Flashpoint (38 page)

“I do have to.”

“No, you don't.”

“I want to.”

Sonora steadied her aim. “Out of the way, Keaton.”

“Don't move,” Selma told him.

Keaton looked at Sonora. “Look, if there's any chance—”

“Ashley's dead, Keaton. Her car's full of blood.”

“You
know
she's dead?”

“I saw her body, now
move
. Go!”

“Girlfriend, you'uns are fibbing and you know it.”

Keaton looked at Sonora and she knew, from the expression on his face, who he believed.

“Keaton, she's playing with you.”

He shook his head. “I've got to see her. I want to see Ashley.”

Selma looked at Sonora. “Want to?”

Golly gee, Mom, look what I did. Sonora knew better than to refuse.

“Come on, Detective. You first, then him and me. And you lose your gun now, or I'll shoot him right here.” She put the muzzle of the gun at the hollow of Keaton's throat, and Sonora remembered kissing him there, and the way his arms felt when he pulled her close.

She blinked, set the gun on the side of the path. Wondered where the hell Sam was.

Selma motioned with her head. “That way. Toward the river.”

Sonora turned her back and walked.

She waited for the gun to go off, another little game, but the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing let her know they were no more than a few feet behind. Up until now, all her energy had been focused on the chase, bringing Selma in. She would be grateful, now, if she could bring Keaton out alive.

She picked up the blood trail as they moved downhill, a rusty smear on a sapling. She imagined Ashley Daniels stumbling down the path, thought of the blood-soaked shoe in the car, the forced march through the rain. She wondered if there was the smallest possibility Keaton's wife was alive.

The mud caked on the hem of her jeans slowed her down. Sonora smelled the river, the rain, realized that if she lived, she'd never be able to look at the muddy waters of the Kentucky without remembering. She saw the footprint out of the corner of one eye, a long smear where someone had fallen. Saw Ashley Daniels's black slingback pump lying on one side, caked with mud. Sonora turned and faced Selma.

“Where is she?”

Selma pushed hair out of her eyes. “Keep on going and I'll show you.”

“I don't think so.” Sonora pointed to the shoe. She heard Keaton's intake of breath, saw him surge toward the edge of the path.

“
No
.” Selma had the gun up.

He'd never survive a shot that close, Sonora thought.

“She goes,” Selma said.

Sonora moved to the edge of the path. Looked over her shoulder. Keaton was white, rain running down his cheeks. She was afraid to turn her back, afraid he'd be dead if she moved too far away.

Selma moved the gun. “Right down there.”

There would have been more blood, Sonora decided, if not for the steady drum of rain. The ground sloped steeply, and she braced herself by hanging on to the thicket of trees. She could see Selma and Keaton when she turned her head, knew they were watching.

A patch of yellow caught her eye, sunny yellow showing behind a fallen tree. Sonora slid down the slope to look.

It was the feet that bothered her the most, the ripped stockings and torn flesh. She imagined Ashley Daniels, bleeding and afraid, stumbling through the woods to her death.

Her manicure was intact, she had not fought. Her white silk shirt was sodden, showing the outline of the lace demicup bra, pink flesh beneath. Her shirt was liberally stained, as if she'd had a lapful of blood.

She'd been shot once, in the stomach. Sonora looked at the black gaping wound, surprised that Ashley had lived as long and walked as far as she had. There were drag marks through the leaves. Ashley had likely collapsed on the path, losing the shoe, and Selma had dragged her a few feet into the woods—not far—hiding her behind the rotting tree.

And now Selma was marching them right past the body; to where? The river, no doubt.

Sonora went through the motions, touching the cold wet hand, the side of the neck, avoiding the wide-open violet eyes, the oddly grumpy look on Ashley Daniels's face, as if she had merely been inconvenienced rather than in exquisite pain and fear.

Sonora looked back up to Keaton and Selma. She could make a break and run. She knew it and so did Selma. Might even catch Selma—should be cops everywhere by now. But she'd never get Keaton out alive.

Sonora headed up the slope, saw Keaton watching her, a hungry look. She avoided his eyes, grimaced at Selma.

