by Harry Dolan
“He has.”
“Not enough.”
“This feud between you, it’s all one-sided,” Molly says. “He’s never wanted to hurt you.”
Jimmy laughs, and the laughter goes on a long time. At the end of it he says, “You have no idea. He already killed me once. Down in Tennessee. Shot me three times. I’d be dead now, but—” He raps his knuckles on his chest and hits something hard.
She should have realized before. His shirt is bulkier than it should be. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest underneath.
She wants to hear what happened in Tennessee. But before she can ask, Kelly calls down from the steeple.
“Jimmy. Someone’s here.”
Then Jimmy’s up off the floor. He crosses the loft and reaches the bottom of the spiral staircase as Kelly is coming down.
“Is it Sean?” Jimmy says.
Kelly is shaking his head. “It’s the cop and the Fibbie.”
38
Rafael Garza
He was right about one thing: the place is remote.
Garza steps out of the car and onto the broken road. As he looks around, he’s thinking no one’s been here in a very long time.
There are wooden poles at intervals along the roadside. They would have carried power lines once, but now they lean empty at drunken angles.
Farther off, beyond them, the trees have lost all their leaves. Their branches stand out black and twisted against the sky.
Rachel comes around the car and stands at Garza’s side, close enough that her arm brushes his.
“We should have come two weeks ago, Ray,” she says. “We missed the fall colors.”
The road is faded gray. It’s been years, maybe decades, since anyone bothered to maintain it. Cracks wind through the surface in crazy patterns. Some of them are filled with the dark green of moss.
The chapel stands off in the distance with the lake behind it. The other buildings, closer by, look like bunkhouses. They’re on the eastern side of the road: long cabins with patchy shingles on their roofs. Rachel sets off toward the nearest one, and Garza follows. There’s litter in the road: a flattened soda can, a length of bicycle chain, half a Frisbee.
There’s a cool wind blowing, but the midday sun feels warm on Garza’s face. It shines on Rachel’s black hair.
The windows of the bunkhouses are all boarded over. The walls are painted with graffiti. None of it looks fresh. The messages range from the banal to the profound.
God is watching, one says.
Kiss my ass, says another.
The most striking is written all in caps, in letters two feet high: EVERYTHING BAD GETS WASHED AWAY.
The door of the nearest cabin is swollen in its frame. Garza shoves it inward with his shoulder. Inside, it’s murky dark. There’s nothing but trash and rusted bed frames and a pile of burned mattresses.
Jimmy Harper
Jimmy is back up in the steeple.
There’s a platform at the top of the winding stair, with room enough for three or four people to stand. Jimmy’s there alone with his AR-15 and his binoculars. Around him are four windows of stained glass, one facing in each direction of the compass.
The south-facing window has an image of Saint Peter holding a staff and a key, but there’s a chunk punched out that’s roughly the size and shape of a football.
Jimmy watches the cop and the FBI agent through this empty space, first with the binoculars, then without them. He has trouble making sense of what he’s seeing.
Initially he thought Sean must have sent them here—that he’d been caught or had turned himself in. But if that were true, there should be more of them. As far as Jimmy can tell, there’s just the two. From his vantage point, he can survey the whole length of the road.
So maybe the cop and the FBI agent found out about this place on their own. Maybe they discovered that Khadduri used to come here as a kid. Which makes them smart or lucky or both.
In that case, they’re just taking a chance. They don’t know anyone’s here.
They’re being cautious though. Both of them wearing Kevlar. They have sidearms, though they haven’t drawn them.
Maybe they’ll be sloppy. A quick look around and then they’ll take off. Jimmy hopes so. If they take more than a quick look, he’s in trouble.
There are six bunkhouses in all, lined up in rows. The cop and the FBI agent have already checked out two of them. There are two more behind those. Then two more farther on, closer to the lake.
If they get as far as those last two bunkhouses, there’s a good chance they’ll spot Jimmy’s car—because it’s parked behind one of them.
The black Ford Explorer is parked behind the other. Jimmy had Nick drive it here from Khadduri’s vacation house. He thought they would need it later. He hasn’t worked out all the details, but he knows he doesn’t want to transport bodies in his own car.
The cop and the FBI agent have moved on to the second row of bunkhouses. They duck inside one of them, come out again, duck inside the other. Jimmy steps to the eastern window of the steeple, which gives him a better view. He watches as the two figures head for the third row of bunkhouses. They’re taking their time, strolling in the sunlight. There’s something sweet about the scene. Jimmy wouldn’t be surprised if they held hands.
They reach the last cabin and the cop pushes the door with his shoulder. They step inside, but only for a few seconds. When they come out again, they walk along the front of the building. Now, Jimmy thinks, they’ll either circle around to the back and see the cars or they’ll come to the chapel.
Neither option is good for him.
They round the corner of a cabin. They’re going to look in back. Jimmy reaches for his rifle, which is leaning against the wall.
Suddenly the FBI agent stops. The cop does too. They’ve heard a sound.
An engine. A vehicle approaching on the road.
