That takes my breath away, the idea that he sat in that same prison chair, looking into Melvin’s face. I think about the corrosive horror Mel wakes in me. I can’t imagine how it felt for Sam.
So I reach impulsively for his hand, and he lets me take it. Our fingers lie loose together, not demanding anything except the lightest possible contact. Either his or mine are trembling slightly, but I can’t tell which. I only feel the motion.
I see something in the window behind him. It’s just a shape, a shadow, and when my brain finally identifies it as human, that no longer matters, because human isn’t as important as the thing the shape is carrying, raising, aiming.
It’s a shotgun, and it’s aimed at the back of Sam’s head.
I don’t think. I grab Sam’s hand hard and haul sideways, knocking him off-balance and down, and at the same time I throw myself down out of my own chair. I keep pulling. Sam is yanked out of his chair and sprawls halfway across the table, and then the chair spins out from under him and he falls heavily sideways on the floor just as I hear an incredibly loud boom. I dimly register the feeling of the coffee cup falling from the table and striking my thigh. It spills heat and liquid over me, warm as blood, and then a shower of glass shards hits me, and I shield my face against the cuts.
If I hadn’t seen, if I hadn’t reacted, the back of Sam’s head would have been jam. He’d have been dead in a second.
Sam’s on the ground next to me, and he lets go and rolls across the glass to crab-crawl with shocking speed to a corner, where a shotgun of his own leans, half-concealed by shadows. He grabs it on the roll, comes to a stop with his elbows braced on the floor, shotgun raised, and sights the window before he pistons his knees forward and levers up to a crouch. I don’t move. He comes slowly up, ready to dodge or drop, but he clearly sees nothing, and he quickly swivels to the front door. He’s right; that could be the next threat to appear.
I take the opportunity to crawl over to my backpack, unzip, unlock the box. I assemble my weapon with fast, practiced motions, rack one into the chamber, and roll on my elbows on the floor. We have an unspoken agreement: he shoots high, I shoot low.
But there’s nothing. Someone’s shouting out on the lake, a distant smear of sound, and I think, It came from the side of the house by the trees, the one hardest to see from the road or the lake. All anyone will know is that someone shot a gun. They’ll know it came from this direction. And I’m covered with gunpowder residue, I think, and wonder if that, too, was part of a plan. Wouldn’t be surprised. Not at all. Still, the forensics are blindingly obvious: we were in here, at the table. Someone shot in at us.
I hear more shouts from around the lake area, the dimly heard cry of “police,” as in call the, and Sam rises from his crouch. He doesn’t lower the shotgun; he advances toward the door with military caution, checks the window, throws open the door, and waits. I can see the view of the lake beyond, the boats hastily making for docks. Peaceful. Distant. Utterly out of sync with the adrenaline racing through my body, sending hot and cold flashes through me that mask any actual injuries I might have.
Nothing happens. Nobody fires. Sam flashes me a wordless look, and I scramble up and hug the wall beside him, and as he eases out, I go behind him, watching the other angles as he focuses forward.
We circle the entire house.
There’s nobody there. Sam points out some scuffed footprints—waffle-soled boots, but the prints are indistinct and incomplete. But it’s clear that someone stood here, took aim, and fired right at the back of his head—and I saved his life.
The shakes set in. I make damn sure I’m careful as I clear the round from the chamber, then snug the gun back into the shoulder holster. The familiar weight feels good, even as it digs into the curve of my breast. I crouch to take a closer look at the footprints. I’m no expert. There isn’t anything obvious to learn.
“You’d better put that Sig back in the case,” Sam tells me, as he rests his shotgun against his shoulder. “Come on. Cops will be on the way, again.”
Sam’s right. I haven’t fired my gun, and I damn sure don’t want to be shot accidentally-on-purpose for carrying a legal gun, either.
Inside the cabin, I break the weapon down and lock it up; just as I put the box back in my backpack, Sam leans his own shotgun in the corner and opens the door to afford me a fine view of a car burning rubber up the road toward us.
It isn’t Officer Graham. It’s Kezia Claremont, who steps out of the car with her weapon drawn and at her side. “Mr. Cade. Got a report of shots fired here.”
I look down the road at my house, which sits quietly down the slope. She just left them. It’ll be okay. The only thing even slightly different is what looks like an SUV disappearing over the hill on the other side. The Johansens, maybe.
“Yep,” he says, as calmly as if the whole thing is just a hunter’s poor aim. “Take a look. It took out the window. There’s buckshot inside, too.”
“Lucky as hell,” Kezia says, looking at Sam. “Guess you saw it coming?”
“No. My back was to it.” He jerks his chin at me. “She saw it coming.”
I’m staring at my house. Willing for no one to approach it while I’m gone. Nobody’s in sight. They’re okay. It’ll be okay. “I didn’t see enough,” I say. “Just a blur. He—I think it was a white guy, but I can’t swear to it—popped up from under the window. I’ll be honest, mostly I just paid attention to the muzzle sighting in and to getting us out of the way.”
Kezia nods. “All right. You two, sit down where you were.”
“I need to go home,” I say.
“In a sec. Just sit down. I need to see this.” There’s a ring of command in her voice. I back up, never looking away from the house, and slip into my seat at the table.
After a beat, Sam turns his chair back upright and sits. I can tell, from the way his fists are clenched on the table, that sitting with his back to the window is not comfortable for him right now. Coffee drips from the table’s edge and soaks into the fabric of my running pants.
I hate this. I can see the road from here. I can’t see the house. “Make it fast!” I tell Kezia, but she’s already outside, going around to the window.
Sam and I stare at each other in silence. He’s pale, and beads of sweat have started on his forehead.
“You’re keeping an eye on my back, right?” he says. I nod. He shifts a little, and I wonder what kind of discipline it takes to stay where he is, with a virtual target on his head. What kind of trauma it might bring back up inside. “Thanks, Gwen. I mean it. I’d have never seen that coming.”
“He’s gone,” I tell Sam. “We’re okay now.” I’m sore, scratched in bleeding red ribbons from shattered window glass, and I think I’ve torn something in my left shoulder. And I need to go. Now.
Kezia appears in the shattered window behind him, and Sam’s sixth sense kicks in; I can see the shudder that goes through him. Effort holds him in place. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s Officer Claremont. You’re all right.” He’s gone very pale now. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face, but he doesn’t move.
Behind him, Kezia extends her arms, miming a shotgun. “Had to be my height or taller,” she says. “He got up close and personal about it. I’m standing where I’d pick, but his footprints are maybe another foot closer up. Gun had to be damn near against the window glass.” She lowers her imaginary gun. “Bold son of a bitch. You’re lucky either one of you is alive.”
She’s right. I’d seen the embedded buckshot in the wall across the way, behind where I’m currently sitting. Sam’s brains would have ended up there, and for a second I can see the wall painted red, pale pink, sharp shards of bone. I’d have been drenched in his blood. His skull would have been shrapnel.