by T. A. Kunz
“Connor!” I yell, rushing to his side.
Blood floods around our hands as I place mine over his. Our teary eyes meet. “You’re going to be all right.” The words get caught in my throat at first, but I’m still able to get them out.
“I hate to be that guy, but I don’t really see this working out in any of your favors,” says Carter in an arrogant tone.
His voice grates on my nerves, but I can’t seem to take my eyes from Connor’s glossy green stare. He grips my wrist with his free hand as our stare deepens.
“I’m sorry you got involved with this,” he says softly as a tear trickles down. “I only wanted to get to know you.”
“Save your energy,” I tell him. “You can apologize all you want when we get out of this, okay?”
He nods before wincing in pain.
“Hellooo?” Carter asks in a drawn-out manner. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re kind of in the middle of a game here. Not to mention I have a gun pointed at you.”
A loud clunk reverberates through the barn. I look over in time to catch Deputy Owens standing over Carter’s unconscious body with a large shovel gripped tightly in his hands.
“This damn punk shot at me,” he huffs.
“Deputy Owens, you’re okay!” announces Drea.
“For the most part, yeah,” he says while snatching up the sheriff’s gun from Carter’s grip. “This isn’t a toy, mister.”
My attention returns to Connor. “See? We’re going to be okay.”
He nods delicately while squeezing my hand harder than before. A pale smile tries to come through but is marred by another pain-induced moan.
A guttural yell pierces the air. Drea’s light glimmers off the knife in Carter’s hand as he springs to life and lunges for the deputy.
“Deputy, behind you!” she cries.
Deputy Owens spins around, primed and ready to fire with the sheriff’s gun still in hand.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
The barn lights up as each consecutive gunshot, like the snap flash of a strobe light. Carter’s body flails with erratic motion as every bullet impacts his chest. His knees crash into the ground with a thump before he collapses forward, face first.
And then there were four.
Drea
“If I never see the flashing lights of an ambulance for the rest of my life, it will still be too soon,” I say to Donovan as we stand by watching the paramedics load Connor inside. He just nods. I wrap my arm around his shoulder and tug him close. “He’s going to make it.”
His water-logged eyes never leave the ambulance. “Yeah, I know.”
“You can go with him if you want,” I offer. “I’ll just hitch a ride with Deputy Owens.”
He sniffles. “I’d love that, but he told me not to. He feels responsible for what happened. He said he might need some time for things to settle … so it’s not so awkward for him.”
“He’ll come around. It’s obvious that he likes you, and you like him. So, maybe just give him some space?” I give his shoulder a quick jostle.
A hint of a hopeful smile sprouts on his lips, but then falters as the ambulance drives away. Deputy Owens finishes a conversation with two other deputies on the scene and breaks away, heading in our direction.
“Hey, you two,” he says. “I believe I owe you both an apology.”
“I think saving our lives is apology enough, Deputy,” I reply.
“Yeah, you’ve more than made it up to us,” Donovan adds with a shallow smirk. “But hearing you say that doesn’t hurt either.”
A half smile appears on the deputy’s face. “Oh, and they found a bike fitting your description, Donovan.”
Donovan perks up a little. “They did? Where?”
“Uh, well, in pieces inside the barn,” the deputy says.
Donovan shrinks back and blows out a sharp breath. “Of course they did. Why would it still be intact? That’d be silly,” he says, his tone full-on sarcastic.
“I’m sure there’s some way we can get you a new one,” the deputy replies.
“At this point, I’m just glad we didn’t end up like the bike, to be honest,” Donavan says. “I think it’s time I invest in a car anyway. My luck with bikes lately seems like a sign.”
“I second that,” I add.
“Well, it seems the officers here have the situation under control,” says Deputy Owens. “What do you say we all get out of here and head back to the station? We’ll call your families when we get there.”
“Sounds good,” I reply and then look over at Donovan.
“Could you drop me off at the hospital where they’re taking Connor?” he asks.
“Did you already change your mind about the whole ‘space’ thing?” I ask with a light elbow to his side.
He gives me a helpless shrug. “I have to see how he’s doing.”
“Hey, I get it,” I say, briefly rubbing his shoulder in a show of support. “I was just kidding.”
Deputy Owens smiles. “I think I can manage that.”
Donovan takes shotgun while I climb into the back. It feels weird sitting there walled off from the front cab by a layer of glass and a metal cage. The feeling could only be made worse if I were in handcuffs.
Glad I’m not claustrophobic.
Deputy Owens slips into the driver’s seat. “Everybody good?” he asks, but it comes through a little muted. Donovan nods and the deputy glances back at me.
“Yep,” I reply close to the divider.
He slides a square window of glass near the center of the divider to the side, allowing us to communicate clearer. “Sorry, about that. Don’t usually have many backseat passengers.”
“It’s definitely cozy,” I say, and he chuckles lightly.
Deputy Owens carefully maneuvers through the maze of vehicles parked out front of the barn. The ride along the trail leading to the main road is a bumpy one. The ground is uneven and rough on the tires.