“Now what?”

“The river,” Selma said. She pointed with the gun. “Let's go.”

Sam would be close, Sonora thought. Crick, and uniforms, and reinforcements. Time was on her side.

“Okay, the river.”

“Wait a minute.”

Sonora and Selma looked at Keaton as if they'd forgotten he was there.

“Did you … what did—”

Sonora touched his arm. Selma flinched and moved in closer. Sonora kept her voice low and calm.

“It wasn't her, Keaton. She's down by the river, probably, like Selma says.”

“She's over there,” Selma said. Flatly. A dangerous tone in her voice.

Sonora swallowed, mouth so dry she wanted to stick her tongue out and catch a drop of rain. Keaton shook his head, eyes taking on a flat glaze that made Sonora reach for him. He twisted sideways, a fast graceful pivot, and grabbed Selma by the throat.

Sonora surged toward them, saw the frown on Selma's face screw into a mask of rage, knew she would be too late. The shot was deafening, and so close Sonora almost felt the impact.

There was a moment of quiet as they stood together, like a trio of close friends, Keaton and Sonora shoulder to shoulder, Selma small and clutching the gun, the ragged fringe of short wet bangs like spikes across her forehead.

Keaton did not fall or groan or even seem to be aware of the crimson blossom spreading across his chest. He kept his grip on Selma's throat.

Sonora felt rather than saw the gun come back up. She shoved Keaton sideways, and he let go of Selma and fell. Sonora landed hard on his chest, waiting for the bullet that she knew would come.

But it didn't. She felt Keaton's blood warm his shirt and hers, felt the swift hard beat of his heart.

“Get
away
from him.”

Sonora turned her head sideways. Selma was still on her feet, legs apart, bottom lip caught beneath little white teeth.

“Out of the way, girlfriend. Bullet go right through you into him, no difference to me.”

“I thought he was different, Selma.”

“You'uns thought wrong, we both did. I need to keep looking, that's all. Now you got about thirty seconds to move.”

Sonora hung tight to Keaton, warm, solid, and wet under her chest. “No.”

“You'uns don't believe I'll shoot.”

“Yeah, I believe it.”

Selma looked at her. “So now what?”

“You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”

They said Selma never smiled, and it came and went so quickly Sonora wasn't sure it was ever there. And just like that Selma was gone, running toward the river in the rain.

Sonora moved off Keaton, put a palm flat against the hole in his chest. The bleeding had stopped, the pressure of her chest against his cutting the flow. His face was white, lips purple.

He opened his eyes. “Why'd you stop me? I could … I could have had her.”

“Keaton—”

“Don't touch me.” He jerked suddenly, eyes fierce. “Did she suffer? My wife?”

“No,” Sonora said.

“You always tell me lies, Sonora.”

She left him, chest trickling blood in the mud and the rain. Later, when the nightmares came, she would dream of him there, chest rising slowly with each painful breath, yards away from Ashley's body.

Sonora ran down the path toward the river, wondering why Selma hadn't shot her when she'd had the chance.

Rain pelted her head, and the drenched jacket slapped her thighs. Her breath came hard. She ripped the jacket off as she ran, threw it down on the pathway, ran harder.

Sonora heard the gun go off just as she caught sight of the river, water swirling around Sam's and Selma's knees as they struggled for control. Sam fell backward, taking Selma with him, brown droplets spattering Sonora as she ran full tilt into the river.

Selma came up first, small blond head like a seal. She looked like a very little girl, wet, angry, and afraid. Sonora felt the shock of water, warmer than she'd expected, and she wrapped her arms around Selma's shoulders, thinking with surprise how small boned and fragile she felt.

“Sam!”

He surfaced just as Sonora called his name, still alive, strong, in one piece.

“Thank God,” Sonora muttered.

Selma screamed and Sonora tightened her grip, but Selma bucked sideways and slipped away. Sonora pitched forward after her, missing and going under. She was back up in a second, coughing, rubbing her eyes.

