Chapter Twenty-Six
S he landed so hard it knocked the breath out of her body, but somehow Hannah managed to hold onto the Slider. She slid several feet before she got the hang of it, just in time to keep from hitting a huge pine tree. She had to pull up on one of the handholds cut into the side, and push down on the other to change her course so that she could avoid obstac…
There was a loud pop and almost immediately something whizzed past her ear. Miss Whiting was shooting at her! She must have recovered from the blow to the head quickly because…
There was another loud pop, but this time Hannah didn’t hear the whiz. She didn’t feel anything either and that meant she hadn’t been hit.
Hannah pulled up on the right handle just in time to avoid a hillock that certainly would have overturned her like a turtle and left her soft underbelly exposed to Miss Whiting’s bullets. And speaking of bullets, how many did she have left?
Hannah tried to remember the gun she’d seen in Miss Whiting’s hand, but it was no use. All she could visualize was the round, dark hole in the end of the barrel, the hole that would release the bullet that would end her life. As she zoomed down the hill, she thought of the ballistic tally that Mike had given her. One shot in Larry, three in the flat screen TV. That meant four shots were gone, and most revolvers had six shots…didn’t they? Miss Whiting had just shot once past Hannah’s ear, and once more only the winter birds in the trees knew where. That was a total of six shots. Miss Whiting could be out of ammunition, unless she’d reloaded after she’d killed Larry.
Another shot hit the snow about three feet in front of Hannah’s Slider, kicking up a puff of snow that almost blinded her for a moment. Another shot thunked into a pine tree ahead of her and to the left. Forget the revolver and counting shots. It seemed Miss Whiting had plenty of ammunition. All Hannah could do was hope that the business teacher knew more about balance sheets than bull’s-eyes.
Hannah gasped when she saw a thicket of prickly thorn bushes dead ahead. She twisted and turned the handholds on the Slider, desperately seeking to change her course and avoid what promised to be a painful encounter. Delores was right. She’d never been able to steer a sled by herself, but at least, this time, it wasn’t a tree!
There were several moments that occurred in slow motion, reminding Hannah of several movies she’d seen. There was her hand on the Slider twisting, twisting to no avail. There was a single gust of snow, peppering the smooth skin of her cheek. There was her mouth, open in a silent scream as the Slider moved inexorably forward. And finally there was one barbed thorn as big as the sun, quivering in anticipation of her arrival.
And then real time took over and she hit the prickly thorn bushes. Hard. Still tumbling forward, she smashed into the spiked branches that attempted to make ribbons of her skin.
Perhaps the freezing air acted as an anesthetic. Or perhaps she was simply too frightened to feel much of anything. Hannah wasn’t sure which theory was accurate, but something kept her from feeling the sting of barbs and the sharp pricks of thorns. She jumped to her feet, grabbed her Slider, and ducked behind the biggest tree she could find.
Her rational mind, the one her would-be killer had praised just moments ago, was thankful that her Slider was forest green. It would blend in with the winter foliage and perhaps escape Miss Whiting’s notice.
Hannah huddled against the pine tree and wondered how long it would take Miss Whiting to find her. There was probably a path left by her Slider from the top to midway down the hill. Miss Whiting would see it and know that Hannah was here. She had to move.
Risking a glance at the top of the hill proved almost fatal. A bullet thudded into the pine tree where Hannah was attempting to hide. She’d been spotted. The Slider had left a telltale trail.
Hannah’s mind flew through the possibilities. Would Miss Whiting climb down here to kill her? And where was Mike? Mike always rescued her when she was in trouble. Didn’t he have some sort of sixth sense that told him when someone was about to kill her? Mike always came to the rescue.
Another shot brought Hannah back to the present with a snap. She had to move again. Right now! The only question was whether she should crawl, or hold up the Slider as a shield and run to another big pine tree.
It was dark and overcast, with snow still falling in flurries. The wind whipped up, providing a perfect opportunity, and Hannah crawled through the snow straight back from her pine to the pine behind it.
When she got there she waited expectantly, but there were no more shots. She’d made it! She wanted to stop and rest, but it couldn’t hurt to put one more tree between her trail and Miss Whiting.
Hannah dropped to her stomach and prepared to crawl once more. She felt like a crab as she inched her way back, pushing with her feet and pulling with her hands against the snow-packed earth. She was halfway there when she heard a sound that couldn’t have been made by the wind, or the snow, or any forest creature. It was click of metal against metal, and she looked up to see Miss Whiting standing over her.
“Good try,” Miss Whiting said, leveling the gun directly at Hannah’s head. “One shot through the brain should do it. It’s a pity to waste a good mind, but it can’t be helped.”
It was over. She’d run out of options. Hannah shut her eyes and wondered whether her life would flash before her eyes. It didn’t. All she could think about was Moishe and how she hoped Norman would take him and give him a good home with Cuddles. She’s miss him dreadfully, and even though he was a bad boy at times, he was her bad boy.
And then she heard the shot. It was loud and it hurt her ears. Miss Whiting had shot her through the head. Her life was over. She was dead.
Dimly, she heard a crashing as someone ran down the hill. How could that be? Dead people weren’t supposed to hear anything except celestial music. Perhaps she wasn’t dead yet. Perhaps she was still dying.
And then she was gathered up into two strong arms, and someone was smoothing back her hair. Not dead, then. And the arms and the hand felt good.
“Are you okay?” Mike asked, lifting her up into his arms.
“I…think…so.” The words were an effort and it seemed to take forever to speak them.
“Don’t worry. She’s dead,” Mike said, carrying her up the hill. “Just relax, Hannah. Lonnie’s coming to cover the crime scene and I’m taking you straight to the hospital.”
“Miss Whiting shot me?” Hannah asked, fearing the worst.
“No, but you need to take care of those scratches on your face. And you might have a concussion from running into those thorn bushes so hard. I need to make sure you’re okay.”
Hannah smiled, even though it hurt to do so. Mike cared. But she couldn’t resist asking, “Why?”
“Because I’m worried about you.”
It was a good answer. Hannah’s relief at being rescued and happiness at being alive grew even stronger as Mike bent down to place a light kiss on her lips.
“You have to get well in a hurry so you can cook that bang-up Christmas Eve dinner you promised to make for me.”