Kill Me If You Can

by Nicole Young

  I turned my head in Melissa’s direction. She looked at me, then cast her eyes to the floor. A blush crept over her face.

  I’d been betrayed.

  42

  “Hey, little pumpkin head,” Frank Majestic said, smiling. He lifted Hannah into his arms.

  Safe in her grandfather’s grip, the girl pointed to Stick and Skuzz. “Those are bad guys. They want to hurt my mom. And they’re mean to Uncle Joel and Uncle Gerard.”

  The fifty-plus man set Hannah on the ground. He walked toward Skuzzo and slapped him on the back of the head. “What’s wrong with you two, terrorizing my granddaughter? Put away those guns and be civilized.”

  The two henchmen tucked their weapons into their waistbands.

  “Sure, Frank. Sorry, man,” Stick said.

  Melissa stood and walked with Andrew over to her father. “Dad, this is crazy.”

  I could only shake my head, stunned by Melissa’s family connections.

  “Get your stuff and get in the car,” Frank Majestic said to his daughter, while giving Andrew a little squeeze on the cheek.

  Betrayed. Deceived. Used. Backstabbed. If I’d had a thesaurus handy, I’d add fifteen more words to the list. How could Melissa pretend to be some damsel in distress, pleading for my help to escape her abusive, drug-dealing husband, when all along her father was Frank Majestic, the man ultimately responsible for my mother’s death and my father’s exile? My grandfather must have been aware of the connection. That’s why he’d dragged his feet, looking at the situation from every angle before venturing to help Melissa. But then I’d gone and snatched her from the grocery store.

  “I want you and these two creeps out of here. Now.” Melissa’s voice shook as she gave orders to her drug lord father.

  “Melissa. Sweetheart. It ain’t gonna happen. So just get in the car and I’ll be out when I got what I came for.” Frank’s voice was slithery like Skuzzwad’s.

  Melissa latched onto Hannah and pulled her children back to the sofa. “We’re not leaving. If you’re going to hurt someone, you’ll have to do it in front of your grandchildren.”

  “Honey, calm down. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need a little information, then we’ll break this party up.”

  He walked toward me. I stiffened at his approach.

  “Little Orphan Annie here is going to tell me where her daddy’s hiding out.” He put his hands on his hips and threw his shoulders back. I’m sure he meant to intimidate, but he ended up looking like the Jolly Green Giant.

  “I’ll never tell.” I crossed my arms and clenched my teeth. It was none of his business that I had no clue where the man responsible for half my genetic makeup hung out. Some days I imagined that he was dead like my mother, buried in a grave with JOHN DOE on the headstone, and that’s why he couldn’t come for me. Other days, I imagined that he’d been wrongly imprisoned in some foreign country for speaking out against the persecution of Christians. But, on days when reality struck, I admitted he was probably a drug addict wandering homeless in the streets of some city. That’s why Frank Majestic could never track him down. How do you find a man that no longer exists?

  Frank lunged toward me, sticking his steaming red face in mine. “Tell me where he is! Nobody messes with Frank Majestic and gets away with it.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  In the corner of my eye, Melissa dropped Andrew into Samantha’s lap, extracted Hannah from her leg, and stomped over to Frank. “Get out of here. Don’t you talk to my friends like that.”

  “Melissa,” Frank seethed, “get in the car with the kids. Now.”

  On the bright side, my father was not Frank Majestic, proof that things could always be worse. The thought tempered my anger.

  Missy crossed her arms and got between us. “I’m staying here, you’re leaving,” she said to her father. “Nobody in this room did anything to you. Quit taking it out on them.”

  “I’ll tell you what they did to me. They put ideas in my daughter’s head. Made her think she could do things she shouldn’t be doing. Then they broke down the line of trust between me and my associates. If I can’t make a living in trucking, who do you think is going to support your lifestyle?”

  “You don’t make a living in trucking,” Melissa said, “you make a living in trafficking. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “How do you think you’re going to survive? I can’t support you from prison.”

  “I’ll figure out a way.”

