by April Henry
He took her hand again, and she followed him as they wriggled themselves between the scratchy hay and the rough wooden wall. As the hay poked her cheeks, got caught in her hair, and snagged her clothes, Cheyenne prayed she wouldn’t sneeze or cough from the dust and mold. Even the smell of smoke seemed stronger in here.
They had gone only a few feet when they froze at the sound of an engine. She hoped it would fade away, but instead it came closer and closer before stopping in front of the barn, the engine idling.
Dwayne was nearly back. Cheyenne’s heart was slamming in her chest.
He got out, his feet crunching on the gravel. The barn door screeched open, and then Dwayne drove in. He was already shouting as he turned off the engine and jumped out.
“TJ! What happened!”
Cheyenne didn’t hear any answer. Evidently, Dwayne didn’t either, because the next sound was the thud of a kick, followed by TJ groaning.
“What happened? Did they set some kind of fire? And Griffin must’ve had a handcuff key on him. I guess he really does take after his dad.” The grudging admiration in Dwayne’s voice turned to annoyance. “Wake up, idiot! Tell me when they left. Tell me which way they went.”
Dwayne was so busy yelling that he didn’t notice the sound of a second vehicle pulling up to the barn. But Cheyenne did. Griffin must have, too, because he squeezed her wrist.
The engine of the second vehicle turned off. A door opened, and feet stepped out onto the gravel. The next thing Cheyenne heard was the most welcome sound in the world. Jaydra’s voice.
“Hold it right there! Put your hands over your head!”
Dwayne didn’t answer.
“Show me your hands!” Jaydra shouted. “I need to see your hands!”
“Okeydokey.” Dwayne’s tone was loose, unhurried. “Here you go.”
A shot split the world in two. Jaydra grunted.
Cheyenne put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. She heard Jaydra take one step on the gravel, then another, and then fall to the ground.
And Dwayne said, “Hey, you asked to see my hands. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to be careful what you ask for?”
CHAPTER 27
TOO LATE FOR YOU
CHEYENNE
The last sound Jaydra had made before she collapsed on the gravel was a grunt. Now even though Cheyenne strained her ears, outside the barn it was deathly quiet. Not a moan, not a whisper.
Her blood turned to slush. No, she thought. No, please, God. Please let her be alive.
Already starting to move from behind the stacked hay bales, she whispered to Griffin, “We have to help Jaydra.”
Griffin grabbed her arm. “We can’t,” he said next to her ear. “If we go out there, Dwayne will shoot us, too.”
“But we just can’t leave her,” Cheyenne said in a strangled whisper. “She’ll die.” What she didn’t say, what neither of them said, was that Jaydra might already be dead.
It was Dwayne who got to Jaydra first. Cheyenne bit her lip as she heard one foot scuff through the gravel and then connect solidly with flesh as he kicked her.
Jaydra moaned in response. She was alive!
“Don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore.” Dwayne’s voice was muffled. He must have been bending down, taking Jaydra’s gun. That meant Dwayne now had two guns and everyone else had none.
When Jaydra spoke, her voice was pinched with pain. Cheyenne had to strain to hear her. “The police are right behind me.”
“Maybe, baby.” Dwayne spoke without urgency. “But whichever way it is, I think they’ll be too late for you.”
Jaydra had told Cheyenne that she would die for her, and Cheyenne had just rolled her eyes. Now Cheyenne was letting her die alone in the dirt. There had to be something she could do before it was too late. Before what Dwayne had said came true.
“We have to help her,” she insisted in an urgent whisper.
“Wait until he leaves,” Griffin whispered back. “As soon as he goes to try to find us, then we can.”
Dwayne’s footsteps crunched. “I do appreciate the ride, though. It’s a lot sweeter than that van.” Cheyenne waited for him to get inside Jaydra’s car, but instead he said, “My, my, what do we have here?”
To her horror, the footsteps came closer. Then the door to their hiding place creaked open. Both she and Griffin froze, not even breathing.
In a lilting voice, Dwayne said, “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
Neither of them moved.
