I felt stung and guilty all at the same time. Conflicting emotions swirled through my brain, making it feel swollen. I needed to run to calm down. As soon as I could assume Mitch was asleep, I didn’t care what he’d said, I was going running. He needed to understand I was an adult and I could take care of myself.
I walked resolutely back to the guest room and sat on the floor next to my Walmart bag. Out the window, high in the sky above the pines that stood guard, the clouds rolled in. They weren’t as dark or threatening as the Kansas tornado clouds, but thick and gray, blotting out the sun. I hoped I could get in a few miles before the snow started falling, because I hated running in the snow.
I opened the plastic bag and dug through my clothes. I reflexively reached inside my hoodie for my gun, even though I knew it wasn’t there. I hadn’t put on my holster that morning, because I’d been afraid that Mitch would see it and think I was here to rob him.
But it wasn’t on the floor or under the bed.
Baby Glock was gone.
Dekker had promised he wouldn’t steal anything more from me, but he couldn’t help himself.
This thought froze me where I sat.
Dekker would never take my gun, I was sure of it. He knew I needed it to feel safe. And if he didn’t take it . . .
Silently, I stood, walked lightly to the front door and turned the knob.
Nothing happened.
I twisted and rattled it, but nothing. I couldn’t get the door open. I walked to the back door and tried it—-same thing. Although I tried to convince myself there was some problem with the doorknobs, I knew better. There were dead bolts on both doors that unlocked only with a key, inside and out.
My scalp prickled and my stomach dropped. I was locked in. Just like at home.
THREE CARS SEPARATED me from Randy King’s red truck. I wished I knew Mitch’s phone number so I could call and warn them that Randy was on his way. Why hadn’t I thought to write it down before I left? Because I was in such a hurry to get to rock god stardom, that was why. I cursed myself as I tailgated the SUV in front of me.
One by one the three cars turned off the road until I was right behind Randy’s pickup. But now I didn’t know what to do. Honk and flash my lights? Smash into the back end of the truck to get him to stop? I had no weapon, so what good would that do? Randy had his gun, and I was sure he had more ammo than the clip Petty had taken from him.
Still, I followed him up to the access road, where he pulled over, got out, and climbed the embankment toward the cabin.
I felt faint and breathless. As soon as he was out of sight, I counted to three and hurled myself out of the car, running up the slope and throwing my shoulder at Randy’s knees, knocking him to the ground. My surprise at having accomplished this energized me. I got up and flung myself on top of him, trying in vain to pin his arms. And then what?
Randy managed to draw the pistol out of his pants and I grabbed for it. He twisted my arm painfully, forcing a grunt from me. So I concentrated on pinning his shooting arm to the ground with both hands. Randy was much denser than I was, and it was like trying to fight bags of wet clay.
He lifted his other hand and slapped me in the face, which was both humiliating and painful. What exactly was I going to accomplish here? I tried to punch him in the face but he easily blocked me, then just as easily shoved me off him.
“Stop it,” he said. “Listen to me, you stupid bastard. You didn’t read all the letters, did you?”
I HEARD SHOUTING out in the yard. I turned on the sofa and peered out the window, and to my astonishment, Randy King and Dekker wrestled there.
I screamed and pounded on the window. “Randy! Let him go!”
Randy straddled Dekker, one hand squeezing Dekker’s throat and the other pressing his Magnum against Dekker’s forehead. Randy’s mouth was moving, his face blazing furious red.
And then I heard the gunshot.
Randy’s face went slack, and it appeared he realized what he’d done. And then he pitched over to the side, off of Dekker.
I pounded on the window, screaming, and through it I watched Mitch dash out of the house, a smoking rifle in his hands. I hadn’t heard him come into the room, or open the door, or fire the rifle out of it.
Randy lay on his back, his legs at odd angles. His shirt had a ragged bloody hole in it.
I don’t know how I got there, but suddenly I was in the front yard too.
Dekker bore down against Randy’s bullet wound with bloody hands.
“Call an ambulance,” he said to Mitch. “Quick.”
Mitch stood staring, still gripping the rifle. He set it down on the porch.
“Mitch,” Dekker said.
“He would have killed you,” Mitch said, calm and stoic.
“Call an ambulance! Now!”
“I don’t have a phone.” Mitch was serene, almost in a trance, and it chilled me.
I couldn’t stop staring at Dekker’s hands.
“I’ll have to drive him down the mountain, then,” Dekker said.
Randy moaned. His voice was full of blood, octaves lower than normal—-a wounded animal’s voice. “In my truck,” he said.
“You don’t know where the hospital is,” Mitch said to Dekker. “I’ll take him. You two stay here. I’ll send the police up. You have to tell them Randy was attacking you, Dekker.”