“We were looking for two men accused of murder who had skipped bail. Or escaped,” she added for clarification purposes.
She told him everything then, recounting as best she could the events that had transpired. Admittedly, some of it was fuzzy. And despite her resolve not to, she ended up breaking down and crying, her tears soaking the front of Robert’s tunic. The guilt of failing Josh crushed her. The pain of not knowing if her brother had survived or died, of suspecting the latter and believing her actions had contributed, was like a virus that ate away at her and wore her down no matter how busy she kept herself or how hard she tried not to think about it.
“In truth, Beth, you did what any of us would have done,” Robert said when she finished. “You knew your brother was in trouble, and you acted.”
“But don’t you see?” She swiped impatiently at her tears. “I didn’t think. I just charged into the clearing, right into the line of fire.”
“I have done the same myself on numerous occasions,” he pointed out.
“But I was useless! I was just a distraction!”
“You were another weapon at Josh’s disposal.”
“I should’ve circled the clearing instead of just racing in there. I could have worked my way around and come up behind Kingsley and—”
“Did you not tell me that drought afflicted the forest that surrounded you?”
She frowned. “Yes, but—”
“Even the most cautious individual cannot avoid making a sound when stepping upon brittle leaves and grasses. Had you attempted to sneak up behind them, they would have heard you coming.”
“Even if they had, it might’ve worked in our favor, because Josh could’ve gotten the drop on them when they turned their attention on me.”
“Would he not have been more likely to do something rash to draw their attention back to himself and protect you?”
Yes, damn it. That was exactly what Josh would have done. “I could’ve called 911 before I ran to the clearing.”
“Do you mean call for help? On your cell phone?”
She had tried to explain how her cell phone worked, but had received an I-trust-you-so-I’ll-take-your-word-for-it-but-it-seems-unbelievable look. “Aye,” she answered.
“Was your cell phone not in your backpack?”
“Aye,” she said again, aware of how long it would have taken her to dig it out.
“Help would not have arrived in time, and your brother would have been left to face them alone, without the additional weapon you threw to him.”
Beth stared at him helplessly. “So, you’re saying it was a lose-lose situation. That no matter what path I chose, I was screwed. We both were.”
Robert smoothed her hair back from her face with a gentle hand. “You speak as though your brother was dead when last you saw him, Beth. Did you not tell me he still breathed when darkness claimed you?”
Sorrow stabbed her as she thought of her last impression of him. Lying so close to her. Blood staining his clothing. Chest rising and falling with short, pained breaths. “Yes. I wanted to go to him, but I couldn’t. The pain was…” She shuddered, remembering.
Robert tightened his hold on her and pressed his lips to her temple, lending comfort.
“I managed to reach out and touch his hair.” More tears welled. It had been soft and dusty. “He was alive, Robert. I know he was, even though the bullets passed through his vest the way they did mine. But I don’t know how long he could’ve lasted, especially if one of them hit an artery.”
“You remember naught after that?” he asked softly.
She struggled to dispel the shadows that shielded those final moments. “Sometimes when I first wake up in the morning, I remember a man looming over me.” She frowned. “Not Kingsley or Vergoma. Someone else.”
“A third criminal?”
“I don’t know. We were only looking for the two, but they could’ve had help. There could have been others with them.” She shook her head. “To be honest, I’m not sure it really happened. The third man leaning over me, I mean. I think maybe my memory is playing tricks on me or I was hallucinating from the pain or blood loss or something.”
“Why?”
“Because the man was wearing a long black robe. The kind of robe a monk might wear.” And he had smelled of exotic spices. “All he needed was a scythe and he would’ve been the stereotypical personification of Death.”
When Robert didn’t offer a response, she leaned back and studied him.
His face went blank, which she knew meant something troubled him and he was trying to hide it.
“What is it?” she asked, stomach sinking.
“The man wore a dark robe?”
She nodded. “It had a hood and—as I said—reminded me of something a monk might wear. Although I don’t think a monk would have that much hair.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had this amazing, long hair that fell all the way down to his waist.”
“What color was it?”
“Black.”