by Snow, Nicole
Until she didn’t.
And I guess those reserves of grief inside Justin cracked.
Building his hatred over time as he kept looking for someone to blame. It must’ve fucking eaten him up to see Warren and me and the others getting all the credit for recent events when he hated Warren for surviving Jenna...
...and hated me for not being good enough, fast enough, to get his ma out of the Paradise Hotel in time.
Maybe he’s right to.
I’m only human.
Only one man.
And there just wasn’t enough time, enough resources, to get through all that chaos when no one knew what was going on, who was alive inside, who was dead. Nobody knew about the lab incinerating itself in the mountain nearby, causing the fire.
Maybe nobody could’ve saved Constance Bast that night.
That don’t mean he’s wrong for needing someone to hate.
Or for hating me.
But even if I hurt for him, even if I get why he’s gone off the deep end with a festering wound that never healed, I won’t let this crazy SOB do this.
I’ll kill him if I have to, or let him kill me if it puts a stop to this shit.
And I take another step closer, careful, wary.
“Andrea isn’t Jenna, man. You know that,” I say. I can’t get him too excited, but I gotta snap him out of this fantasy. “You can’t bring Jenna Ford back. None of us can. You’re just taking my little girl away from me. Is that what you want? To make me hurt the way I made you?”
“Yes!” Justin roars. “You deserve it! You deserve pain, and yet you still get everything! You get to have Andrea. You get to have Peace. You get to be Mr. Fucking Radio Man, fixing everybody’s problems when you aren’t talking about your stupid conspiracy shit and—”
“And a dead wife,” I growl. “A dead ma. A brother I can’t stand and don’t know how to talk to even though he’s trying his damnedest to get through to me.”
He stops, staring, a wild tear sliding down his cherry-red cheek.
“I know what it’s like to hurt, Justin. I know what it’s like to miss ’em. And you wanna be mad at someone for taking them away. But really, no matter what things were like when they were alive, whether they were good or bad people...you’re really mad at them for leaving you before you can set things right.”
It’s raw, how painfully true that is.
How long it’s taken me to figure it out.
Yeah, things were bad with me and Abby.
With me and Ma.
But I keep feeling the same thing.
Like they checked out before I had a chance to make things better.
Like they just left me with these scars while they got to run away, and maybe it doesn’t make sense, maybe it’s selfish, but we’re human. We get to be selfish when we’re hurting.
Fuck, I’m mad.
I’m furious at life, but as soon as I realized it, I didn’t go postal with a goddamn flamethrower.
I let it go.
And this calm rushes in to take its place.
A calm that tells me I can do this.
Somehow, I can talk Justin down. If I can just get through to him.
As I start to open my mouth again, that’s when I see her.
Peace.
She’s with Clark, creeping along the edges of the carnival grounds, using the flames and the stalls to mask their movements, ducking behind some of the tents set up all around. This is a hellscape, a mess of jumping sparks, just waiting for the right one to catch the wind and turn this into one of those forest fires it takes an entire statewide effort to stop.
But I know, the moment I see her, we’re gonna get through this. She stops, peering around from behind a tent, catching my eye.
I can’t be too obvious looking at her.
Can’t tip Justin off that she’s there.
But she mouths I’ve got this.
And I know Andrea’s gonna be fine.
Because she’s got Peace’s love to hold her through.
And so do I.
I just gotta keep Justin distracted and trust Peace to do her thing.
Even if it means letting him hurt me.
And I deliberately move within his reach, within range of the flamethrower, even as I keep my hands up.
He jerks the nozzle of the flamethrower up, taking aim at yours truly, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you fucking think I won’t.”
“I know you will,” I say, locking my gaze on him as I drop my hands, bracing myself, ready to move. My thigh burns hotter than any flames around me, but I can’t fucking care right now.
Peace is moving, darting toward the tent Clark pointed to, disappearing inside.
I inch closer to Justin, making sure his attention stays riveted on me.
“If you hate me that much,” I say, “come and get me.”
He lets out a wild, savage scream like a war cry.
Then charges dead at me, his hand clenching the flamethrower’s trigger.
Fire erupts like dragon’s breath in front of me, lashing out in burning tongues.
I throw myself to one side, hitting the ground hard on my shoulder and rolling, the flames licking over me so close I feel the hairs on my beard singe.
Shitfire!
Literally.
I’m gonna have to move faster if I want to stay alive.
Breathing hard, I spring up to brace my weight on my good knee, tensed and ready. He swings the flamethrower in a guttering arc, sending fresh bursts everywhere and catching on more banners, signs—dammit, everything.
I hope like fuck somebody got on their cellphone and called Missoula.
’Cause right now, we’re trapped in an oven of our own making, and Justin keeps turning up the heat.
He lunges at me, whipping the flamethrower back and forth like he’s trying to cross swords, only I got no damn sword to fight back.
So I throw myself left, right, and for a second my bum leg actually fucking saves me when he jets that thing right at my face. My thigh goes out under me, dropping me to the ground flat on my back.
