“Go on,” Hudson hissed. “Get it done.”
“You’re doing great, Lily,” the detective said. “You can do this.”
“Shut up,” Hudson barked, and the detective went silent.
Lily closed her eyes, took a breath, and pressed the knife into Vogel’s skin.
He cried out and struggled to roll away.
“Someone has to hold him down,” Lily said to Hudson. “I have to get this just right.”
Hudson nodded to the detective. “Go on, Milliard. But no funny stuff. You move one finger the wrong way, and I’ll shoot it off.”
The detective nodded, standing and crossing to the far side of Lily. There, she knelt and pressed both hands down on Vogel’s shoulders.
Lily drew a breath and slid the knife between her two fingers, applying additional pressure as the layers of muscle resisted the blade.
Vogel screamed, the sound emerging from his lips in a spray of blood. He fought the detective’s hold.
Hudson looked like he might be sick. He sat back, his gun aimed at them. A flick of his wrist and two twitches of his index finger, and they’d both be dead.
Lily pushed the thought from her mind as she forced the tip of the knife deeper between Hudson’s ribs. After a moment of tension, the blade slid in. Vogel moaned.
Lily levered the blade to one side to create a small opening in the wound. Seconds later, blood flooded around the blade of the knife and trickled down Vogel’s side.
“What the hell?” Hudson shouted. “Why is there so much blood?”
“It’s good,” Lily said, twisting the knife to allow more blood to escape the chest cavity. “Watch.”
Vogel gasped a full breath. He coughed and drew another while Lily held the knife steady. Within a minute, some color had returned to his cheeks, and his chest rose and fell in deep motions as he drew air into both lungs.
Hudson reached a hand toward Vogel. “Thank God. You’re okay, Uncle Glen.”
Vogel closed his eyes, pushing his nephew’s hand away.
Lily held the knife at an angle. This was as much as she could do. They’d need a tube of some sort to hold the wound open. A straw or something.
“Uncle Glen,” Hudson whispered. “We did it. We’re going to clean up the mess. I’m going to clean it up, just like you told me.” Hudson choked on a sob. “I’m making it right. I took care of Abby, just like you told me.” Hudson glanced up at the women, and she knew what he was thinking. He’d kill them next.
He turned back to his uncle. “You’re going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.” Hudson used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe Vogel’s face.
Lily sensed the detective shift away from the men.
Vogel shook off his nephew’s pampering. “Enough.” He nodded to the women. “Take care of the girls first.” Vogel said, his voice hoarse and labored. “No more witnesses.”
Hudson nodded like an eager puppy, still wiping the blood off his uncle’s face. His right sleeve. The gun was in his left hand again. “Sure thing,” Hudson said. “Then we’ll get you to the hospital, get you fixed up.”
He rubbed at a thin streak of blood on Vogel’s face, but his attention started to shift toward them. The girls, as Vogel called them. They would end up frozen to death and buried under the snow—disposable—like the girl who’d disappeared while she was Hudson’s captive.
They were about to die.
As Hudson started to swing the gun in the detective’s direction, Lily yanked the knife from Vogel’s chest. Vogel’s head reared up, his mouth forming a small, tight O. He tried to speak but couldn’t get a word out.
Lily didn’t hesitate even a second. She swung the blade in a short arc, out and down. There, she buried it in the meaty flesh of Derek Hudson’s thigh.
Hudson roared and fell sideways. The revolver slipped from his grip as he grabbed for the knife, hands trembling as they danced around the wound. “Help me. Uncle Glen, help. What do I do?”
Vogel lunged upright and grabbed for the fallen revolver. “You fucking bitch!”
But the detective was already on her feet. She drew a gun from behind her as Glen Vogel’s hand reached the barrel. Before Vogel could get the gun into his fat hand, the detective fired four bullets into his chest.
Then the detective aimed the weapon at Hudson, who had scurried backward, dragging his left leg. He pressed himself against the wall, his hand still hovering over the blade.
