Part 25 (1/2)

Chapter Twenty-Six.

”That is enough!” a voice screams from behind us.

I blink and see Dr. Vandewater striding to the doors. ”Get out of the way, you idiot!” she says as she pushes past Dr. Rayburn. The doors slide open.

The Sheriff staggers back. He pokes one fat finger at the three-inch hole in his s.h.i.+rt. The wound beneath is ragged, red and pulsing blood. ”Nessa.” He looks at her pleadingly. ”Help.”

She gives him a cold stare. ”You made your own bed, Marlin.” Then she stomps out the door, Rayburn scuttling in her wake.

The room is still. Then both Betsy and Ethan erupt in talk that I can't hear since there's a buzzing in my ears, but I'm striding to Clay and putting my hands on him before I realize it. He s.h.i.+vers a little as if coming out of a dream and blinks at me.

”You okay?” I ask.

He looks at me, his face drained of color. He limps to face me and puts his hand delicately on my bruised cheek. ”You?”

I nod, ignoring the pain flaring in my cheek and the dull ringing in my ears. Our eyes flick back to the Sheriff who staggers back to the wall and slumps against it. One hand leaves a red smear against the white paint. The man who used to terrify me looks small and helpless as he stares at his b.l.o.o.d.y hand in amazement. His s.h.i.+rt is sticky red. Blood puddles on the floor around him.

”Boy,” he says, his voice trembling. ”Help ... me.” He reaches his hand out.

Clay drops his father's revolvers into his holsters as if they weigh a hundred pounds. He stares at the hole he's made in his father's chest. ”She can save you.”

The Sheriff shakes his head. A trail of blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, down his neck and spreads into the collar of his s.h.i.+rt. He slumps to a sitting position with is back against the wall. ”Your ma ...” he draws a gurgling breath, ”is a spiteful b.i.t.c.h. You ... gotta help me.”

Clay opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. When he forces words out, his voice is flat. ”That's done. I can't help you no more.”

Clay reaches for me. I take his hand and lace our fingers together. We watch the Sheriff take a few straggling breaths. Finally Clay speaks, soft and low. ”I bin standin' here trying to think of what to say before ya die. Most would tell their pa they loved 'em, but I just can't. Would be a lie and I can't lie with you like this.” He gestures to his father's slumped body. ”Best I can say is thanks for not throwing me to the coyotes when you found out I was a boy. Other than that, well ...” He sniffs. ”Not much else I can thank you for.”

The Sheriff's head bobs up and down. He forces his head up and looks into Clay's eyes. ”I gave you everythin'.”

Clay shakes his head. He squats down on his haunches. His hands tremble as he grasps his knees. ”You used me for your own gain. That's all you ever did, Pa. Use people. And you taught me to use people. I've been trying to unlearn that lesson for a while.”

”I ...” The Sheriff's voice is thick with fluid. Blood pools at the corners of his mouth. His breathing sounds like a clogged pipe.

Clay shakes his head. Tears wet the corners of his eyes. ”It's done, Pa. Let it go.”

The Sheriff keeps his eyes locked on Clay. His mouth forms words, but no sound follows. He gurgles a few times, more blood spilling from his mouth and pooling under this chin. A couple of wet breaths and then his head rolls to his chest.

Clay crouches, letting his lean shadow cover his father's body like a shroud. Finally, he puts his palm softly on his father's chest just above where the gunshot wound still dribbles blood. Then he stands up and wipes his hands on his jeans.

I can't believe the Sheriff is dead. I want to comfort Clay, tell him it'll be all right, but my throat is dry. I reach my hand out. Clay takes my hand and pulls me away. ”Come on,” he says. ”We gotta go.”

Clay leads me to Mama's bed. I help him push it to the door. The bed's bulky, but with all those cords and wires I don't want to risk unhooking her. Betsy and Ethan gather beside us. I put my hand on Betsy's arm. ”What're you going to do? Go or stay?”

She gives a little frown, but then plasters on her chipper smile. ”Course I'm going, puddinhead. Can't really stay here now, can I?” Her curls bob back and forth lightly.

By helping me, she cut herself off from this life forever. I owe her big time. I give her hand a pat. ”Glad you're coming.”

”Let's save the happy reunion for later,” Clay says, drawing his father's revolvers. He hands me one of his father's guns. ”You can shoot?”

I nod, looking over the revolver.

”Good,” he says. He holds up a box of sh.e.l.ls he's dug out of his father's pants pockets and starts loading his two guns.

The four of us exchange our last looks. Ethan puts his hand on my arm. ”Let's get the h.e.l.l out of dodge,” he says. It's a perfect imitation of my stepfather. I almost smile. We walk to the door and it slides open.

I'm the first to step into the hallway. I skid to a stop. The hospital bed crashes into my back. Ten yards down the hall, Dr. Vandewater stands with her arms folded across her chest. Her long red fingernails look like b.l.o.o.d.y talons. Behind her, guards line the corridor, guns slung across their arms, bullet-proof vests strapped on their chests. My mouth drops open. Betsy lets out a little squeal.

”No more deals,” the doctor says, her face a cold emotionless mask. ”Come with me, Clay, or die with them. You have one minute to decide.”

I stare for a moment, unable to move. This? This is what we've come down to?

Clay turns and pushes us back into the room. We fall in. Ethan's hand gropes for mine. Silent tears trace Betsy's face. My eyes flick from the open doorway to Clay's face. He stares back in shock.

”What'd we do?” I ask.

Clay looks to the door, then back at me. He shakes his head slowly. ”I don't ... I don't know.”

A sob breaks from Betsy. Ethan's whole body begins to tremble. I pull him to me. I squeeze him hard, trying to hold back my own tears.

”This is all my fault,” I say, pressing my face into Ethan's hair. ”We can't go against that many guards. We're done.” My eyes flick up to Clay's stunned face. ”I should've listened when you said not to be reckless. I had to run here with no thought, no plan.” I wrap my arms around Ethan. My hand finds my mother's arm on the bed. ”It's all my fault.”

Clay grabs me by the shoulders. I press my face into his chest, my angry tears seeping into the fabric of his s.h.i.+rt. Is this my last moment with him? I try to memorize the smell of his neck, the flex of his arms, the touch of his hand on my cheek. This can't be the end. He lifts my face to his. His sky blue eyes stare deep into my own.

”No,” he whispers, brus.h.i.+ng his fingers against my cheek, ”you were right. Sometimes you have to be reckless for someone you love.”

He draws me to him, his lips pressing into mine, first soft, then harder. Pa.s.sion rips through me, heating up my chest, my arms, my hands. I fold into him, drinking up this moment of sweetness. Our first kiss. Our last.

When he pulls away, I'm light-headed and breathless. ”Clay.”

He gives me one more longing look. Then he draws his gun, strides through the doorway and opens fire.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

”No!” I shout.

My voice is drowned out by the rattle of gunfire.

In the hallway bullets ping off the walls, lights shatter. A smoke grenade plinks off the tile and begins spewing gas into the air. Betsy and Ethan cower. I can't take my eyes off the spot where Clay was a moment ago. He sacrificed himself for me.

I can't let him die.