Jimmy moves back to the south-facing window, and what he sees sends a flush of heat running up his spine to the back of his neck. He watches as it rolls closer: a white shape glowing in the sunlight.
Sean’s pickup truck.
Molly Winter
From the choir loft, Molly can’t see a thing.
Khadduri is sitting motionless with his eyes closed. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking. He showed a spark of courage before, talking back to Kelly. But now he seems afraid.
Molly was afraid before. Now she’s hopeful.
Before Jimmy went up into the steeple, he warned her and Khadduri to stay quiet.
“If either of them makes a sound,” he said to Nick and Kelly, “kill them both.” He pulled the hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and added: “Quietly.”
He jammed the blade of the knife into the wooden railing of the loft. There it waits. Ten feet away. Maybe less. Maybe eight. Molly stares at it. She pictures it cutting through the zip ties that bind her ankles.
Kelly sees her staring, and a grin twists his mouth. “You’re something,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I can see the wheels turning in your head.” He looks at the knife and then back at her. “Come get it,” he says. “I’d like to see you try.”
Nick has his hands stuffed in his pockets. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, nervous.
“Shut up, Kel,” he says.
“Seriously,” Kelly says. “That’s some ninja shit, if you can get this knife from over there, with your legs tied and your hands behind your back. I want to see it.”
Molly doesn’t move. She lets out a breath through her nose.
“I can’t get the knife,” she says. “But I don’t need it. You’re going to cut me loose.”
Kelly’s laugh is nothing more than a noise in the back of his throat.
“Why would I do that?” he asks.
“Because it’s smart,” Molly says. “You know this thing has gone off the rails.” She looks up at the ceiling, a gesture toward Jimmy in the steeple. “It’s not going to end the way he wants, and that means it wo
n’t go well for you. Unless you switch over to the right side. Then I’ll make sure everyone knows you did the right thing.”
Kelly’s grin is wider than before. “You’d do that for me, huh?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, that’s nice of you,” Kelly says. “That’s generous as hell. But I think I’ll maybe take my chances.”
He stands by the railing and does the laugh again at the back of his throat, but Molly sits still and pays him no mind.
He’s not the one she’s trying to convince.
Jimmy Harper
Through the scope of the rifle, Jimmy watches the white pickup roll to a stop. Sean steps out of the cab with a backpack. Slings it over his shoulder. He scans around him. Pushes shut the door of the truck.
In the steeple, Jimmy wavers. A conversation plays out in his head.
Take the shot.
No. It’s too far.
This is what you wanted.
Too far. I want to look him in the eye.
Liar. You’re afraid of what’ll happen after.
No.
You are. You goddamn coward. Just like Knoxville. You could have shot him at the lawyer’s house.
There were witnesses.
So? It’s never gonna be perfect. Do you want to do this, or not?
Sean Tennant
It looks wrong.
It feels wrong.
There’s one car parked in the road: a nondescript sedan that looks like a rental. Sean was expecting to see the black SUV.
“Something’s been bugging me,” Cole’s voice says.
Cole has been AWOL since yesterday. Sean drove here from upstate New York, seven hundred fifty miles, without a peep from him. Now he wants to talk.
“About that kid,” Cole says. “The cop.”
“What about him?” Sean asks.
“Would you have killed him, if it came down to it? If he had decided not to play nice.”
“That’s not a real question.”
“Sure it is.”
“I’m not killing any cops. I already told you.”
“That’s what’s bugging me,” Cole says. “It makes me question your commitment to this mission.”
Sean doesn’t respond. Because something really is wrong. There are buildings off to his right. Cabins. And two people just walked out from behind one of them.
A tall man and a short woman. Sean has never seen them before, not in person. But Dalton Webber showed him pictures.
He remembers their names: Rafael Garza. Rachel Massoud.
Sean adds up the details as they come closer. They’re wearing Kevlar. They’re drawing their guns. They’re frowning at him.
“Show me your hands,” Garza says.
He’s twenty feet away and coming closer.
“There really should be more than two of you,” Sean says.
“Your hands,” says Garza. “If you please.”
Sean holds them up, palms out. “Unless you already arrested them.”
“There’s no one else here,” Massoud says.
Sean gets a hollow feeling in the bottom of his stomach. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “They’re here. We need to take cover.”
He starts to walk backward, toward the rental car, toward his truck. Garza advances, gun raised, keeping pace with him. Massoud’s frown deepens. She turns to face the bunkhouses and the chapel. She has her gun up too. She’s sweeping it around in an arc.
Sean sees the shot an instant before he hears it. The bullet grazes Rachel Massoud’s chin and opens a gash in the side of her neck.
Jimmy Harper
It’s been a while since he practiced with the rifle, and it shows.
The first shot was too low, and the second takes too long. Jimmy has to aim again, and everyone is moving. The FBI agent turns and stumbles, and the cop, Garza, catches her as she falls. She throws an arm around his shoulder, and he pulls her back toward their car. Sean draws his pistol from under his coat and aims it in the direction of the chapel. He’s searching for a target, but he doesn’t find one. He’s being cautious, Jimmy thinks. He doesn’t want to fire blind, for fear of hitting Molly.