“I can see part of your white cane, Cheyenne. No sense in pretending you’re not there. Suck it up, buttercup. Come on out before I put a bullet hole in you, the way I have all your friends.”
What choice did she have? Cheyenne began to edge her way out from behind the hay bales.
Behind her, she felt Griffin shift as he took his hand off her and put it on the hay hook. She reached back and pressed down on the tool, signaling that he should drop it. He didn’t. In her mind, Cheyenne yelled at him to leave it. If Dwayne felt threatened, she had no doubt that he would shoot Griffin. Half nephew or no half nephew.
“Good thing you’re still here, Cheyenne,” Dwayne said, “or I would be in a very bad mood. And just when things were looking up. Your father should be wiring us the Bitcoins right about now.” He sniffed. “Who’s a lucky duck? Smells like that fire didn’t get put out all the way. Well, I say burn, baby, burn.”
Cheyenne had been concentrating so hard on hiding that she hadn’t noticed the pall of smoke was getting worse. TJ must not have stamped the fire all the way out. Now he was handcuffed next to the place where it had started.
She slid free of the hay bales. Bits of straw stuck to her hair and sweaty skin.
“Okay, Griffin, now you too,” Dwayne said. “And stay loosey-goosey.”
Cheyenne heard Griffin suck in a breath, as if he was readying himself to make a move. What was he going to try to do? The hay hook was an ugly tool, but it would be no match for a gun.
Dwayne took a step forward, and she felt something hard press into the flesh of her forehead. “And just so you don’t get any ideas, the gun is now resting right between your little friend’s eyes.”
She had to do something before it was too late. She and Jaydra had practiced so many ways Cheyenne could defend herself with her cane, but the scenarios had all been theoretical. She had gone through the motions, never believing she would have to use them. Now their lives depended on something working in real life.
Praying that the gun in Dwayne’s hand made him feel invincible, Cheyenne stepped forward on her left foot, cutting an angle so that Dwayne was no longer directly in front of her. As she did, she swung her folded cane across her body in a big circle, striking his wrist and pushing the gun past her.
A bullet sang past her ear and buried itself in the wooden wall. Dwayne cursed as the gun flew from his hand and thudded onto the packed dirt.
Cheyenne wanted to freeze, to contemplate how close death had just come. But in her head, she heard Jaydra’s voice urging her to keep moving.
With her left hand, Cheyenne grabbed for Dwayne’s shoulder. At first she found only air. No, no, no. She pawed the air again, more desperately, and this time the palm of her hand met the top of his shoulder. She pushed down hard, pivoting at the same time, and kicked the back of his knee. Off balance from being pushed in two directions, Dwayne fell to one knee. Just as she swung her folded cane at his face as hard as she could.
It smashed flesh and bone. Hot blood spattered her fingers as Dwayne let out a scream. She felt him reaching out, presumably for the gun. If he got it, he would take only a second to finish what he had started. She couldn’t let that happen.
She slipped behind him, wrapping her right arm around his thick throat. It was like trying to throttle a bull. She needed to put pressure on his carotid arteries to cut off the blood supply to his brain. To give herself extra leverage, she tucked the folded cane in her right hand on the far side of her head. Her neck held it in
place, so that her arm tightened around his throat like a vise.
“What are you doing?” Griffin sounded equal parts scared and awed. “Do you need help?”
Dwayne’s hands clawed at her forearm. But his nails were short, and he couldn’t get any purchase. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder blade to lessen the chance that he could hit her.
“I’m okay,” she panted. “Get his gun.”
As Griffin scrabbled for it, Dwayne squirmed and struggled, finally silent as the depth of his predicament became clear to him and his supply of oxygen began to dwindle. Full of adrenaline, Cheyenne hit him with her left hand, once in the ribs and twice in the temple. She wished she still had the cuffs to serve as brass knuckles. In theory, it should take less than ten seconds for him to lose consciousness.
It had always been imaginary when she had practiced it with Jaydra. Now it was real. It was real, and Jaydra was dying.