  “You? You never held a job in your life. You’ve got two kids with one on the way. Who do you think is going to hire you in that condition? And no man’s going to look at you, you’re all swelled up like a pig at auction. If you weren’t my own daughter, I couldn’t even stand the sight of you.”

  Missy’s eyes watered at the cruel words. By the time Frank shut his mouth, she’d crumpled into a ball on the couch. Hannah ran her hands through her mother’s hair. Samantha wrapped her arms around Missy’s back, soothing her while she cried.

  Frank watched his daughter’s breakdown, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

  Something inside me snapped. “You bully. You creep. You don’t even deserve to have a daughter.” I crossed to him in the center of the room and peered with eyes of accusation at his bulging features. It was hard to tell if I’d surprised him or if his high blood pressure was acting up.

  He bared his teeth in his plumped-up head. “Neither does Jacob Russo. And I’ll make sure he never sees you again, unless you feel like telling me where he is.”

  “Even if I knew, I’d never tell you. You killed my mother and you tried to kill me.”

  “I didn’t kill your mother. The guys were just trying to get her to pull over so they could ask where Jacob had been hanging out. I guess she’d rather have died than told on him.” Frank gave a chuckle. “How about you, toots? Are you going to die protecting a no-good son of a—” he looked at Hannah’s big eyes watching him “—gun, or are you going to tell me where your daddy is so you can live to be a mommy some day?”

  Behind Frank, a shadow moved near the archway. Somewhere in the kitchen, a floorboard squeaked. I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, I plan on living. But I think your luck’s about to run out.”

  “Ooo. I’m scared.” Frank looked around at his cohorts. “Aren’t you scared, boys?”

  The guys put on a show to impress their boss.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m really shaking now,” Stick said.

  “Yeah. Me too,” Skuzzaroni replied, knocking his knees together in fun.

  I rolled my eyes at their behavior. I could swear I’d seen the episode before, while watching cop shows with Brad.

  Then there was movement, a streak of color from the kitchen archway over to Frank. A slender arm wrapped Frank’s neck. A gun prodded his temple. He froze, gasping. Candice’s face appeared over the stubby man’s shoulder. Stick and Skuzzboy floundered for their weapons.

  “Put the guns on the floor.” Candice gave the orders like a pro.

  Stick and Skuzz hesitated, then set their weapons down.

  “Hey, now, sweetheart. Let’s work this out.” Frank put in his plea.

  “I’m done working with you, Frank. I told you if you tried to hurt my girl, it was all over.” She nodded at Joel and Gerard. “Help me out.”

  Joel and Gerard stood, the weapons from the floor now in their hands. Joel kept his trained on Stick and Skuzz. Gerard swung his around to face Candice. She kept the gun tight to Frank’s skull.

  “Put it down, Candice. Nobody has to get hurt,” Gerard said.

  “I can’t let him go again. I’m sorry, Gerard. I know you worked hard to track all the connections and players. I should have just handed you the black box. It could have put Frank away for the rest of his life. But I couldn’t take the chance he’d get off on some technicality. He killed Beth and he almost killed Tish. If you think he deserves mercy, you’re wrong.”

  “Put the gun down.” The voice came from the archway.


  It was Brad. With all the commotion, none of us had heard him arrive. He held a pistol in front of him, aimed at Candice.

  “Are you two nuts?” I asked. “Frank’s the criminal here, not Candice.”

  “Stay out of it, cuz,” Gerard said. “There’s not a whole lot of difference between these two. Justice will be served when they’re both behind bars.”

  Could Gerard be right? I slumped over to the couch and sat next to Samantha. I wanted Candice to be the friend she’d always been. I didn’t want her to have some secret life, where she framed drug lords and killed dealers. She was Candice. The Tea Lady. The woman who’d dreamed of being like a grandmother to me.

  “Backup’s on the way,” Brad was saying. “You two did a pretty lame job hiding your vehicle. Anyone could see it through the trees. And a five-year-old could spot your elephant tracks.”

  “You must be Brad,” Candice said over her shoulder in her spider-versus-the-fly voice.

  “Put the weapon down.” Brad filled the archway with his imposing form.

  Without a trace of fear toward the gun trained on her back, Candice ground the muzzle of her weapon into Majestic’s temple.

