“And how did you and Gracie meet?” asked Jenny.
“Ha. Now that’s a good story. I stopped her for speeding. She was doin’ about sixty on River Road, which is kinkier than a hunnerd-dollar—” Waylon stopped himself, blushing. “Kinkier than a worm on a hook. And there was something about her . . .” He paused, seemingly caught up in the memory, but then his gaze snapped toward the back door.
I followed his gaze. “Waylon?”
He held up a big hand, listening. Then, very softly, he said, “Would y’all ’scuse me just a minute? I think I’ll just step outside.” He walked—casually, it seemed—but not to the kitchen door. Instead, he returned to the living room, and I heard the front door open and then close quietly.
Jenny stared at me; I shrugged, as if Waylon’s sudden departure meant nothing, then said, “Maybe we should go back into the living room for now.” Her eyes widened, and she nodded wordlessly.
Jeff glanced from my face to Jenny’s, and what he saw there made him go pale. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “Waylon got a funny look on his face and said he needed to go outside for a minute.”
Walker smirked. “Did he need to have a chew?”
His brother groaned. “Walker, you are such a dumb-ass.”
“Tyler!” snapped Jenny.
“Sorry, Mom,” he said, and I saw something in the boys’ faces shift—saw alarm setting in—as they took the measure of Jenny’s agitation.
Jeff’s gaze drilled into me. “Dad?”
“I’m sure everything’s fine,” I said. “Waylon’s just being careful. That’s what he’s here for.”
I was about to add, “He’ll be back any second,” when I was interrupted by scuffling sounds coming from the backyard. We turned toward the kitchen, all of us, and stared, frozen, as if by looking hard enough, we might be able to see through the walls and out into the night, where grunts and thuds and snarls hinted at a desperate struggle in the dark.
“Y’all stay together,” I said. “Jenny, call 911. Jeff, do you have a gun?” He nodded. “Get it, right now. Everybody go together. Stay together. In a room without windows. The laundry room, or a walk-in closet. You hear anybody at the door, you start shooting.”
“You’re coming with us,” said Jenny.
“No, I’m not. Now go. Hurry!” Turning from them, I ran to the front door, and outside, hurtling down the steps and running to the street, where the FBI sedan idled at the curb, dark and imposing. And empty.
Except that it wasn’t. When I leaned against the driver’s window, cupping my hands around my face to block the streetlight’s glare, I saw a man slumped across the front seat, his starched white shirt slowly going crimson as blood oozed over the collar and seeped downward.
Yanking open the door, I held a palm in front of the agent’s face and waited, but I felt no breath. Grabbing his left wrist, I sought a pulse, but felt none. Reaching under his arm, I clutched the pocket of his shoulder holster, but felt no gun.
What to do, what to do? Standing in the glare of a suburban streetlight, beside the dead FBI agent in his idling car, I heard the wail of a siren—no, of multiple sirens—in the distance, headed my direction. Hurry. Hurry. Help was coming—but help would be too late.
I turned toward the house, its front windows brimming with cozy amber light. Behind it, the dark tops of pines and oaks. “Waylon!” I ran, sprinting up the driveway and around the end of the house. “Waylon! He’s here! Watch out!”
But I knew that my warning, like the police, was too late. Suddenly, somewhere in the darkness behind the house, I heard a loud grunt and a sharp gasp, followed by a groan of great pain. I froze, and in the stillness that followed, a shot rang out, and then another. Another cry of pain—this one sharper, higher in pitch—and the sound of footsteps, staggering and uneven, across the back of the yard and around the far end of the house, toward the front yard and the street. For an instant I hesitated, then I set off in pursuit.
I rounded the corner just in time to see the FBI sedan rocket down the street, tires squealing and rear end fishtailing. Too late, I cursed myself. Too late.