to remember where he’d last seen the woman. Farther up the driveway, if she was still there, if she hadn’t fled into the woods or back to the house.
Time to get it over with, he thought.
He wheeled around the back of the burning car, came through the smoke, guns up, and there she was, in the driveway, closer than he’d expected, feet spread apart, .38 in a two-handed grip. He started to squeeze both triggers, and suddenly he was stumbling back, his breath gone. He went down hard, the ground tilting under him, saw trees, clouds, the moon.
The bitch shot me, he thought. She shot me bad.
* * *
Crissa watched him go down, the sound of the shot echoing in her ears. The round had hit him in the left side of the chest, driven him back. She thought about the cross-etched bullet, the damage it would do.
He rolled from his back to his side. She cocked the .38 again. Slowly, he made it to his knees. He’d lost one gun. Now he raised the other, let it drop for a moment, turned his head, and spit blood on the ground. Then he seemed to look past her, at something in the trees.
She settled the sight on his chest. There was a faint tremble in her hands. Please don’t make me do it, she thought. Just toss the gun away, and we’ll leave. The money’s not worth it. Nothing’s worth it.
He smiled and there was blood in his teeth. He met her eyes, raised the gun again.
* * *
Eddie coughed hard. There was blood in it, the coppery taste strong. He lifted the Star, then lowered it. It weighed too much.
His eyes were blurry from the smoke. He spit, looked at the woman, trying to focus. There was someone in the trees behind her. As he watched, the figure took shape in the moonlight. It was Terry. He’d been there all along, watching them. Eddie blinked, squinted, and then there was nothing in the trees but darkness.
He looked back at the woman, aimed the Star at her, began to squeeze the trigger.
He never felt the bullet.