Olivia
One week later, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of August. I’ve broken my promise to go see Bett. I hadn’t planned to. I’d driven to Tanglewood, parked outside the gate, but I couldn’t bring myself to go any farther. It hurt too much, like pulling stitches on a fresh wound that hadn’t yet had a chance to scab over.
Course, it doesn’t matter if I am walking through the front door of Tanglewood or sitting on the front porch of the Du Ponts’ cabin watching the sunlight dance through the trees as summer dwindles down to fall. I am hurting anyway, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
I sip my wine and stare down at Betty in her little sweater on my lap. She sits up, snuffling as she lifts her nose to the air. “What’s the matter, baby?”
She grunts. Her stumpy little legs wiggle as if she’s contemplating jumping off my knee. It must be dinner time. “Okay miss thang, I’m getting up.”
I set her down on the floor, and she scurries to the end of the porch, but by the time I’ve put my wine glass on the table and stood up, shaking out the thin afghan throw, her snuffling has turned to an all-out piggy bark. I glance up and Dalton is standing in my front yard looking like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Oh, my God,” I say, clutching my chest. “You scared the hell outta me, Dalton.”
“I n-n-need to t-t-talk t-t-to y-y-you.”
“Okay.” Unease prickles down my spine. He’s more haggard then before, gaunt-faced and jittery, and Xena isn’t with him. I’d seen him only two times in as many weeks. Once, at his cabin the day after his meltdown, and again six days ago when he was heading out of town with Xena to visit a Marine buddy in Mobile. I didn’t know that he’d returned since. “Where’s Xena, Dalton?”
“At h-h-h-home. I d-d-don’t t-t-t-trust t-t-that d-dog.”
“Come on now. Xena is the sweetest dog I ever met. She’s there to help you.”
“I’ve been t-t-thinking real h-h-heavy t-t-thoughts, Olivia.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
“Thoughts ab-b-bout n-n-not b-b-being here,” he admits, glancing down at his feet. “A-a-about hurting my-s-s-self and others.”
“Okay, well, why don’t you come sit, and I’ll go fix you a glass of sweet tea and we can talk about them, okay?”
“I think my apartment is b-b-bugged,” he whispers, his wild-eyed gaze darting around the clearing.
Dalton’s paranoia has been a cause for concern for a little while now, but with everything going on with August, Josiah, and the shelter, I haven’t had a chance to address it like I should. I see now how big a mistake that was. I see that I’ve not only failed August, but I’ve failed Dalton too. “Come sit down. I’m gonna head on inside and get you a drink, and then we can talk, okay?”
“Okay,” he agrees, pulling his jeans—that appear two sizes too big—up by the waistband. The afternoon sunlight glints off something shiny tucked into his pants, and I’m blinded by the bright silver surface. For a moment, I think it’s just his belt buckle, and when I glance again whatever it was is covered by his clothing, and I realize Dalton’s not wearing a belt. A bolt of fear shoots through me, and I try my best to look unfazed as I smile down at him, but I know he knows. I know he senses my unease, my fear.
“You want sweet tea?” I say, trying for calm, but the warble in my voice is unmistakable.
“You got h-h-home-made?”
I nod, because what Southern woman worth her salt doesn’t make her own sweet tea? “I’m gonna get Betty’s dinner while I’m in there, okay?”
He nods, and I walk as slowly and calmly as I can inside. This man trusts me, and right up until this very minute, I’ve always trusted him. My gut’s never led me wrong before, and I’m sure I’m just overreacting. I’m strung tighter than a bow after the last week, and making a big deal out of nothing.
Betty scampers through the hall in front of me toward the kitchen, squealing with excitement, and I don’t notice the quiet footfalls behind me until he speaks, “I d-d-don’t w-w-wanna be out in t-t-t-the open. Ex-p-p-posed.”
I try my best not to jump, but every fiber within me is telling me to run. Instead, I casually walk to the refrigerator and say conversationally, “Are you taking your meds, Dalton?”
Of course, I already know the answer, but I listen to him stammer out a reply as I set the pitcher of tea on the counter and take a glass from the cabinet. “I t-t-told you. I d-d-d-don’t like w-w-what they d-do to my h-h-head.”