“I got her,” Sam said, and he pulled Selma up out of the river, one hand on her neck, the other a tight fist in her hair.

61

The basketball goal had not been in the budget but had proven to be a good investment. Sonora threw shot after shot. She was getting good. She played every time she saw Selma in her head. She played a lot.

Sometimes, late at night when she could not sleep, she wondered what would happen if she and Selma were merged into one—wondered which side would dominate, the good or the bad. Did she have enough good in her to balance Selma's bad? Was there a good part of Selma—or could there be? What would a good Selma be like?

Sonora thought of her brother, the hot charred remains of his little apartment in the saloon.

Nothing good in Selma Yorke.

So why hadn't Selma killed her that day in the rain? Killed her and gotten away?

The front door opened, and Tim and Heather came out onto the porch. They looked at each other, whispered something, and stood at the edge of the driveway, bundled up in their jackets and gloves.

Sonora wished she could make her mind go blank. She had not slept more than an hour or two a night since she'd brought Selma in. She lay in bed, wide-eyed, hour after hour. The only time she felt sleepy was when she was driving. Which was bad timing, any way you looked at it.

“Mommy?” Heather looked at Sonora, eyes serious behind the tiny gold-rimmed glasses. “Come in now, Mommy. It's cold.”

“I'm playing.” Sonora bounced the ball hard on the concrete.

Tim and Heather looked at each other, exchanged more whispers.

“Mom, want to watch
Witness?
”

“No, thanks.”

“Want some chocolate?”

“You kids go ahead.”

Tim frowned. “Can we play basketball with you, Mom?”

“Don't you have homework? Algebra, Tim?”

“We did our homework, made up our beds, and cleaned our rooms.”

Sonora stopped and looked at them. Really looked. Doing their homework, making their beds, cleaning their rooms—that caught her attention. Offering her chocolate, her favorite movie. And something like a catch in their voices.

She had been looking at them and not seeing them for too many days in a row. There were times when it had to be like that—real-life moms with real-life jobs, and intervals where your attention and focus slipped away, and you told the kids to hang in there, let me catch this killer, then we'll get your school clothes, your new shoes, spend one day in the malls, and one at the movies or something fun.

But there were limits. And she realized, looking at them standing side by side, breath fogging the air, what babies they were. And how much she expected of them. Too much, maybe.

High time she got back to looking after them, instead of the other way around.

She should tell them she loved them, should tell them how proud she was of them both, but before the words came, Tim had snatched the ball.

“Mom, you're looking pitiful out here. If you want to shoot, do it like this.”

The ball slid through the net, and Heather snatched it up and tossed it into the air. It went wild and rolled into the street. Sonora heard a car engine. Ran to the edge of the driveway.

The car came to a halt, and the driver motioned Sonora ahead. She hurried across the street, and the driver waited, motioned her back. Patient of him, she thought, and took a second look.

Keaton. He parked in front of the house and got out of the car.

The children watched from the driveway. They looked annoyed. One moment they'd had her attention, and now it was gone again.

Keep this short, Sonora thought. She bounced the ball on the sidewalk. “Good to see you up and around.”

“You didn't come and visit me at the hospital,” Keaton said.

He had lost weight, too much weight. His eyes held a hunted look that gave Sonora the panicky feeling that maybe time did not heal all wounds, that scars could run too deep. She wanted to touch him, brush the back of her hand on his freshly shaven cheeks.

Don't touch me
, he had said.
You always tell me lies
.

Sonora kept the ball bouncing in a slow steady rhythm. She had called the hospital every day until he was out of danger, but saw no reason to bring it up.

“Let's walk a little,” he said finally.

Sonora handed the basketball to her son. “Play with Heather, I'll be back in a minute.”

Heather had her solemn look, chin down, and Sonora hesitated, then ran back and hugged her, whispering promises of the dinner they would cook, the fire they would build in the fireplace. It took a promise of Victoria's Secret bubble bath to bring the chin up and the smile out.

Sonora stood up, brushed Heather's hair out of her eyes, saw Keaton still and patient. She noticed a startling touch of gray in the hair at his temples.