“Like Roy? Just set people up who get in your way?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Patrick knows the truth, Walker. He’s probably already told people.”
“Yes, well, one problem at a time. Juliet, if you don’t come out right now, things are not going to turn out well for you.”
Walker kept his gun pointed at Chris and walked to the closet. It had sliding doors and he opened one, his gun steady on Chris but his gaze peering into the darkness. He pushed his hand into some of the clothes.
“Juliet, get out here!”
He stepped into the closet a little more and leaned forward. But suddenly he cried out, the gun falling from his hand and hitting the floor. Jules screamed and Walker stumbled backward. Something was sticking through his front and out of his back, on his left side under his rib cage. Something sharp, almost spear-like. Blood drained out and he fell sideways. He moaned and Chris could now more clearly see an iron-like stick coming out his front, near his belly. Was that a poker?
“Jules!” Chris said, grabbing Walker’s gun.
“In here,” she cried.
Chris hurried to the closet, his shoulder burning.
Jules scooted to the opening. “I can’t walk,” she said. She looked at Walker and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh no . . .”
“Don’t worry about him.” Chris retrieved his own gun and tucked Walker’s into the waistband of his jeans.
Walker moaned again.
“Come on. I can help you with my good arm. Can you stand?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay.” Chris stooped. “Put your arms around my neck.”
Jules complied and Chris stood, using his good arm to lift her. She cried out.
“Hang on. I just want to get you out of this room. Then we’ll figure out how to get you to the truck.”
She clung tightly to him, and he managed to lift and drag her, with her toes barely touching the ground, out of the room and down the hallway. He got her to the couch and set her down.
“It hurts so much,” she cried. “You’re . . . You’ve been . . .”
“I’ll live,” Chris said. “First I need to stop the bleeding.” He laid his gun on the coffee table and went to the kitchen, rummaging through the darkness for a rag or towel. Once he’d found several, he went back to the couch. “Can you tie these around my shoulder?”
Jules nodded. Her hands were shaking but she managed to tie two towels together and then tie them around his shoulder. His forehead was dripping sweat and he felt dizzy, but he tried to shake it off.
Tears streamed down her face. “What happened to Patrick?”
“I don’t know. I’ll help him as soon as I get you to a safe place. I don’t know who else is out there.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes. He was trying to protect you. He told me he knew about what happened to Jason.”
Jules nodded. “We can’t let them get away with it.”
“I know. We won’t. But first we have to get off this mountain. My truck is parked about fifty yards away, through that clearing. Before we move, I have to determine if there’s anyone else. I heard another gun being fired. Sounded like a rifle.”
“That might be Paul.”
“Who is that?”
“Patrick’s paranoid neighbor. He’s the one who knew you were coming before you arrived. He’s a little bit crazy, I guess, but I think he’s on our side. At least . . . mine and Patrick’s side.”
“Okay.” Chris took a deep breath. His heart was pounding fitfully. He needed a drink of water. He went to the kitchen for a glass and splashed his face from the sink. He couldn’t afford to pass out.
“I think the only way I can get you out of here, since I can’t carry you, is for you to ride piggyback. Can you do that? Your arms are okay?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then let’s—”
Chris was knocked down by a figure he only saw briefly before he hit the ground. Chris managed to get to his feet, but Walker was on top of him again, shoving him against what Chris thought at first was a wall. But something pressed against his hip and he realized it was a doorknob.
Chris pushed against Walker’s face, but Walker had him around the throat, his face like a bulging red blister, his eyes wild with hate. Chris was choking and losing breath quickly. Screaming, Jules threw something that hit Walker in the back. With that short distraction, Chris managed to turn the doorknob. The door opened and he fell backward, out into the cold.
They were on a deck, one that looked like it was suspended over the side of the cliff. An iron guardrail went all the way around it. Chris felt wet and sticky at his belly and realized Walker had been bleeding all over him. He’d pulled the poker out at some point.
Walker lunged forward and pinned him against the railing. Chris felt the gun at his back but he’d never be able to get it. He began to tip over the edge. Below him, he could see the vast valley, hollow and sweeping. There was no way to survive the fall. And Walker knew it. He pushed harder, grabbing Chris’s waist, trying to throw him over.
Chris was losing his footing fast. Neither man, as they bled out, was particularly strong at this point, but Chris had only one good arm to work with. Walker was pale, his lips turning blue. But his eyes were wide and erratic; Chris knew it was adrenaline that kept this guy moving. He wanted to kill Chris if it was the last thing he did.
The edge of the iron railing pressed against his back, slicing with every movement. Chris had to get the upper hand—and fast. His only hope was to bring Walker to his knees, and at the moment he had one weak spot: a hole through his abdomen.
Walker got a good grip on Chris’s coat and ripped it sideways, throwing Chris off-balance. And with that, Walker managed to get his arm hooked under Chris, who felt himself being lifted off the ground. The only foot still touching the deck was slipping and sliding in a pool of blood.