Complete exhaustion begins to kick in. My eyelids are heavy, and I find myself wanting to nod off. They’re trying to close up shop, but that’s not happening any time soon while we’re bouncing around like this. I’ll wait until we’re on the main road.
“You know, you two should be proud of yourselves for how you handled that situation back there,” the deputy says.
“I wouldn’t call what we did ‘handling the situation,’” I confess with a hollow laugh.
“Yeah, not so much,” Donovan concurs.
“Well, at any rate, at least it’s all over now,” he says.
A huff leaves my lips as I collapse back against the stiff, vinyl-covered seat. A cramp builds in my thigh, so I shift on the unforgiving material to get into a more comfortable position. My foot knocks into something on the floor. I drift my gaze downward, but can’t make out what’s there. It’s too dark. I lean down and my eyes adjust the closer I get. A medium-sized black duffle bag sits there with the zipper partially unfastened. Something is sticking out from the small opening. It appears to be the corner of a book.
Donovan and the deputy are busy chatting, so I take the opportunity to investigate further. My curiosity gets the better of me. I discreetly reach down and slide the zipper all the way back. My eyes grow wide as the cover comes into full view when I pick it up. It’s all black with the pink outline of a fox mask right smack in the center.
Why does he have Carrie’s diary?
Then my eyes catch a second object that was right below it. A plastic evidence bag with a phone in it.
Connor’s phone?
A small gasp slips out of me at the worst possible moment.
“Everything all right back there?” Deputy Owens asks.
The faint words leave me before I have a chance to think about them. “It’s you.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asks, his confused expression reflected in the rearview mirror.
“You’re the one who used us all,” I spew out like verbal diarrhea.
He
scoffs. “What are you talking about?”
Donovan shoots me an equally puzzled look. “What’s going on, Drea?”
“The person Carter was talking about,” I say. “The one who used us all to get your revenge. It was you, Deputy. It was you the whole time.” I showcase the diary and the phone for them to see. “I just found these in your bag.”
Donovan’s expression goes from confusion to shock almost instantly as his attention shifts from me to the deputy. “Deputy Owens, is this true?”
The deputy releases a frustrated sigh. “Carter was right about you two not being able to play along,” he replies.
The car suddenly accelerates and makes a sharp turn onto the main road. I’m sent off balance and slam shoulder first into the car door. My head knocks against the window. Instant headache.
“What the hell are you doing?” Donovan asks as the car swerves erratically back and forth.
I’m tossed from one side to other by the car’s dramatic movements. “Please stop!” I yell when I begin to feel sick to my stomach.
“Oh, like my half-sister probably pleaded with all her supposed friends—your friends—to stop following her that night,” the deputy replies, jerking the wheel and causing the car to veer violently again.
Carrie was his half-sister?
“I’m sorry about what happened to Carrie, but what does this have to do with us?” I ask.
I’m sent crashing back against the unforgiving seat when he floors it again. My arms and legs burn from sliding along the harsh vinyl material. I reach for the seatbelt and fight with it to strap myself in.
“There are usually always civilian casualties, I’m afraid,” he intones.
Through the windshield, I see we’re approaching Devil’s Horn. A left turn is coming up, but the deputy doesn’t seem to be slowing or planning to turn.
Is he going to drive us off the cliff?
Donovan lunges for the wheel, stretching his seatbelt to the limit before it snaps him back. The deputy swings at him, but he dodges to the side and swats his hand away. He hurls himself toward the steering wheel again and seizes it before spinning it sharply to the left. Donovan is knocked back against his seat with a quick shove. The car slams into the guardrail, sending sparks flying into the air as we glide along it. A harsh sound rings out and I cover my ears when it becomes too much to handle. We continue to skid along until the deputy course corrects back onto the road.
Chaos ensues in the front seat as a fight over the steering wheel rages on. I feel like a helpless spectator. Headlights shine through the front windshield. A collective scream fills the cab as the deputy regains control of the wheel in time to dodge the oncoming car. He turns the wheel hard. We spin out of control. The view through the windows blur in my peripherals. Like I’m on the worst kind of amusement park spinning ride in existence. My gut bubbles as I sink back against the seat harder to steady myself.
A sudden impact. A loud crunch.
Then nothing but darkness.
Donovan
I blink my eyes. Blurry slivers of my surroundings come in lethargic waves. My right eye feels weighed down. Compromised. It’s harder to open. A stinging sensation. I run the tips of my fingers across the closed eyelid. They come away damp. They’re covered in blood. My blood. A dull ache rolls through my temple. A mess of confusion.
The range of movement for my chest and hips are limited by the taut seatbelt. I try to press forward, but there’s no give. No slack. My legs feel constricted to the space near the center console. It takes a moment for me to gain my bearings. Attempting to do that while also competing with the massive headache trying to assault my brain is easier said than done.
I reach for the door handle, but it isn’t where my hand instinctively lands. My palm grazes a sharp piece of something in the process. Upon further inspection, I see the door is actually bent inward. Almost split in half.
How am I still alive?
A mangled combination of metal and plastic pieces protrudes toward me from the door. My eyes peer out the shattered window and see the distorted outline of a thick pole with the assistance of a light from above. A lamppost. The door is securely wrapped around it.
