Killer Move - Michael Marshall [116]
“Interesting. Is that why he’s not picking up the phone? ‘Spoke’ how hard to him, exactly? He another loose end that you’ve been hired to tidy up?”
“You’re a very paranoid young woman. Mr. Bauman is alive and well. He claims that you hired him to impersonate David Warner, and I believe him. I further believe this is evidence that you were involved in the latter’s death. And by extension, that of Hazel Wilkins.”
“What? You’re dreaming, asshole. You know I had nothing to do with those.”
Emily’s voice was too tight, too low. She needed to be focused on getting out, not getting pulled into a toe-to-toe with Barclay.
Two more baby steps had got me to the point where I could dodge right and take my chances with the back door. She’d be in the way of any fire, would operate as a shield for me. But I couldn’t do that.
“I don’t know that at all,” Barclay said. His voice rolled on and on like an unstoppable tide of unreason. “I do know you were involved in violations of prisoners’ rights while you were stationed in—”
“No!” Emily shouted. “Whoever told you that, they lied. I stole, yes. I whacked a guy who deserved it—he was a rapist and an asshole. But I did none of that other shit. They put that on me to get me out.”
“Emily,” I said desperately. “Ignore him.”
The sheriff had shoved his hand right into her emotional guts and grabbed her, however, and Emily abruptly started to walk back into the living room. The gun was pointing straight at Barclay’s head, but it was wavering. “Fucks like you,” she snarled. “It’s fucks like you that have ruined my entire fucking life.”
“Emily,” I shouted. She wasn’t listening.
Hallam finally assumed the shooter’s position. “Ma’am, step back. Right now.”
She kept walking.
“Ma’am, do not advance any farther.”
I moved quickly, threw my arm in front of her, trying to stop her. She was stronger than me, though, and hard to hold back. Her entire body was shaking. Her eyes were drawing down on Barclay like he was everyone who’d ever done her wrong. She kept her left arm rigid over my shoulder, the gun still pointing at the sheriff’s head.
“Emily,” I said, low, a whisper. “Listen to me. Please. Don’t do this.”
Barclay smiled. “She’ll do something, Mr. Moore. Count on it. She’s volatile. Unstable. That’s why she’s here. Though just so you know, she was right about one thing. I do have your house keys. Your back door is locked. I checked. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Emily stopped trying to push forward against me and went very still. “Guess it’s Plan B, then,” she said. “Cool by me. I like the sound of it better anyway.”
She shoved me away, lowering the gun to aim unswervingly at Barclay’s chest. “Good-bye, asshole.”
She pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
But Hallam fired first, and Emily jerked back as if she’d been standing on a rear-ended train. Her shot went wide. She lurched past me over the threshold into the kitchen, falling skewed, sliding on the tiles and smacking back into the oven, her bloodied hand caught under her back, the arm breaking audibly as she landed.
“About time,” Barclay said. “Jesus, Rob, what the hell is wrong with you?”
I ran to Emily. The bullet had gone through her throat, punching a chunk of it out the other side and splashing blood and tissue across the floor tiles. There was a beat of rawness in her neck before blood started to pump up from inside like a storm wave.
I grabbed her bandaged hand, put it to the wound. “Hold it there,” I said, hoping this was the right thing to do. “Hold it tight.”
She stared up at me. Her chest convulsed, as if something was trying to push its way out of her heart. Not violently, but with firm intent. “Oh,” she said.
It happened again, and with the jerk of her rib cage a gout of blood surged from the mess in her neck.
“Please, Emily,” I said. “Hold it. Hold on.”
Her mouth was moving, but nothing made it out this time except wet clicking sounds.
“Call an ambulance,” I shouted at Hallam. He stood frozen, gun still held out, aghast. “Get the paramedics.”
“All units are busy at St. Armands Circle,” Barclay said