“I wouldn’t pull that out if I were you,” Lily said. “If it hit the femoral artery, you’ll bleed out in less than a minute.” The blade was nowhere near Hudson’s femoral artery, but he didn’t need to know that.
In the distance, Lily heard the whine of police cars.
Vogel’s eyes were open, unmoving. Already death had flattened their gleam, drained the hate.
Hudson grabbed hold of Vogel’s face. “No!” he roared as he cradled Vogel’s head in his lap, resting it on the leg without the knife in it. “Uncle Glen,” Hudson whispered to the dead man. “Oh God. Please, no.”
Lily stood and moved toward the door.
The detective didn’t flinch, holding the gun aimed at the two men until the sirens shrieked outside the door. “Nicely done,” the detective said.
Lily nodded.
As voices in the storm called out to them, the detective shook her head. “I always fucking hated it when he called me ‘girl.’”
Someone pounded on the door. “Police!” a voice shouted, and Lily had never been so grateful.
CHAPTER 64
IVER
Iver felt hands on his arms and back, a light in his eyes. It hurt to breathe. He opened his eyes and stared up at the night sky. The snowfall had ceased, and the thick bank of gray clouds moved across the sky, the storm retreating.
“Are you hurt?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
Iver took in the paramedic’s jacket, the young face. He closed his eyes and took stock of his body. His back felt broken. He’d been shot, close range. He’d aimed the rifle at the man holding Lily, and then he’d felt the impact.
The paramedic called out to someone, “Some help over here?”
Iver shook his head and pushed himself up off the snow. “I’m okay.” Hands helped him stand. The blanket of gray sky made everything feel eerily still.
He’d barely pulled himself upright when he spotted Lily running toward him. She came straight into his arms, and he had to brace himself for the impact. The pain in his back rocketed up his neck and down his spine. He grunted.
She scanned his face. “He said he shot you.” She stood back and touched his face and arms, ran her hands over him in a hunt for injuries.
He laughed, the pain cutting it short. “I’m okay.” He shook the police jacket off his shoulders, snow tumbling off the fabric and onto the ground. His breath billowed in thick white clouds as he peeled away the Kevlar vest, coughing, arms pressed to his ribs.
“You were wearing a vest.” She took it from him and turned it over. In the center of the Kevlar was a massive twisted dent, as though the vest had collapsed around the bullet. She lifted his shirt and ran her hands across his back.
Iver flinched at her touch, bending over to gasp.
Gently, she wrapped an arm across his shoulders. “You probably have some broken ribs.”
“I thought the bullet went through,” he confessed, fear rising in his throat. He’d been sure he was dead.
She took his hand and held it tight. He wrapped an arm around her, shifting himself carefully to hold her. He wanted to lock her in his arms. He was okay. She was okay.
Lily leaned in and pressed a kiss to his wet cheek, her lips cold against his skin. The paramedics trudged through the snow, carrying a gurney between them. A man lay moaning, a knife in his thigh.
“Who is that guy?”
She shuddered against him, and he regretted the question. “That’s Derek Hudson.”
But Derek Hudson was dead. He’d been shot. According to the articles they’d read, he h
ad been shot by one of the girls. Iver had so many questions, but he held them in. Lily’s gaze trailed Hudson as he passed.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered.
“Stay here,” she told him, and he watched as she followed the paramedics to the ambulance. At first, he thought she was going to help them with Hudson, but she returned almost immediately. In her hand was a small penlight. She shone it in his eyes, left and then right.
“Am I okay, Doc?” he asked, teasing.
“We’re going to the hospital. You need x-rays and a full workup.”
“I’m fine,” he said, but she shook her head.
“We are going.” She pushed on his ribs gently, and he winced at the pain.
“I hate hospitals.”
She nodded. “I know.” She took hold of his hand. “But I’ll be there.” She turned back toward the ambulance, and her gaze froze. “That man held me hostage for sixteen months.”
“I want to kill him.”
She was quiet a moment. “I stabbed him with a knife.”
“Good for you. But it looks like he’ll survive.”
“He will.”