Inside, he could hear Jules screaming his name.
Walker moved his arm and Chris took his shot. With his hand balled into a fist, he pushed it into Walker’s side, right at the wound. Walker screamed and Chris tried to use the momentum to push him off-balance. But with one hard strike, Walker punched him in the stomach and Chris lost all his breath.
He could still hear Jules screaming, but now it sounded distant, as if it were in a tunnel. Walker was shouting and cursing at him, but it was delayed in his head, echoing around like his mind was a cave.
Chris found himself turned around, lifted off the ground. He tried to grip the railing, but his fingers slipped. He tried again and caught it, but he was halfway over and there was nothing but black, jagged rocks below. His vision blurred and he closed his eyes, trying to fight but losing momentum.
And in his mind, he could hear himself calling for God. He listened, fascinated by how urgent he sounded. How he sounded as if he knew to whom he was calling. And strangely, he heard his name called back, by a voice saturated with all that was good and right. It was a strong voice, yet strangely intimate—a voice he’d never heard but always known.
He found himself laughing and floating, feeling a perfect peace. Jason had spoken of this peace before. He called it the peace that passed all understanding. Chris never knew what he meant by that, until now. Dangling over a cliff, about to lose his life, he felt that somewhere on his way down, trusted hands would at the very least catch his soul.
I’m ready. I believe.
Through the peace that had swept over him like a lullaby, a noise sounded around him. It was a familiar noise but he couldn’t place it. Before he could figure out what it was, he felt weight drop off him.
Chris opened his eyes. Walker fell to the ground as he clung to the railing. Then Chris fell too, nearly on top of Walker, and rolled off him onto the icy deck.
“Jules!” he called. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she cried. “What happened?” He couldn’t see her. He guessed she was still on the couch, unable to move.
“Patrick!” Chris called. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer. And the man disappeared into the shadows.
“Patrick!”
“Chris?” he heard Jules call.
“I’m coming.” Chris tried to get to his feet. It took three tries. The towel that had been tied around his shoulder was soaked in blood. It dripped through his fingers as he held his hand against it.
He took a few tentative steps. He managed to grab the doorway and make it inside.
Jules gasped when she saw him. “Chris . . . hurry. Come over here. We’ve got to stop the . . . the . . .”
“I know.” Chris stumbled and collapsed onto the couch.
Jules untied the drenched towels. “You’ve got to go find something. A T-shirt. Something like that.”
Chris nodded.
She pointed to the opposite bedroom. “In there. That’s Patrick’s room.”
Chris stood, his legs wobbly underneath him. Using the furniture and walls, he stumbled forward. It was still hard to see, but the bedroom looked abnormally cluttered. He found a chest and pulled open two drawers before finally finding undershirts. He grabbed four and made it back to Jules.
“How do you feel?” she asked, quickly tying one around his shoulder. “You look pale.”
“I don’t feel good. But I can make it to the truck.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead. “The question is, how do we get you there?”
Jules looked through the doorway that opened to the deck. A cold breeze was blowing through. “Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Leave me here. Go down and get help.”
“I’m not leaving you here. There is no way. We’ll figure something out.”
Jules tied two more shirts around his shoulder.
“Okay, that’s good enough for now. I’m going to open this other door, look outside for a bit, see if I can figure something out.” The cold air might also keep him from bleeding as fast. And keep him alert.
Jules nodded.
He picked his gun up off the table and opened the door. All was quiet in a night that had been filled with so much chaos. The clouds had cleared and the moon was shining some light into the darkness. He stepped outside, wondering if it was safe enough to leave Jules to drive his truck all the way up to the cabin. And there, right in front of him, was a shiny, silver sled . . . as if someone had anticipated his needs. He looked around but saw no one. He couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that he was being watched.
Chris hurried to grab the sled’s rope. The sled was lightweight, made of aluminum. He pulled it to the step of the cabin with ease. The cold air had done him some good. Back inside, he went to Jules on the couch. “Okay, put your arm around my neck. I just have to get you to the door. There’s a sled right outside to pull you to the truck.”
“What about Patrick? Is he dead? Did you see him dead out there?” Her eyes filled with desperate tears.
“I didn’t see him.”
“Who shot that guy?”
“I don’t know. Now let’s go.”
Together they hobbled toward the door, both of them growling through their own pain. He got her to the sled and nearly dropped her into it. She bit her lip as if holding in a scream. But after a moment, she nodded that she was okay.
Chris picked up the rope in one hand and pointed his gun outward with the same hand, whipping it back and forth, looking for any small movement. He would probably shoot first and ask questions second, but he couldn’t pull her and point the gun at the same time. He was going to have to make a choice.
In the snow, his toes had gone completely numb. A lot of things were going numb, including the arm that had been shot. He was having trouble holding the gun. Within moments, he had to drop it. He looked ahead, focusing on the truck.
