After Makayla spoke those words, it seemed like all I could think about were details: the way the blood beaded on Emmett’s lip between those peach-colored nails; the flush in his cheeks; the shadowed hoods over his eyes; the wha-wha-whump in my chest like a broken pair of bellows; the brisk October air; the clouds; the sky. It was a very blue sky, and only washed out at the edges. My eyes met Emmett’s. They were so dark, especially under the brilliance of that October day.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed; all I knew was that they were waiting for me to speak. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“I have it. The flash drive.”
Makayla laughed; it was a familiar sound. I had heard that sound months ago, the very first time I psychically read Luke. In that memory, Makayla had been laughing at Luke for peeing his pants in school. She had, in fact, instigated the whole thing. And now here we were, as though history ran only in circles, and I was hearing that laugh myself: hearing how nasty it was, hearing the self-satisfaction in it.
“If you give it to me very nicely, I won’t start cutting on your boy-toy. And Austin, don’t pout. You’re hot enough, I suppose, but you can’t blame your boyfriend for wanting Emmett. I imagine Vie will be nice enough to share, if you ask nicely.”
My eyes were still locked with Emmett’s. I couldn’t read his thoughts. I couldn’t reach the other side. But I could see the tension rising in him. I could see the fear mixing with anger at his helplessness. Don’t be stupid, I wanted to say. Don’t do anything stupid.
“You’re a bitch,” Becca said, not bothering to look up as she wiped blood from Jim’s matted, red-gold hair. “You were a bitch in high school, Makayla, and you’re a bitch out of high school, and I imagine you’ll be a bitch when you’re dying alone. Hopefully that will be just a few minutes from now.”
Makayla’s creamy complexion twisted. “Shoot her first,” she instructed Deputy Fort.
Fred Fort turned his gun on Becca, but he didn’t pull the trigger. “Not. Yet.”
The anger in Makayla’s face deepened, and an ugly blush spread from her neck all the way to her forehead. “Shoot her,” she screamed. “Shoot that little cunt right now.”
Fred Fort sighed. His gun dipped, and it looked like he was going to say something or shake his head. Then the muzzle flashed, and the clap of the revolver’s shot hammered my ears. Becca yelped, thumped backwards, and sat on her butt. A hole showed in the sleeve of her blouse, and a moment later, blood welled up to soak the fabric.
“You’re insane,” Jake shouted, bracing Becca so she didn’t fall.
I barely heard his yell. Emmett had shifted his weight slightly. One hand had come up, resting on his chest, only inches from Makayla’s wrist. I gave a slight shake of my head. She would kill him. No matter how fast he was, she would kill him. Emmett fixed me with that look of . . . frustration, anticipation, determination.
“Flash. Drive.” Deputy Fort was really puffing now, hot, vapory breaths like a train trying headed uphill. “Next. Time. I. Won’t. Be. Nice.”
Becca was fighting adrenaline and pain, trying to draw deep breaths and then choking and gasping shallowly. Through this struggle, though, her bloody fingers grabbed my leg. “Vie, don’t.”
“He’ll shoot all of you,” Makayla screamed, her face mottled with her fury. “And I’ll kill your candy-ass right now. I’ll stick him, and he’ll bleed out like a pig, and you’ll just have to fucking watch.”
“No,” I said.
“Vie,” Becca said, her voice trembling. “Don’t you dare.”
“What am I supposed to do, Becca?” I drew the flash drive from my pocket and held it out. “Let Emmett go. Send Deputy Fort away. Then I’ll give it to you.”
“No chance,” Makayla said. She sneered. “You’re so stupid. What do you think I’m going to do now that I know you have it? Go ahead, Deputy. Kill them.”
Now, Emmett’s eyes were saying. Right now. I could read the cold calculation on his face. I could read his stubbornness. Do it now, he mouthed to me. And I thought there should have been time for me to figure everything out—time for me to figure out who Emmett Bradley really was, and why I felt like the lights were turning out inside me—row and row of lights snapping off and leaving me in a shuttered darkness.