Iver started to say something else, but they were interrupted by the arrival of more vehicles—a truck and a police car. The vehicles drove along the road that had been nearly invisible in the storm, parked only meters from where Iver had been shot. As the others approached, Iver placed a hand on her back protectively, nodding toward the man who approached. “Sheriff Davis,” Iver said.
Davis ran toward them, another unfamiliar man beside him. “What the hell happened here?”
Detective Milliard approached, left arm in a sling and a paramedic trailing her. “It’s a long story,” she said, tilting her head as she eyed him. “Where were you all day?”
“In Elgin with Ross. Cannon jammed my cell signal. Didn’t realize it until about an hour ago.” Davis had been looking at the detective but now shifted his focus to Iver.
Instinctively Iver took a step back, still shielding Lily.
“I’m sorry I doubted you, Iver,” Davis said.
Iver nodded. He was sorry, too.
“We need to get you to the hospital. Get checked out.” Davis turned to the man beside him. “This is Deputy Sheriff Pete McIntosh from Glendive. Pete, can you get them to the hospital?”
“Happy to,” McIntosh agreed.
“I’ll go, too,” Detective Milliard offered.
Despite the cold and the snow, there was a lightness in the air, a sense of relief, but Lily felt hesitant, stiff. Iver turned to her. “What’s wrong?”
Lily scanned the group. “Can we go to the hospital on our own? Just Iver and me?”
“Why?” Milliard asked.
“Why not?” Iver countered. “It’s been a long day.”
Milliard motioned to the third man. “Pete’s a good guy, I promise. He’s not part of this.”
But McIntosh only nodded. “I get it.” He pulled his truck keys from his pocket and handed them to her. “You drive, though,” he said to Lily. “Till someone checks him out.”
Lily nodded, the tension in her shoulders softening. “Promise.”
“I’m the Silverado,” he said, pointing to a gray truck.
Iver thanked him, and he and Lily moved away from the group.
The paramedics had loaded Derek Hudson into the ambulance and were closing up the doors. Hudson was making a hell of a racket. Iver pulled Lily a little closer, ignoring the way the motion shot pain through his back and ribs.
“We’ll see you at the hospital,” the detective called after them.
Iver opened the driver’s door for Lily and rounded the truck as she climbed in. He was about to close the door but then stood on the running board and called out to Milliard. “Hey, Detective, what about Carl Gilbert?”
The detective’s mouth dropped open. “Shit,” she called back. “I forgot all about him.”
Iver was laughing when he got back into the truck.
“Gilbert?” Lily asked, starting up the truck and turning the heat to full blast. “What was that about?”
“Long story,” he said. “It’ll make you laugh.”
She put the truck in drive. As they lurched forward, Lily seemed to fold into herself. “Lily?” Iver whispered.
She shook her head, swiping at her cheeks, struggling not to cry.
Iver shifted into the middle seat to be close and buckled himself in. He laid a hand gently on her leg. “You’re okay, Lily. It’s over now. You’re safe.” He had failed her once. It would not happen again.
She shook her head. “You don’t understand, Iver. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
Swiping her tears, she pulled onto the road and started down the hill. The clouds were breaking up, and a few stars were visible in the patches of black sky.
Iver pushed a piece of hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear. “You can tell me. You can tell me everything.”
Her shoulders shook with the sobs. “No. I can’t.”
He took hold of her leg and pressed his fingers firmly into the skin. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to leave. And even then, I’m going to fight you. Nothing you’ve done can change that.”
She studied his face, scanning it as though searching for the doubt. But he didn’t have any doubt.
“I’m a killer,” she whispered.
“That was self-defense. That man was holding you hostage.”
She shook her head, strands of hair falling across her eyes. “Not him. I don’t even know if I did that. I don’t remember shooting him. I only remember holding the gun, Abby telling me it was over. That I had saved them,” she added, choking on the last few words.
