Nicole Young - Kill Me If You Can

“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.

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.

My arm throbbed. I covered the bloodstained bandage with my hand. The warmth of my palm soothed it for a moment.

A rescue worker saw me, her eyes squinched with concern. She put a finger in the air as if to say, I’ll be with you in a minute. Then she turned back to the blanket-covered body on the lawn.

I wandered through the yard like a Night of the Living Dead costar. My heart was missing from my chest. My brain was numb.

There was nothing here for me now.

What had Brad said? Go to Del Gloria—a safe place to land. But I didn’t care about safety anymore. It would have been merciful if the bullet had shot me through the heart instead of my arm.

Now all I cared about was getting away from here . . . away from the days of mourning that lay ahead. Sam could have her place next to Brad’s coffin. She was his sister. His blood. And who was I? Not a wife. Not even a fiancée. Just a friend.

I didn’t want to be here when my loss would become reality. Then, Cupid’s Creek, my woods, my living room, all would become reminders. Reminders of this moment. This nightmare.

But if I went to Del Gloria . . . I could forget. There were no markers to jog my memory. Only strangers and strange surroundings. No Brad. No death. No grief in my wretched heart.

Fingers sticky with blood, I reached in my pocket and pulled out the note Brad had given me.

Denton Braddock, he’d written. A mentor. A quiet, obscure life for me. I half-smiled, recalling the anger I’d felt when Brad first told me about this Denton guy. But now—

The pain in my arm flared. Ahead was Brad’s SUV. The door hung open and the keys were still in the ignition, as if he’d just stepped out for a moment.

I got behind the wheel, and hesitated. My driver’s license. My cell phone. My checkbook. I should get them.

My foot flinched, ready to make a move.

No.

Ties to the past. Ties to my sorrow. That’s all those things were. I didn’t want them along. The debit card still in my back pocket from last night’s fill-up was all I’d take with me.

A slam of the door. A turn of the key. The engine rumbled and I pulled ahead, past the array of emergency vehicles.

In a minute I was at the end of the driveway. Then at US-2.

I turned west. Toward Del Gloria.

With a glance at the speedometer, I set the cruise. The melodic sound of the wheels on blacktop seemed to lessen the pain in my arm. Scenery whooshed past. A soothing calm gushed through my mind. I relaxed against the leather and let all thoughts drain away.

A few more miles, and my time with Brad would be just a dream.

Thank you to Vern Annelin for his arson expertise and great stories from his years as a rescue worker.

Thanks to Ray and Kathy Young for their help with EMT details in the final scene.

Thanks to Vicki, Barb, and Kristin for their patience and inspiration during the editing process.

Nicole Young resides in Garden, Michigan, with her children, cats, and tiny Yorkie. Home renovation is a way of life for the author whose first project was converting a Victorian in lower Michigan into a thriving bed & breakfast. She returned to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in 2001, where she owns and upkeeps vacation rental homes. Nicole plays fiddle and sings with two local bands and enjoys horseback riding on the beautiful Garden Peninsula.