“Wait,” I said, and my legs were so stiff that I stumbled as I took my first step. “I’ll give it—”
Makayla responded automatically, shifting her weight and stretching out a hand to take the flash drive. At that moment, Emmett grabbed her wrist. Makayla let out a cry of rage, and she sawed at Emmett with the knife. He bent his knees and launched them both backwards, and Makayla grunted as he landed on top of her.
Instead of following them, though, I did what I knew I was supposed to do: I slammed into Fred Fort with as much speed as I could muster. His bulk rocked backwards, and for a moment I thought I’d succeeded in knocking him off balance. He was a big man, though, and, as I’d learned before, he had a surprising amount of cunning. Deputy Fort braced himself and kept his footing. I swept out with one hand, catching his meaty wrist as he started to raise the revolver. For a moment, I was succeeding. But the deputy was bigger and stronger, and inch by inch the gun began to come up. His other hand whipped up, clobbering me on the side of my head, and my grip weakened as I struggled to keep from falling.
Fred Fort squeezed off two shots. His wrist jumped, forcing my hands up. I didn’t dare look to see who he’d hit. Then he struck me again with his free hand, and that time it was too much. My knees buckled, and I slipped backwards. As I looked up, my eyes came to rest on the revolver’s muzzle swinging towards me.
Then the stock of a hunting rifle cracked against the side of Fred Fort’s head. Deputy Fort made a wet, blathering sound, and he tottered forward a step. Then he fell. I kicked at his hand, over and over, not caring if I broke every finger, until the revolver spun away into the grass. Austin stared down at me, holding the rifle by the barrel, his eyes wild.
That was when Emmett let out a scream.
On hands and knees, I spun, already knowing it would be too late. And it was. Emmett reared back, one hand clasped to his neck, where blood streamed between his fingers. He howled, and although there were words in that howl, I couldn’t understand them. All I knew was that they were the summary of everything Emmett had undergone over the last two years: the pain of Makayla’s disappearance, the torture of having everyone believe he had killed her, the unspeakable relief of her return. Most of all, though, it was the pain of this final betrayal.
Somehow he had wrested the knife from her, and he held it in his other hand. In the sunlight, the blood turned the blade black. It didn’t flash or sparkle or shine. As it fell, it looked soft and dull and rubbery, like this was some kind of trick, or a prop knife intended for use on the stage. But it wasn’t a trick. Emmett buried it to the hilt in Makayla’s heart. Then, working the blade back and forth until it came free, he stabbed again. And again.
Austin grabbed Emmett’s wrist and twisted until he dropped the knife. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him from Makayla’s corpse. He was crying, and tears made pink, watery tracks in the blood on his cheek. I couldn’t tell how bad the wound to his neck was, and when I tried to check, he started punching and slapping and ripping at my hair and face. He was beyond reason, beyond self-preservation, beyond caring.
With Makayla dead, it was easy to open my inner eye and slip into Emmett’s consciousness. I poured out what I knew he needed: the ocean at rest; the sun sparkling on white sand; the heat pounding on bare skin, dragging him down towards sleep. He quieted in my arms, his ragged breathing evening out, his head rocking back as he slept. I didn’t know exactly how I’d done it; all I cared about was that it worked.
I looked up in time to see Sheriff Ed Hatcher limping towards us. He had a belt as a tourniquet around one leg, and he was barely supporting his weight with an improvised crutch made from his shotgun. Somewhere along the way he had lost his hat, and his thinning hair was exposed to the bright sunlight. When he reached the unconscious Fred Fort, he drew himself upright and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. Then, without a trace of emotion, he unholstered his service revolver and shot Fred Fort twice in the head.
After a moment, the sheriff looked at me and said, “Get the Bradley boy in my cruiser if you want him to live.”