Andy heard a desperate, high-pitched wheezing, the exact same sound her mother had made in the hospital when the pneumonia had collapsed her lung.
She grabbed the first heavy object she could find. The cast iron frying pan made a loud screech as she lifted it off the stove. There was no chance of surprising Hoodie now, no going back. Andy kicked open the door. Hoodie was standing over Laura. His hands were wrapped around her neck. He wasn’t choking her. His fingers were sealing the clear plastic bag that encased her mother’s head.
Hoodie turned, startled.
Andy swung the frying pan like a bat.
In the cartoons, the flat bottom of the pan always hit the coyote’s head like the clapper on a bell, rendering him stunned.
In real life, Andy had the pan turned sideways. The cast iron edge wedged into the man’s skull with a nauseatingly loud crack.
Not a ringing, but like the sound a tree limb makes when it breaks off.
The reverberations were so strong that Andy couldn’t hold onto the handle.
The frying pan banged to the floor.
At first, Hoodie didn’t respond. He didn’t fall. He didn’t rage. He didn’t strike out. He just looked at Andy, seemingly confused.
She looked back.
Blood slowly flushed into the white of his left eye, moving through the capillaries like smoke, curling around the cornea. His lips moved wordlessly. His hand was steady as he reached up to touch his head. The temple was crushed at a sharp angle, a perfect match to the edge of the frying pan. He looked at his fingers.
No blood.
Andy’s hand went to her throat. She felt like she had swallowed glass.
Was he okay? Was he going to be okay? Enough to hurt her? Enough to suffocate her mother? To rape them? To kill them both? To— A trilling noise came from his throat. His mouth fell open. His eyes started to roll up. He reached for the chair, knees bent, trying to sit down, but he missed and fell to the floor.
Andy jumped back like she might get scalded.
He had fallen on his side, legs twisted, hands clutching his stomach.
Andy could not stop staring, waiting, trembling, panicking.
Laura said, “Andrea.”
Andy’s heart flickered like a candle. Her muscles were stone. She was fixed in position, cast like a statue.
Laura screamed, “Andrea!”
Andy was jolted out of her trance. She blinked. She looked at her mother.
Laura was trying to lean up on the couch. The whites of her eyes were dotted with broken blood vessels. Her lips were blue. More broken blood vessels pinpricked her cheeks. The plastic bag was still tied around her neck. Deep gouge marks ringed her skin. She had clawed the bag open with her fingers the same way Andy had chewed through the poncho trashbag.
“Hurry.” Laura’s voice was hoarse. “See if he’s breathing.”
Andy’s vision telescoped. She felt dizzy. She heard a whistling sound as she tried to draw air into her lungs. She was starting to hyperventilate.
“Andrea,” Laura said. “He has my gun in the waist of his jeans. Give it to me. Before he wakes up.”
What?
“Andrea, snap out of it.” Laura slid off the couch onto the floor. Her leg was bleeding again. She used her good arm to edge across the carpet. “We need to get the gun. Before he comes round.”
Hoodie’s hands moved.
“Mom!” Andy fell back against the wall. “Mom!”
Laura said, “It’s okay, he’s—”
Hoodie gave a sudden, violent jerk that knocked over the leather chair. His hands started moving in circles, then the circles turned into tremors that quaked into his shoulders, then head. His torso. His legs. Within seconds, his entire body convulsed into a full-blown seizure.
Andy heard a wail come out of her mouth. He was dying. He was going to die.
“Andrea,” Laura said, calm, controlled. “Go into the kitchen.”
“Mom!” Andy cried. The man’s back arched into a half-circle. His feet kicked into the air. What had she done? What had she done?
“Andrea,” Laura repeated. “Go into the kitchen.”
He started to make a grunting noise. Andy covered her ears, but nothing could block the sound. She watched in horror as his fingers curved away from his hands. His mouth foamed. His eyes rolled wildly.
“Go into the—”
“He’s dying!” Andy wailed.
The grunting intensified. His eyes had rolled up so far in his head that it looked like cotton had been stuffed into the sockets. Urine spread out from the crotch of his jeans. His shoe flew off. His hands scratched at the air.
“Do something!” Andy screamed. “Mom!”
Laura grabbed the frying pan. She lifted it over her head.
“No!” Andy leapt across the room. She wrenched the frying pan away from her mother. Laura’s arm snaked around her waist before Andy could get away. She pulled her close, pressed her mouth to Andy’s head. “Don’t look, baby. Don’t look.”
“What did I do?” Andy keened. “What did I do?”
“You saved me,” Laura said. “You saved me.”
“I d-d-d . . .” Andy couldn’t get out the words. “Mom . . . he’s . . . I c-can’t . . .”
“Don’t look.” Laura tried to cover Andy’s eyes, but she pushed her mother’s hand away.
There was total silence.
Even the rain had stopped tapping against the window.
Hoodie had gone still. The muscles in his face were relaxed. One eye stared up at the ceiling. The other looked toward the window. His pupils were solid black dimes.
Andy felt her heart tumble back down her throat.
The waist of the man’s hoodie had slipped up. Above the white waistband of his underwear, Andy could see a tattoo of a smiling dolphin. It was cresting out of the water. The word Maria was written in an ornate script underneath.
“Is he—” Andy couldn’t say the words. “Mom, is he—”
Laura did not equivocate. “He’s dead.”
“I k-k-k . . .” Andy couldn’t get the word out. “K-kill . . . k-kill—”
“Andy?” Laura’s tone had changed. “Do you hear sirens?” She turned to look out the window. “Did you call the police?”
Andy could only stare at the tattoo. Was Maria his girlfriend? His wife? Had she killed someone’s dad?
“Andy?” Laura pushed herself back along the carpet. She reached under the couch with her hand. She was searching for something. “Darling, quickly. Get his wallet out of his pants.”
Andy stared at her mother.
“Get his wallet. Now.”
Andy did not move.
“Look under the couch, then. Come here. Now.” Laura snapped her fingers. “Andy, come here. Do as I say.”
Andy crawled toward the couch, not sure what she was supposed to do.
“Back corner,” Laura told her. “Inside the batting on top of the spring. Reach up. There’s a make-up bag.”
Andy leaned down on her elbow so she could reach into the innards of the couch. She found a vinyl make-up bag, black with a brass zipper. It was heavy, packed tight.
How had it gotten here?
“Listen to me.” Laura had the man’s wallet. She pulled out the cash. “Take this. All of it. There’s a town called Carrollton in West Georgia. It’s on the state line. Are you listening to me?”
Andy had unzipped the bag. Inside was a flip phone with a charging cable, a thick stack of twenty-dollar bills, and a white, unlabeled keycard like you’d use to get into a hotel room.
“Andy,” Laura was reaching for the framed photo on her desk. “You want the Get-Em-Go storage facility. Can you remember? G-e-t-e-m-g-o.”
What?
“Take his wallet. Throw it in the bay.”
Andy looked down at the leather wallet that her mother had tossed onto the floor. The driver’s license showed through a plastic sleeve. Her eyes were so swollen from crying that she couldn’t see the words.
Laura said, “Don’t use the credit cards, all right? Just use the cash. Close your eyes.” She broke the picture frame against the side of her desk. Glass splintered. She picked away the photo. There was a small key inside, the kind you’d use to open a padlock. “You’ll need this, okay? Andy, are you listening? Take this. Take it.”