He’ll come waltzing into the dining room any second now. But the seconds pass and I’m left standing here by myself, gripping the back of my chair, easing some of my weight against it.
Some patrons are frozen, forks in midair. Others are on their feet, looking ’round with questioning, panicked expressions. The volume of MacGregor’s spikes, creating the type of commotion reserved for tragedies.
One voice rises above the rest, screaming into a phone. “Get me the police.”
The police.
I blink, holding my lids closed, and pray that, when I open them, Buck will finally be coming this way. We’ll leave. We’ll count our blessings.
The soft light crashes into me when I open my eyes. But no Buck.
I turn on my heel, racing for the door, for the alley.
A handful of people have gathered on the street, the same puzzled looks on their faces. By the grace of God, none belong to Hazel.
For a second, I think of fleeing, running in the opposite direction. But I find myself kicking off my heels and plunging into the alleyway.
The car’s interior light leaks from the open back door, softly illuminating a carload of crates and Buck’s body propped against the car, his head tilting to the side, a black circle spreading on his stomach. His hands lie limply on either side, inches from a bloody knife.
He’s quiet, his eyes fluttering open and closed.
Only feet away from Buck, two men grapple. Their footsteps are heavy, their struggle throwing them left and right ’cross the small space. I stumble side to side. A gleam of light catches the object they are fighting over. A pistol. A completely terrifying pistol. More terrifying than our shotgun. A shotgun is bigger, and I can see it coming. But a pistol is small, discreet, and can come out of nowhere. And this one is pointing all over the place—at me, the wall, the ground, the sky, Buck—too fast to fully register.
I feel the weight of the crowd forming behind me, but I’m afraid to turn to see how many. I’m afraid for them to see my face. Even worse, the police could join them any second.
And here I am, feet away from a brawl. A stolen car with a backseat full of giggle juice. A man with a knife wound to his stomach. My insides tremble, my hands tremble, it feels as if even the alley’s walls tremble, as if they’re inching closer with every breath I take.
I can only speculate ’bout what went wrong, fearing that my earlier hesitation made Buck late. But I know I must do something, anything.
“Stop!” I scream at the two men—the first word that comes to mind.
They jolt, and the gun slips free. It clatters against the pavement. Close. Too close. And I squeak like a child.
“Get it!” the smaller man yells—to me. His face is hidden in the shadows, but there’s something in his voice that makes me want to obey. A punch connects with his jaw and he grunts, cutting off his next plea.
They scuffle; the shorter man throws his own right hook. The other man staggers backwards, his heel bumping into Buck’s foot. Buck doesn’t react.
My eyes dart to the gun, back to the men. The smaller man—no, a fella my age—looks up, the light from the car now illuminating his face. Our eyes connect. And those eyes—they reflect his pain and fear as if he’s put them into words.
I breathe out, slow, controlled.
“The gun—” he calls, the rest of his words swallowed as he dodges a punch. He finds me with his eyes again. “You can do it.”
This time, there’s more I see in him: a reassurance. It sparks this unexplainable urge to prove him right. And, in that moment, my heart rate slows and the franticness of my brain clears.
The gun’s warm against my fingertips, even warmer in my palm. I stand, fumbling with it, not sure where to place my nonfiring hand, without a shotgun stock to grip. I wrap my left over my right, squeezing the pistol’s handle tightly. With my thumb, I struggle to cock the gun. It clicks into place.
I don’t aim. I don’t know how, when the gun’s not on my shoulder. I don’t know how, when my target is a person and not a bird.
Twisting, I fire off a shot at the base of the brick wall.
The recoil snaps my hands back and the gun drops. I stumble away from it, shaking out my wrists and arms. My insides tremble again from the echoing sound, which mixes with the screams behind me. I refocus before the walls seemingly get any closer. The taller man, who must’ve been thrown off guard, is now knocked out cold. The boy who spoke to me hovers over him, his chest heaving in and out from their fight.
He lifts his head, the blackness hiding his features. “Help me get my brother in the car.”
Brother.
Another slow, controlled breath. I know who he is.
Clyde.
The one and only Clyde Champion Barrow.
Following his lead, I slip my hand under Buck’s armpit and pull. Buck stirs and moans, the blood spot on his stomach growing. Clyde reacts, moving faster, and I match his pace. Together, we slide Buck, limb by limb, into the passenger side of the car.
Clyde slams the door. “Go,” he says to me, the light catching a glint in his hazel eyes. “Get Buck to Doc Peterson.”
I run to the driver’s side, jump into the seat. Clyde reaches in, flicks on the car. Unlike Blanche’s car, there’s no crank, this one having an electric start, saving us precious seconds as the engine roars to life.
Staring at the three pedals, I try to remember which one reverses the car.
“The middle one,” Clyde calls, as if reading my mind. He’s already backpedaling in the opposite direction, his shoes scuffing against the cracked cement. “Go! Doc Peterson! Now!”
The darkness hides the intensity of Clyde’s eyes, but I can feel his urgency in his demands. I slam my foot on the middle pedal, barely able to see beyond the crates, and the car lurches backwards. I pull the throttle, increasing the speed, silently pleading with anyone behind me to get out of the way. I blindly swerve left and right, thumping over potholes, scraping the alley walls.
Skidding into the street, I duck my head, trying to hide my face, and switch my foot to the other pedal. Without my heels, the slickness of my stockings makes my foot slide off. I curse, stomping down again.
“Move!” I scream hysterically, avoiding eye contact with the innocent, curious bystanders crowding the street. “Move, move, move!”
Buck stirs beside me.
“Buck!” His eyelids flutter, and I shake him. “Buck, wake up. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
He touches his stomach, his hand coming away glistening. “Shit,” he mumbles. “Damn guy…” He sucks in a shaky breath. “He got me with a shiv then ran away. Other fella took my gun. Clyde—”
“He’s fine,” I say. “You’re fine. Put pressure on your stomach.” I grab his hand to cover the blood. Too much blood. He groans but doesn’t resist. I take a deep breath. “Keep talking to me, Buck. I need you to help me. How do I get us back to—”
A car rushes toward us, its headlights growing too fast for a normal person to be driving.