  “Ahhh!” Majestic squirmed under the pressure.

  Candice threw a glance over her shoulder. “Well, Brad. You don’t seem to respect the fact that I’m in charge here.”

  “I respect the law”—Brad’s gun held steady—“which you don’t seem to mind breaking.”

  His remark earned a smile from Candice. I held a moment of hope that the situation would be resolved.

  “I’m telling you right now, Brad,” she said. “You don’t deserve Tish. You’re just like the rest of them. No respect for women. You’ll try to break her down and crush her spirit.”

  Brad shook his head. “You’re wrong. I love Tish. And I love her spirit best of all. She’ll be safe with me.” He sent a split-second glance in my direction.

  I pressed my lips between my teeth, overcome by his declaration.

  Candice egged him on. “You’re a man. You can’t help but stomp all over us. It’s in your blood. Now back away from the door. Frank and I were just leaving.”

  Brad stayed rooted to the floor.

  “Back off or I’ll kill him.” She jammed the barrel against Frank’s head.

  Frank gave a yell. “Do what she says. She’s a killer.”

  Brad stepped from the doorway, gun still pointed at Candice.

  “Move it, Frank,” Candice said. The two stumbled backward toward the kitchen archway. Candice stopped at the doorway with her hostage. Only Frank was visible from my place on the sofa.

  Candice’s voice drifted to me. “Tish, always remember I love you.”

  Then in a blink, the pistol left Frank’s head and pointed in Brad’s direction.

  My ears exploded as she pulled the trigger.

  43

  When the echo cleared, the whoosh of blood in my head dampened the shrill screams coming from the vicinity of the sofa. In front of me, Joel finally reacted, jerking his gun toward the doorway, but Candice and her hostage were gone.

  The next few minutes were a blur.

  Across the room, Brad seemed to fall almost gracefully to the ground. One hand rested over his chest like he’d been shot. Gerard reached him first, bending to look. An oath, then he was gone, bursting through the door. I jumped as more shots rang, this time from outside.

  “Joel!” Sam screamed too late as Stick and Skuzz jumped him from behind. Skuzz wrestled the gun away and cracked it across Joel’s skull. My cousin collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

  “Keep an eye on these guys. I’m going after Frank,” Skuzz yelled and raced toward the kitchen.

  Stick scooped up Brad’s gun and waved Sam back to the sofa.

  The rev of an engine. The spin of tires on gravel as a vehicle raced away.

  Around me, screams. Shouts. A child’s cry. I walked in a state of stupor through the noise until I stood over Brad. Blood rose between the fingers that gripped his chest. A sucking sound came from the wound. I hunched at his side, leaning close, feeling nothing, as if I’d been put under a trance and watched my own body move around the room.

  “Tish.” He said my name.

  The spell was broken. My lower lip trembled. “Brad.”

  I rocked back and forth next to him, squeezing his hand. Breath rasped out of me, along with moans. My fingers reached toward the wound, then pulled back, helpless. The salty smell of his blood filled the air.

  A scream gurgled up in my throat like vomit. “Somebody help! Somebody help him!” My lungs ached from the force of my cry. I looked around but saw nothing but the blurry wash of tears.

  From behind me came Stick’s threatening voice. “Back on the couch, Russo. Now.”

  I ignored the command.

  “Do you want me to kill you?” Stick sounded dead serious.

  I bent my forehead against Brad’s shoulder. My answer depended on whether Brad lived or died.

  “Leave her alone!” Sam yelled from the couch. “Let us get help, please.”

  “Stow it, bimbo.”

  Samantha made the growl of a mother tiger. From the corner of my eye, I saw her launch herself toward Stick. I jerked upright to see her black hair billowing behind like a witch’s cape. With an oath of surprise, Stick threw his arms out. Sam landed, and the two of them plowed against the hearth. Stick’s hand angled out and hit the rocks. His weapon wrenched the air with its thundering discharge.

  The same moment, something hit my arm, nearly spinning me around with the force. A jolt of lightning seemed to flash through my mind as every pain receptor turned on simultaneously. I grabbed my arm. Wet heat. I held out my fingers and looked at them in horror. Sticky, hot blood. I looked at my shirt. The sleeve had a hole in it. The ragged rim seeped red. Oh, Lord. I’d been shot.