I’m not getting out that way.
My gaze drifts out to the view through the front windshield. My brain registers the cliff’s edge. Devil’s Horn. But there’s no guardrail here, meaning nothing is between us and the massive drop-off. The lake beyond appears like a huge blob of black matter outside of the light’s reach. Infinite darkness.
My attention moves over to the limp body of Deputy Owens next to me before peering into the back seat at Drea. Both seem unconscious.
“Drea,” I whisper, but get no answer.
I switch my focus back to the deputy. His head is leaned back against the seat and tilted away from me. There’s a trickle of blood traveling down from his forehead, gathering on his cheek. I press the release for my seatbelt, first with the slightest pressure and then apply more at a slow pace. When it clicks free, I unbuckle and guide the strap to its resting position so it doesn’t snap back. I lean toward him and wave my hand in front of his face to check his alertness. He doesn’t react. His chest still rises and falls in rhythmic succession with a slight flaring of his nostrils. He’s still alive.
My eyes locate the handle for the driver’s side door. It seems like the only way I can get out of here.
I need to get to Drea.
I take in a shallow breath and carefully place my hand on the steering wheel to brace myself while I stretch over the deputy’s body to reach the door’s handle. It’s just out of my grasp. I slide my hand further along the top of the steering wheel to get a better grip and reach out again.
Almost there.
My fingers grip the handle and I’m able to pull it. The door cracks open. My eyes dart over to Deputy Owens. No change. I push it the rest of the way and it continues to creak open. I cringe at the thought of the deputy waking up. I check again. He’s still out cold.
Heart attack central.
My sweaty palms betray me in the worst way possible and slip off the wheel. My side rams right into the steering wheel. The horn blares. My hip crashes down onto the control panel containing all the center console’s electronics. The flash of green and yellow lights shows through the open car door. I raise away from the steering wheel and steady myself. My eyes shoot over at the deputy. He’s still unconscious.
Damn, that was close.
I slink back to my seat to shift myself into a seated position. I lift my leg up and over the deputy’s lap, aiming to plant my foot on the edge of the open door’s frame. My hand shoots up to grab the little handle above the door when I lose my balance. Now straddling the deputy’s lap, I move my foot out further to touch down on the ground. I stare back at the last appendage I need to get to safety. Lifting it into the air, I bend at the knee and hold onto the door to steady myself as I retract my leg. Slow and deliberate movements.
Thread the needle.
Miraculously, I’m able to get my other leg out without incident. I lunge for the back door and yank it open. I unbuckle Drea and lightly tap her cheek to wake her. Her eyes flutter. She lifts her hand up to graze her head while letting out a low groan.
“Drea, I know it’s hard, but we need to go now,” I say, trying to pull her along.
She snaps to and assists herself out of the car. We begin to limp away. Then I stop to peer back at the cruiser.
“Wait here,” I tell her.
“What are you doing?” she asks in a sluggish whisper.
“He still has a gun. If he catches us, he’ll just shoot at us.”
Her nervous whine behind me doesn’t fill me with much confidence in the decision I’ve made. The short hike back to the driver’s side door seems like I’m walking down an endless tunnel. I have to look down to make sure my feet are actually moving forward. My breathing is loud in my ears as I fight to quell my rampaging heartbeat. I spot the gun in its holster on the deputy’s left hip.
The evil bastard’s left-handed? He’s giving them a terrible name.
I dip down and lean my hand in for the holster. At first my fingertips struggle to undo the button securing the flap in place. It’s really locked in. I use my fingernail to dig under it and hear it click free. I grip the handle of the gun and tug it loose from its seated position.
My attention is fixed solely on the gun and its safe retrieval. The moment I get it free from the holster, my eyes glance up to see Deputy Owens staring right at me.
I roll back onto my heels, gun in hand, and land flat on my ass. He lurches forward and seizes control of the gun’s barrel when I try to point it at him. I manage to get my finger over the trigger and pull. The shot misses and blows out the driver’s side window. He moves on top of me and straddles my hips, pinning me to the ground. He works his left hand up to my throat while holding both of mine clutched around the gun at bay with his right.
“Get off of him, asshole,” Drea blares. Her black shoe-clad foot enters my field of vision and connects with his head.
He groans and falls to the side, cradling his face in his hands. Drea helps me to my feet. I immediately point the gun at him again.
“Why did you do this?” I demand between desperate breaths.
He shakes his head while raising himself to sit up. His hand rubs his jaw as he contorts it back and forth. “I think you knocked out a tooth,” he says, ignoring the question.
My anger mounts to the nth degree. “Answer me, dammit!”
He relaxes back against the side of the cruiser for support and stares directly at me. “Let me ask you a question, Donnie boy,” he begins, and then hocks a ball of bloody spit off to the side. “If you were given a chance to get revenge on the person responsible for your father’s death, would you?”
The question catches me off-guard. My hands quake as I try to maintain my aim at him.
His eyebrow quirks. “No opinion? Fine. How about you, Drea? Didn’t you want to get revenge when your undercover girlfriend was murdered?”