Finally, just as Cheyenne’s arm was beginning to tremble, she felt Dwayne’s body go limp. She held on for a few more seconds and then released the cane and let him go. He landed like a two-hundred-pound bag of flour.
“Quick,” Cheyenne told Griffin, “put some handcuffs on him. He won’t be unconscious for long.”
At least she hoped he wouldn’t. Had she held the choke for too long or not long enough?
Griffin retrieved the second gun from Dwayne’s waistband. Since this room didn’t have any handy posts, they settled for cuffing his hands behind him and rolling him onto his back. Griffin took the handcuff key from Dwayne’s pocket and threw it behind the hay.
As they manhandled him, Dwayne seemed completely limp. Was he even breathing? Cheyenne wasn’t willing to put her face right above his, to feel and listen for his breath. Instead she put her hand over his mouth, the way she had with Octavio. Only this time she felt warm air puff out of his nose. She let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. He was alive.
Then he made a rattling sound like a snore on steroids. It was crazy loud, but he still didn’t stir. He did it again.
Dwayne was obviously breathing, but it didn’t sound like normal breathing. It made her think of hibernating bears or World War I biplanes. Had she crushed his windpipe? Cheyenne put her hands on his shoulders. To her horror, she felt his whole body begin to shake. Was he having a seizure? Had she cut off the oxygen too long, damaged his brain?
But then things got even worse.
Because TJ started screaming from the barn. “I’m on fire! I’m on fire!”
CHAPTER 28
PLEAD, PRAY, MOAN, AND SOMETIMES SCREAM
GRIFFIN
Griffin froze, a cold fist of horror replacing his heart.
He remembered screaming like TJ was when he was ten.
His dad had been out in the barn, which was only a little less dilapidated than this one, “cooking.” Griffin had been too young to understand that didn’t mean food, but meth. That day, he had been playing with one of the stray kittens in the yard when it suddenly raced away from him. He gave chase, running after it into the barn.
Roy hadn’t heard Griffin run up behind him and had startled. The meth had blazed up, catching Griffin’s shirt on fire.
At first it hadn’t even felt hot. It had been like he was wearing a tie made of the coldest ice cubes in the universe. Then suddenly it was hot, red hot, eating through him. Griffin had managed to rip off his shirt as his dad swore and batted at the flames, or he would have been burned even worse. He had wanted to die or pass out, but managed to do neither. Not in the barn, not in the ambulance, not in the hospital.
He’d spent weeks in the burn unit, listening to other survivors plead, pray, moan, and sometimes scream. People said it was the lucky ones who cried from the pain, because if you didn’t, it meant your nerves had been burned away.
Now Griffin hated fire in every form. He hated candles, gas stoves, campfires, even his own lighter. Once when he was angry at himself, at how he looked, angry at the sidelong looks his red ribbons of scars earned him, he went inside a bathroom stall at school and locked it behind him. Then he had flicked his lighter and held out the flame, run his palm over it until his mind cleared of everything but pain.
TJ screamed again, waking Griffin out of his trance. “I’ve got to try to help him, Cheyenne,” he said.
Even as she begged him not to go, he grabbed up the hay hook and ran out of the storage area and around the corner of the barn. Next to a Cadillac Escalade parked in front of the open sliding door lay a young woman with a long black braid, her upper body in a dark puddle. She had propped herself up on her elbows, but her face was pale as the moon, shiny with sweat. Past her, past the open barn door, past the white van parked inside, the back of the barn was fully engulfed in fire. TJ was silhouetted against the crackling orange flames. He had managed to push himself to his feet, his hands still locked behind him around the post.
He screamed again, but now it wasn’t even words, just a long, high-pitched howl. But TJ wasn’t on fire. Not yet.
The wooden post he was handcuffed to had begun to burn at the base. TJ’s feet danced as he tried to avoid the flames that were climbing higher.
Griffin sprinted toward him, not even thinking that he had never liked TJ and that he didn’t have a handcuff key or anything to fight the fire. It felt as if he were being given a chance to save himself on that terrible day nearly eight years ago.