Jimmy’s second shot strikes Garza’s right leg, low on his thigh. His third shot misses altogether. By the time he’s ready for a fourth, Garza and Massoud have taken cover behind the car. There’s an instant when the crosshairs of Jimmy’s scope hover over Sean’s head. Then Sean lowers his pistol and dives behind the car as well.
Jimmy fires three more times, but it’s mostly out of anger. It does no good. All he’s hitting is metal and glass.
Molly Winter
When the shooting starts, Molly has her eyes on Nick.
He’s leaning against the railing of the choir loft, and the crack of the first shot makes him flinch.
Kelly moves toward the spiral staircase. Maybe he’s waiting for orders from Jimmy, or maybe he wants to feel closer to the action.
Five more shots follow. Then silence.
“Have you had enough?” Molly asks.
She’s talking to Nick, but Kelly is the one who answers her.
“Sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”
Nick stands frozen at the railing.
“How much of this are you going to stick around for?” Molly asks him. “How far are you willing to let this go?”
Nick doesn’t answer.
“We can all get out of here,” Molly says to him. “It’s up to you.”
His eyes looked blank before, but now something stirs in them.
“Right,” he says.
He reaches for the hunting knife, pulls it free of the wooden railing.
Kelly catches on to what’s happening. “Don’t do anything stupid, Nicky,” he says.
Nick ignores him and approaches Adam Khadduri with the knife. He bends down and slices through the zip ties on Khadduri’s ankles. Then the ones on his wrists.
Kelly draws a pistol from the pocket of his leather coat. Aims it at Khadduri.
“You stay put,” he says.
Nick steps toward Molly and bends again with the knife. She feels the zip ties on her ankles give way to the blade. It’s a sweet moment.
“Jimmy has the handcuff key,” Nick says. Apologetic.
“No one’s leaving,” Kelly says.
He’s closer now. Agitated. He still has his gun trained on Khadduri.
Khadduri looks up at him and laughs. “Two-bit hoodlum,” he says.
Nick stands up straight. He jams the hunting knife into the railing again and turns to face Kelly.
“Put the gun away,” Nick says. “What’s the point?”
There’s a moment when Kelly looks uncertain, and Molly wonders if he might give in. Then Khadduri makes a mistake. He starts to get up from the floor.
Kelly takes a single step forward and shoots him in the head.
“Call me a hoodlum again,” he says, as Khadduri’s body falls back against the wall and slides down. Molly hears a strangled cry. Realizes it’s coming from her own throat.
Kelly aims his gun at her. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Come on, Kel,” says Nick. “It’s enough.”
“No, no. I want to hear what she has to say.”
Molly holds still and makes no sound. She’s looking at the floor. Khadduri’s blood is flowing out of him. It’s creeping over the wooden boards. Getting closer to her.
There’s a shout from above. Jimmy in the steeple.
“What’s going on?”
“Everything’s under control,” Kelly says. His voice is loud, confident. In a softer tone he adds, “Right, Nicky?”
Molly looks up in time to see Nick shake his head. “No.”
Kelly starts to bring his gun around, but Nick is already moving. He plucks the hunting knife from the railing of the loft and buries it in Kelly’s stomach. Kelly gets off a shot that slams into the floor.
Nick twists the knife and Kelly screams. Kelly tries to raise his gu
n, but Nick knocks his hand aside. He lets go of the knife and takes hold of the collar of Kelly’s coat. Swings him around and smashes his face into the railing.
Kelly’s gun goes off a final time, the bullet traveling across the chapel, shattering a window behind the altar.
Then Nick lifts him up and pushes him over the railing, out into empty space.
39
Sean Tennant
People babble when they get shot. Sean has heard it before.
Rachel Massoud is calmer than most.
“I don’t want to die, Ray,” she says. “Not like this. This is stupid.”
“You’re not going to die,” Garza says.
They’re sitting in the road with their backs against the car for cover. All three of them in a row: Sean and Garza and Massoud.
“It’s a lot of blood though,” Massoud says. “I can feel it.”
Garza has a hand pressed to her neck, trying to stop the bleeding. Sean shrugs his backpack off his shoulder and unzips it. It’s full of cylinder seals wrapped in white handkerchiefs. He starts shaking them free and passing the handkerchiefs to Garza, who packs them on the wound.
“Did you get shot, Ray?” Massoud asks.
“Not me,” Garza says.
Massoud wipes at her chin and looks at the blood that comes away on her palm.
“I’m bleeding everywhere,” she says. “How bad is this one?”
“It’s nothing,” Garza says. “You’ll have a beautiful scar.”
Sean takes his cell phone out to call 911 for an ambulance. When the operator answers, he describes the situation as best he can. The operator sounds skeptical but says she’s sending help.
At that moment Sean hears a gunshot. It makes him duck down instinctively, but it doesn’t sound like the others from before. It’s more remote, and there’s no impact on the car or the road. It’s followed by another shot. And one more.
“What was that?” the operator asks.
“That would be gunfire,” Sean says. “You’ll want to let the sheriff know. Make sure you tell them there’s an active shooter. At least one.”