My phone is resting on the counter, and while my back is to him I open my contacts and dial August’s number. I don’t know if he has his phone near him or if he’ll even get this, if he’ll understand what’s going on, but I tap the button on the side to turn the volume down, so Dalton won’t hear August’s voice through the speaker. With my heart hammering so hard I’m sure Dalton can hear it across the room, I turn with the tea in my hands. I’m shaking like a leaf, because I already know what I’m turning around to face, but the sight of it breaks my heart and sends ice through my veins. Dalton has a gun trained on me.
A sob escapes me, and the glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor. Knowing you might be in danger and being faced with the harsh reality of it are two different things altogether.
“I k-n-n-new y-you were one of t-t-them.” His face is beet red, his eyes narrowed on me in fury. “T-they p-planted you here, d-d-didn’t t-they?”
“Dalton, put the gun away. I wasn’t callin’ anyone. Put the gun down, and we’ll go outside on the porch and talk,” I say as calmly and clearly as I can. I don’t know if August even answered his phone, I just hope that he’s on the other end of that line, or the next time he looks on my face may be when he’s asked to make a positive ID on my body at the morgue.
“G-g-give me the f-f-f-fucking phone and g-g-get on the f-f-floor. Y-y-you’re ju-ju-just like t-t-them.”
“No! Dalton, I’m not. I’m here for you, okay? Just put the gun down. We’ll talk—”
“Get on the fucking floor!” he yells, and there’s no stutter this time. Betty squeals and charges for him, ramming her tiny head into his leg, but he kicks her, and she lands with a screech and a wounded animal cry against the refrigerator. I gasp and move toward her tiny body, but the cool bite of metal against the nape of my neck convinces me otherwise. I stick my hands up, and lower myself to the ground, kneeling in front of him. Shards of broken glass pierce the soft skin of my legs. I swallow back a scream.
“Dalton, please. You don’t want to do this; you don’t want to hurt me.”
“Shut up, shut up, sh-hut up!” he screams smacking his temple with the butt of his gun. What seems like forever—but is more than likely just a few minutes—later, a dog barks at my front door, a sharp, loud report echoing around the porch outside. Zora. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived because if something happens to August, I couldn’t live with that. I can’t live with that.
I whimper. Dalton covers my mouth with a dirty hand that reeks of tobacco. He grabs my hair and yanks me to my feet. I cry out, but his hand tightens on my mouth. I feel as if I’m suffocating, drowning in fear, panic, and desperation. I stare at Dalton’s wild-eyed gaze in the reflection from the glass cabinets. I don’t even know this man. This isn’t the shy, sweet-natured veteran who’d shown up at my shelter asking for a job. This is a man ravaged by war, by violence and the demons in his head. Illness has raped his mind and left only madness in its place.
Glass shatters. August crashes through the door, and panic seizes my heart. Faced with a bigger threat, Dalton turns and releases his hold on me. I grab a knife from the block on the counter, and lunge at him. He screams as I sink the sharp blade into his arm. He raises the gun and fires. The report echoes around the small kitchen, and I dart out of the way, feeling the sharp sting of pain as my muscles protest their misuse. August is on his feet. The two men tussle and more shots go off, but August has Dalton in a headlock. He shoves the butt of the gun up under the other man’s chin. He squeezes. Dalton’s hand is still on the trigger, and a final shot rings out as the man slumps against August.
For a beat, we both just stand there, shaken, bloody, and then August lays Dalton’s inert body on the ground. His face is covered in blood, chunks of meat, and shards of bone. I gasp, and it hurts all over. Bile rises in my throat. My vision goes dark, my head spinning, over and over, as if it were a top. August takes a step closer, and I hold up my hand for him to stop but then the ground rushes toward me, and he catches me in his arms.
“Liv,” August cries out. My whole body is burning, set alight, razed by fire and pain.
“I don’t . . . feel so good.”
“Olivia, just stay with me. I got you, princess,” he says, but I slip through his fingers, into the black watery depths of fear, and pain, and then nothingness.