Good timing.
That last burst would’ve seared my face off.
He moves to lord over me, grinning wide, pointing the flamethrower at the center of my chest. “You’re too slow. Too pathetic. I don’t know what anyone sees in you. What I tried to see, once...”
“Me neither,” I say. “Guess folks stick around ’cause I’m one stubborn son of a bitch.”
He barely gets a second for his eyes to narrow.
I shove my good foot right at his leg, hitting him hard in the knee.
He goes down with a howl, fingers clenched on the flamethrower, sending hellfire right at my chest. The burn hits me hard even as I roll away, scorching through my jacket and shirt. I hiss through my teeth, smacking my hands against the fabric to put out the embers, but I got no time for pain.
All I got are endorphins.
Desperation.
And the hopeful sight of Clark and Peace ducking and weaving through the flames, with Andrea bundled between them.
I’d scream with relief.
If only Justin wasn’t up again and charging right at me, stabbing that stupid flamethrower like a spear.
I dive to the side, making it look like a deliberate stumble, leading him around. Leading him away, keeping his back to Andrea as I constantly duck and weave just out of his reach, pulling him in my wake like I’m fishing, and I’ve got him on the hook.
Please, I think. Get my baby girl out safe.
Please get yourself out safe, darlin’.
Forget about me and just run.
Wish I could follow my own advice.
Justin backs me up like he’s feinting with a bull, swishing the flamethrower back and forth in arcs of bright orange, making trails on the air. Everything’s falling down around us, his wild spray catching booths, tent poles, tent cloth, light fixtures...
It’s all just glowing orange, black, the colors of destruction.
Maybe nothing left of me but dust. I hit a wall of flame at my back, all around me, the heat blistering, pushing me forward like a forcefield.
Pushing me back toward Justin.
He’s got me cornered now.
And he knows it, too, stopping with a grin and that fucking thing held ready.
He can’t have much fuel left after this rampage.
I hoped he’d spent it all, but I guess I’m just not that lucky.
Slowly, I hold my hands up, breathing hard, sweat licking over me and soot sticking to me.
“Okay,” I gasp. “Okay. You got me.”
“You’re damn right I do. Finally. Points for making me work for it, I guess.”
He steps closer, pressing the nozzle right against my chest, the metal ring burning-hot, searing at my already burning skin and making me wince.
Too damn bad.
I won’t flinch, won’t back down.
If I jump him right as he lights me up, I can take him down with me. I’ll hold my whole flaming body to his, burn him up with me, trigger that fuel line to blow him to kingdom come.
For Peace. For Andrea. For Heart’s Edge, I’m ready.
The Reaper doesn’t scare me. Neither does this crazy little shit.
His leer turns cold, a dark and ugly grimace—but there’s a familiar sadness there, too. Sorrow, loss, and I think it’s sinking in already that killing me won’t end his pain.
Won’t bring anybody back.
But that ain’t gonna stop him.
I brace myself for a world of hurt as he whispers, “You can tell Jenna and my mom hello when you get there—if you’re worthy of anything but hell.”
This is it.
My legs tense, ready to jump as soon as he lights me up like a candle. I watch him like a hawk.
His finger tightens on the trigger.
And a massive, roaring crash explodes behind him.
My face jerks up as a fire truck comes roaring through the blaze, smashing through the last of the burning walls and bursting out of the riot of flames, bearing down on Justin like a freight train.
It’s my brother behind the wheel.
Holt’s eyes set and grim, his grip on the steering wheel strong as he comes plowing at us without a second’s hesitation.
We lock eyes for barely a breath, and in that moment, I want to scream like I’ve lost my shit.
I trust my brother.
And I throw myself out of the way, while Justin turns with a wide-eyed scream.
He doesn’t have a chance.
I go tumbling into a snowbank and almost roll right into another flaming booth.
There’s a horrible thwack!
Justin disappears under the fire truck’s wheels, crumpling up like a doll with no sound but the crush of bone and the crinkle of collapsing metal and wet spurts of fuel.
Then nothing as the fire truck goes completely still.
Holt kicks the door open, leaning out, breathing hard, then flashes me a grin that can’t mask his tension and the sense of horror in his whiskey eyes, dancing in the firelight.
“Sorry I’m late,” he gasps out. “Got locked up.”
“You just gotta make a joke now?” I groan.
He jumps down from the driver’s seat and lopes over to give me a hand, hauling me up with a strength I don’t have.
I start to collapse the second I manage to stand—but he loops an arm around my waist, and I drape mine over his shoulders. He helps me as we limp toward the fire truck.
Plus, the battered, broken body protruding from behind one wheel.
He’s still alive. Fuck.
Justin’s eyes are glazed and blank but open, flicking back and forth, his lips parted as blood trickles out. His body is a twisted mess, limbs contorted in ways no human body should ever be.
I think he’s looking right at me till I hear his words.
“I see her...” he whispers, his voice guttural, as broken as he is. “Mom, hey...Mom, it’s me...”