Holding the hay hook, Griffin leaped over a small pocket of fire that separated him from TJ. The heart of the blaze was farther back, where Dwayne’s cigarette must have landed. Wishing for his lace-up boots, Griffin kicked at the flames at the base of the post with his flimsy and ineffectual dress shoes. If only he hadn’t thrown away the key.
Maybe he could break down the post with the hay hook. “Move your feet as far out as you can,” Griffin told TJ, “and then stay still.”
TJ continued to caper, too lost in fear to listen, blood gleaming on the side of his face where Cheyenne had hit him. Ducking, Griffin pushed one shoulder against TJ’s back to force him out of the way. He bent over and began to hack at the post with the sharp hook. The handle was only wide enough for one hand, so he wrapped his other hand underneath, at the top of the metal shaft.
His first strike gouged only a tiny dent, less than a half inch deep. He tried again, aiming the hook into the heart of the flames. And again. And again. It was hard to tell if he was making progress, but each strike of the hay hook felt like it landed a tiny bit deeper, and each time he had to pull a little harder to yank it free.
After about a dozen strikes, Griffin was tugging the hook free when flames suddenly began to race up the sleeve of his suit jacket. For a second he froze, ten years old again, terror lodged in his gut like a cannonball. Then he swatted the sleeve against his own leg until he killed the flames. Tearing off the still-smoking jacket, he threw it away from him, far back into the fire. It was consumed in seconds.
The pause made him come to his senses. What was he doing? It was a fool’s errand to try to save anyone, and this was TJ. Besides, he wasn’t getting anyplace. Long before he finished, the fire would eat both of them up and then probably finish off Jaydra for dessert.
If he left now, he could still save himself and help Cheyenne drag Jaydra farther away.
Without a word to TJ, Griffin sprinted for the barn door. He ran past the van and outside into the clean air.
Cheyenne was on her knees, pressing her hand against Jaydra’s side while speaking in a low voice.
Griffin stopped a few feet away and dropped the hay hook, panting and coughing. Bracing his hands on his knees, he threw up.
CHAPTER 29
INTO THE INFERNO
CHEYENNE
After Griffin ran out of the storage area to help TJ, Cheyenne unfurled her cane and hurried after him, searching for Jaydra.
First her cane found the car Jaydra had driven. Cheyenne ran her hand along its side. Her fingers recognized the scratch she had accidentally made with Phant
om’s harness when she first got him. It was Danielle’s Escalade. On the other side of the Escalade, guided by the sound of breathing that sounded all wrong, she found Jaydra.
She fell to her knees. “Are you okay?” Already knowing the answer was no.
In the barn behind her, Griffin was yelling at TJ, telling him to move away from the post. TJ was still screaming, but now he wasn’t even using words.
“Are you okay?” Jaydra asked her own question instead of answering Cheyenne’s. “I heard a gunshot.”
“It didn’t hit anybody. It happened when I disarmed the guy who shot you. Dwayne. He’s Roy’s brother. And then I choked him out with my cane, just like we practiced. Griffin helped me handcuff him.” In just the few seconds she had been by Jaydra’s side, the fire seemed to have gotten hotter. How fast was it spreading? Or maybe she should be worrying about what Dwayne would do once he regained consciousness. Cheyenne decided she would think about those things in a minute. Right now her priority was helping Jaydra.
“Way to go,” Jaydra wheezed. “Good job.”
“I had a good teacher.” Cheyenne had to swallow back tears. “How bad are you hurt?”
For the second time, Jaydra ignored the question. Instead she said, “My phone’s in my back pocket. Call 9-1-1.”
Cheyenne pulled the phone free. Even though she tried to be gentle, Jaydra hissed in pain. She held the phone out so Jaydra could dial, then put it to her ear.
“Nine-one-one operator,” a woman said briskly. “Police, fire, or medical?”
What should she answer? Around the corner, Dwayne was unconscious, handcuffed, and maybe brain damaged. Griffin and TJ were caught in the flames crackling behind her. And in front of her, Jaydra lay bleeding from a gunshot wound.
“All of them!” she panted. “Police, fire and an ambulance. And hurry!”