He thought of the dead Afghan woman. Would he ever be able to tell her what he’d done? He pushed the thoughts away. “Maybe you did shoot him, and maybe you didn’t. If you shot him, you did it to escape. He was keeping you prisoner.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
He ran a finger across her cheek, catching the tears as they fell. She didn’t shy from his touch. But she was in shock. He was so messed up. What could he possibly offer her? But he would offer her whatever he could. He’d do that much. “What are you talking about, Lily?”
“Abby.”
“What about her?”
Lily looked over at him, her eyes swollen with fear. “I killed her, Iver.” She watched him, hesitant.
“You can tell me,” he said.
As they made their way across the uneven road, Lily told Iver about the letters with Abby, about her visit, being in the woods, the moment when Lily had learned who Abby was, what she’d done.
Iver listened without a word, nodding to her that he was on her side, that she was safe with him.
When she was done, he took hold of her hand and gripped it tight. “Everything you did, you did to save yourself, Lily. And I’m so thankful that you did.”
The truck slowed as Lily turned to look at him. He held her gaze. “You did the right thing,” he said.
She looked back through the windshield and picked up speed as they neared the main highway. “I don’t know if I can forgive myself.”
“I understand that, too.” He had yet to forgive himself. “I understand it too well.”
She looked over at him, a furrow in her brow.
He shook his head. “It’s a story for another time.”
Turning onto the freeway, she asked, “Like Gilbert?”
He smiled softly. “Not a funny story. A story from Afghanistan, my story.”
She reached out and intertwined her fingers with his.
“We’re going to be okay,” he whispered. “Both of us.”
The look in her eyes shifted. The fear was still there, wide and glossy, but there was something else, too. He wanted to say it was hope. And maybe it was.
CHAPTER 65
KYLIE
Kylie wore a sling on her arm, a bag of frozen peas under her shirt agai
nst the place where the bullet had torn through her shoulder. Despite the initial pain, she had been lucky—the bullet wound was a clean through and through. Medicated with regular doses of ibuprofen, Kylie spent Saturday night and all of Sunday in the police department conference room with McIntosh, Davis, Sheriff Oloff from Elgin, Gary Ross, and a very cranky Carl Gilbert. She’d apologized a dozen times, but Carl was clinging to his grudge like a kid with a sandbox toy.
Davis had taken to making jokes, jabs like, “Gilbert, I think orange might be your color”—and that was not helping the situation. The truth was, Steve Cannon and Glen Vogel had done a hell of a job setting up Gilbert. Once the possibility of Gilbert’s guilt had entered Kylie’s head, everything seemed to point to him. First, the preliminary autopsy report on Jensen had been sent to Gilbert but never made it to Kylie. Then Gilbert was the one to find Jensen’s shoes in a lockbox on Iver’s truck—a lockbox that Iver swore he never used or locked. Gilbert hadn’t done himself any favors with how he’d treated Iver in the hospital, and his attitude with Kylie on the phone when she’d called from Glendive had only cemented her suspicions.
But Cannon had also played his part well. A receipt on Cannon’s work computer showed the purchase of the Green Bay Packers carabiner, which he’d distressed to look old. When he attacked Lily Baker, he’d made sure to have black licorice on his breath. Gilbert finding Kylie in the woods behind Skål had been dumb luck, but it had made her suspect him, too.
Cannon and Vogel had also manipulated Sheriff Davis like a pro. By planting a cell phone jammer on Davis’s truck, Cannon had prevented Davis from getting any of Kylie’s calls. Vogel, meanwhile, had convinced Davis to take Ross and go down to Elgin to talk to the sheriff there in search of Abby Jensen’s mysterious new boyfriend. All the while, Vogel had followed Lily to Molva, and Cannon stuck close to the police station to keep the rest of the department in the dark.
After a day and a half of living on take-out pizza and the stale air of the department’s tiny conference room, they’d been able to fit together the pieces of the puzzle—at least most of them. The DNA found under Abby’s nails was a match to Baker. But Baker wasn’t the one who strangled Abby while she was bleeding out. The bruises on her neck were from someone with much larger hands—undoubtedly Steve Cannon’s, though the bruising wasn’t clear enough to make a positive fingerprint ID.
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