I ain’t gonna cry.
I ain’t.
But fuck if that don’t stab me right in the guts.
He’s so young, so screwed up, and if things hadn’t gone so goddamn wrong...
I push Holt away, my strength coming back, taking a halting step toward him.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” I choke out. “Fuck, I saw you like family. Why’d you have to go and...”
The words just die in my throat. Questions can’t fix this shit.
Justin’s eyes clear and focus on me.
And he smiles, this pained and awful and accepting grin.
“H-hey, Chief,” he grinds out. “...y-you...you were a good dad. I’m sorry...when I get mad, I just...can’t think straight. But it’s okay, now. I can think again and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it hurts, Mom, it hurts...”
He trails off in a broken, hushed sob.
I’ve seen that look, heard that anguish before, that trembling, crumpling expression.
It’s loneliness.
The fear that death’s coming, and dammit...no matter what this poor misguided idiot did to me, I won’t let him spend his last seconds alone.
“Help me,” I mutter to Holt.
He gets me down, both of us on one knee.
I reach for Justin’s bloody hand, his shaking fingers, and clasp his weak grip in mine.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” I grind out, my throat so thick I can barely talk. “It’s fucking okay now. You can let go.”
He blinks at me slowly, blankly. My eyes blur, right when his go clear.
His fingers go limp.
And then slip free, falling to the ground with a heavy thud as his head lolls to one side.
I know.
I shouldn’t feel shit for someone who hurt me and mine so bad.
But I meant what I said about him, and I can’t help but think.
That could’ve been me or Holt in another life.
There’s a heavy, somber silence before I reach out and brush my fingers over Justin’s eyes, closing them so he looks more at peace.
“Let’s get him out from under there,” I say. “And then let’s go clear a path.”
23
Till the Fat Lady Sings (Peace)
When I was a kid, there was this film I loved called Meet the Robinsons.
It was this cute CGI thing, with a boy getting whisked off to the future with a time traveler to recover some stolen device. I can’t remember the entire plot, but I remember one scene really well.
The bad guy sends a T-Rex after the kid heroes.
But the T-Rex chases them into a corner and can’t get to them because every time it charges in, its massive head hits the wall while its tiny arms can’t reach, wobbling and flailing and always falling short of the boys.
It’s the best line in the film, the T-Rex talking in this weird Charlie Brown teacher voice to his furious master.
I have a big head and little arms. I’m just not sure how well this plan was thought through.
That T-Rex?
That’s me right now.
I had the brilliant idea to buy everyone a few precious minutes and shelter them inside the ice palace.
Too bad that brilliant idea doesn’t hold up very well under the simple truth that ice melts.
So.
I’ve got a headache and arms full of unconscious girl, and the walls are wet and running and growing thinner as the flames work their way through. People cower back, screaming, whimpering, hopeless, trapped on all sides like fireflies inside a jar.
And I’m just not sure how well my plan was thought through.
Clark edges in closer, staring at the leaping flames through the translucent walls. “Peace...I think we gotta make a break for it.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I catch Leo’s eye across the room.
He’s got his wife and kid with him—ugh, I hadn’t even real
ized they were here, but he’s using his massive bulk like a wall, keeping people inside. I tilt my head his way, but he shakes his in return.
“If we run, everyone runs,” I tell Clark. “And people are going to get hurt in the chaos. We can’t have a stampede. There are kids here.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” he begs. “Burn to death? Shit, I don’t know...”
“There’s still time,” I whisper, and hold Andrea closer, trying not to sense the change in the air.
It’s getting warmer.
It was frigid before, but the fire’s licking deeper against the ice. It’s warming up fast inside the enclosed space, the air heating as the flames eat through the ice shell, closer to us.
One of the walls is thinner than the others, just a paper-fine shell of ice keeping the fire out, and people start backing up. They’re crowding each other, retreating as the flames leap higher, catching on something with a deafening roar.
Some kind of fuel tank, something, I don’t know what. But suddenly there’s a flash, and I hear the ice cracking, and everyone’s screaming, shoving, and I can’t move or I’ll hurt Andrea, but I don’t know what to do—
Until a loud hiss echoes over the clamor.
I clutch Andrea to me, squeezing one eye open.
I’m just staring as a huge spray of water comes arcing out of nowhere, splashing against the walls and splattering down, dripping down to smother the flames outside.
Not all of the red outside is fire. I see it now.
Some of it’s a fire truck.
Holy hell.
I tumble to my feet, barely keeping my grip on Andrea, staring at the two wavering figures outside. Blurry or not, there’s no mistaking them.
Holt Silverton.
And Blake!
The two of them stand strong, fighting to wrestle the massive high-powered fire hose hooked to the truck. They’re spraying the walls down and smothering the flames under jets of water that freeze as soon as they touch the palace.
Others cry out in relief, and Clark lets out an awkward laugh, realizing the same thing I do.
We’re going to be okay thanks to one jaw-droppingly beautiful hero man.