“Jules,” he whispered, “grab that gun.”
She nervously reached for it and tucked it close to her.
He moved them swiftly down the small hill and toward the truck. Once they reached it, Chris gasped for breath that was harder and harder to get. His lungs felt like they’d shrunk to half their size. He leaned against the passenger door for a moment, his body shivering from the cold and shaking from the blood loss. Jules looked up at him, as if wondering how she was going to get in the truck.
He took as deep a breath as he could and stooped. “Put your arm around my neck.” It felt like the muscles in his back were going to snap right out of his skin as he lifted her. He accidentally banged her against the door but she managed to reach around him and open it. With fingers he could barely feel on his other hand, he grasped the edge and opened it wider.
He practically dumped her inside. With his good arm he helped her sit up and get situated.
“You okay?”
She touched his cheek gently and smiled through tears. “Yes.”
“Okay. Hang in there.” He shut the door and moved around the back of the truck, holding onto the rim of the bed, to get to the other side. His eyes were fixed on the dark wilderness, searching its shadows for Patrick or anyone else. Nothing moved but the lightly falling snow.
He got into the truck. Jules was leaning forward, searching the darkness too.
Chris touched her arm. “We have to go.”
“What about Patrick?”
“I don’t care about Patrick. I care about you.”
He turned the truck on and the heater blew through the cold, relaxing them both a little. He gripped the steering wheel so his hands wouldn’t shake.
Jules turned to him, putting her hand on his shoulder, seeming to understand more than she could say. “Thank you . . .”
He smiled at her. Frankly he couldn’t believe they’d made it out alive. “We’ll drive down until we can get a cell phone signal, then call the police, okay?”
“I’m not going to press charges against him,” she said resolutely.
Now was not the time to argue that point.
“I know it sounds weird, but I think . . . I think this was all a gift.”
“I don’t know what that means. But I have to disclose everything in the report. We’re witnesses. I can’t lie for him. Or you. I hope you can understand that.”
“I understand,” she said, and she really seemed to.
The darkness seemed to grow thin against the emerging moon. Only wispy, haunting clouds floated by. He watched Jules. She was far away but peaceful.
“We need to get you medical attention, okay? We need to go.”
She nodded, whispered a quiet good-bye as if Reagan stood right there in front of the truck, and then she gently slipped her hand into his.
THE KIDNAPPING HAD become legendary overnight. As soon as the police got to the cabin, so did the press. Finally they had found Patrick Reagan’s secret retreat. Pictures leaked out. It was breaking news on every channel. The private man she knew him to be was spoken of every five seconds every day for weeks.
Jules refused to do television interviews about her experience as Patrick’s hostage. But she hated the things that the news reported about him. So much of it was untrue. Speculation. He was grossly misrepresented in every way.
She wanted people to know the truth. And she had the perfect platform for it too.
When Enoch released with more fanfare than it could’ve ever had on its own merit, Jules decided to speak about Patrick, on her terms and in controlled environments. As she did readings and speaking engagements, she began to refer to him. Without giving much detail about her time with him, she spoke to his character. His kindness. His immense love for the craft of writing. And his
knowledge of it too. She spoke of the changes she made to her manuscript, how she found her way to a deeper truth. She never took questions and maybe that added to the mystique. But like him, she had no interest in entering into the New York writing scene. She didn’t attend the many parties she was invited to. And since Enoch, she had not written another book.
But she wanted to.
It was an itch that wouldn’t go away. And it made her smile because she knew then that she was a real writer.
It was June and the weather hinted that it was ready to spread its warmth more consistently. Jules had been writing since before sunrise and had gotten up to stretch her legs and get coffee when she heard her father’s truck pull in. She opened the door and greeted him as he walked up the sidewalk.
“There’s my genius, famous, brilliant daughter!” His face lit with pure delight, and she wondered if there was anything better than seeing delight on a father’s face. He’d aged what seemed like ten years while she was gone that one week. But what she got in return was much better.
He hugged her tightly. “How’s my baby girl?”
“I’m really good, Daddy.”
“You got a signing or anything today?”
“Not today. Just speaking at the library this evening.”
“Glad you mentioned that. I won’t be able to make it to that one. They moved my AA meetings to Tuesdays for the rest of the month.”
She smiled. “It’s okay. I told you, you don’t have to come to everything. There’s too much!”
He cupped her face. “Don’t you know that it’s my favorite thing to do?”
“Come in,” she said, taking his hand. “You want some coffee? I was just taking a break.”
“Nah. I’m on my way to pick up Carla.” He grinned widely. He’d met Carla at one of her book signings. She was very different from Jules’s mother. Kind of homely, with long, gray hair that hinted there might be a hippie in her somewhere. But she was kind, and they shared a love for adventure and travel. They had a special connection, and Jules couldn’t even begin to resent it.
She winked at him. “Don’t let me stand in your way.”
Misery Loves Company Page 23
