Killer Move

She shoved me away, lowering the gun to aim unswervingly at Barclay’s chest. “Good-bye, asshole.”

She pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

But Hallam fired first, and Emily jerked back as if she’d been standing on a rear-ended train. Her shot went wide. She lurched past me over the threshold into the kitchen, falling skewed, sliding on the tiles and smacking back into the oven, her bloodied hand caught under her back, the arm breaking audibly as she landed.

“About time,” Barclay said. “Jesus, Rob, what the hell is wrong with you?”

I ran to Emily. The bullet had gone through her throat, punching a chunk of it out the other side and splashing blood and tissue across the floor tiles. There was a beat of rawness in her neck before blood started to pump up from inside like a storm wave.

I grabbed her bandaged hand, put it to the wound. “Hold it there,” I said, hoping this was the right thing to do. “Hold it tight.”

She stared up at me. Her chest convulsed, as if something was trying to push its way out of her heart. Not violently, but with firm intent. “Oh,” she said.

It happened again, and with the jerk of her rib cage a gout of blood surged from the mess in her neck.

“Please, Emily,” I said. “Hold it. Hold on.”

Her mouth was moving, but nothing made it out this time except wet clicking sounds.

“Call an ambulance,” I shouted at Hallam. He stood frozen, gun still held out, aghast. “Get the paramedics.”

“All units are busy at St. Armands Circle,” Barclay said mildly, as if thinking about other things. “Sorry. Bad break for your girlfriend.”

Emily looked confused. She looked scared. Her eyes were on mine. I thought her left arm was starting to go into spasm, but then realized what she was attempting covertly to do. I slipped my hand along her arm and started trying to prise the gun from fingers that had become locked.

Barclay knew what I was doing. “Aha, now, guns,” he said. “Glad you brought that up. First, there’s no point you going down that road. You’re not going to shoot me.”

I got the gun free from Emily’s hand and stood up.

“Don’t do that, sir,” Hallam said dismally. “Sheriff, I’m going to call the ambulance.”

The weapon felt heavy. It was warm from the sweat and pressure of Emily’s hand. Every single thing I knew about guns had been learned from watching television, and I couldn’t remember any of it. I looked down, however, feeling its heft in my hand, knowing that really I just had to pull the trigger and everything else would follow.

Emily coughed, and made a sound like a rook some distance away in the night.

I looked back at her, but she’d gone.

I’d missed her dying. She went without me watching, without anyone seeing her go. She went alone.

I turned back toward Barclay and thought that maybe I could pull a trigger after all.

“Don’t feel bad,” Barclay said. “Her life was going nowhere fast, trust me. Now, my second gun-related point.” He reached into his jacket. “I found this in the bedroom.” He brought out something and held it out where I could see it clearly. It was a handgun.

Hallam looked at it, then back at me.

“I’ve never seen it before,” I said, straightening. “Deputy, you have to believe me.”

“Hidden under the bed,” Barclay said. “Which is poor. You got a lot to learn, my friend.”

I started to raise Emily’s gun. My hand was shaking badly. Hallam swore, and drew down on me, dropping back into the shooter’s position.

“Mr. Moore, don’t do this,” he said. “I’ve heard what you’ve said. We can talk about it. Come on. Don’t make this situation any worse.”

“The situation’s fucked to hell already. And she was right. This guy knew all about it all along.”

“Mr. Moore, please. Don’t make me do this.”

Barclay raised the gun in his hand and pointed it at me. “Two against one, Mr. Moore.”

“Big—”

I stopped, noticing far too late that the sheriff was wearing surgical gloves.

I moved my finger onto the trigger.

Barclay swung his arm to the side, and fired.

The shot hit Hallam full in the chest. He staggered backward. Barclay fired again, and Hallam fell down.

After a moment, Hallam tried to sit up. Tried to say something. Tried to roll onto his side. None of these came to fruition. He finally managed to turn his face up toward his boss, to start asking a confused question, but he fell back again. I think it took a few minutes for him to die, but basically he was done from that point.

“Are you insane?” I managed to ask, finally. “What . . . what . . . ?”

“That one’s your fault,” Barclay said. “Rob wasn’t the brightest firework in the box, but he was dogged. And honest. You opened the door on a lot of stuff he’d have been far better not knowing. You killed him. I hope you’re fucking proud of yourself. I’m godfather to his kid, for crissake.”