  Over by the fireplace, Stick snarled and threw Samantha off of him. He jumped to his feet and hulked over her, pointing the gun at her chest.

  She seethed up at him.

  In the distance came the blare of sirens—Brad’s backup. Help was on the way.

  Stick looked at his captives as if weighing his options. Then he bolted out the deck door and ran toward the lake.

  I turned to Brad, leaning over him, ignoring my own pain. My blood mingled with his like oozing lava. “Hang on. Help is coming.”

  His eyes were closed. His chest was still. “Brad? Oh, God, please! Brad? Hang on. Hang on.”

  Arms pulled me away. I reached toward him. “Brad! Brad!” My voice was hoarse, nothing more than a rattle in my throat.

  Sam crouched next to me, one hand holding me back, the other sliding out of her cardigan. She wrapped my wound with the thin cotton, tying the sleeves in a tight binding around my upper arm. Then we clung to each other with grips of desperation, rocking, crying, as police entered the room, weapons sweeping from side to side.

  “All clear,” a trooper said into his radio. “We’ve got a man down. Gunshot wound to the chest. Where’s the ambulance? Let’s get some help in here.” The trooper bent near Joel. “A second victim appears to be unconscious. Pulse is strong.”

  A moment later, the first response team rushed in and crowded around Brad.

  “We’ve got another one down in here. Where’s our backup?” the female rescue worker spoke into her radio.

  The radio crackled a reply.

  Behind us on the sofa, Missy described the ordeal to an officer, her words murky in the background of my own sobs. The trooper escorted her and the children through the arch, their forms a blur.

  A woman’s voice broke through the haze. “Not sure I have a pulse.”

  A man’s bulky build obstructed my view as he barked orders. The woman raced out.

  Sounds of a zipper. The whoosh of air. Then the tech’s shoulders moved up and down as he started CPR.

  “One, two, three . . . ,” he counted under his breath.

  The other EMT returned, a red case in her hand.

 
A zip. The tear of fabric. A ripping sound.

  Then a feminine voice as emotionless as a computer. “Attach electrodes.”

  The AED thing was talking.

  “Analyzing.” A pause. “Prepare to shock.” An electronic whir like a siren winding up.

  The male EMT spoke. “Stand clear.”

  “Clear,” the woman repeated.

  Brad’s legs jerked.

  Next to me, Sam gasped and pushed away, scampering toward Joel and tucking her body next to his, as if hiding from the scene in front of her.

  The man continued his pumping motions.

  The woman spoke into her radio. “Medical control, we’ve got a gunshot wound to the chest. Confirm ALS is en route.”

  The radio crackled a garbled reply.

  Hot pressure raced to my head. A buzzing sound filled my ears. I let out a moan.

  The computer spoke again. “Analyzing.” A pause. “No shock indicated. Check for pulse. If no pulse, continue CPR,” the electronic voice said as callously as an answering machine.

  The man pumped and counted.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  No pulse. That meant . . .

  He was dead. Brad was dead.

  In silence, the workers did their obligatory repetitions.

  I collapsed with my forehead against the floor. The ball of pressure in my brain had eclipsed my thinking mind. All I knew was the tiny pinpricks of light dancing behind my eyelids and the choking sound coming from my throat as time had slowed to a crawl.

  I lifted my head at the sound of the kitchen door. Ordinary people in blue jeans and T-shirts came through the arch, carrying a stretcher. “Let’s load.”

  Through my tears, vague shapes bent and hovered.

  “On three,” the man said. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  Shuffling. Rustling. Then the forms rose in unison. Brad’s body was gone, hidden in the circle of rescue workers.

  I followed into the yard, mute. Workers clung like vultures to the stretcher as it was loaded onto a waiting ambulance. The doors slammed closed and the rig pulled away, disappearing through the trees.

  I felt alone, though the lawn was a bustle of activity. Nearby, another stretcher was being loaded into a waiting ambulance. The insanity of the moment reduced me to a torrent of tears and half-laughter.