“Barely. Not much past the headlights,” I tell her. Out the opposite window I can see the barn. No smoke. A small reassurance that Morrigan is still safe.
“Gabriel is no longer a child,” I tell Christian. “What he’s done is unforgivable.” Tears burn in my eyes and my throat grows tight. “My mother . . .” I can’t speak.
Christian looks ready to cry. “I’m so sorry, Salome. I know how special she was.”
“I liked your father. I’d always hoped the two of you would repair your relationship. I tried to reason with him.”
“He’s stubborn.”
Like his son.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was my father?” I whisper. “You’ve known for years.”
He won’t turn from the window to look at me, and I see his father’s stubbornness in his spine.
“You didn’t tell me you were friends with my father. The man who practically disowned me,” he lashes back.
“That’s not the same and you know it.”
He has the grace to nod, and I can tell he is struggling to tell me the truth.
“I don’t know. A lot of reasons.”
I wait.
“I wasn’t positive it was true. I didn’t want to spread a rumor.”
“But now you believe it is true?”
“I did some snooping around after you begged for a place to hide. I found out there was no way your father could have been your birth father . . . he was in jail at the time.” He finally meets my eyes. “I found your baptism record. Your birthday isn’t what you think it is.”
“When is it?” I whisper, my knees weak.
“Sometime in September, I think. Not March. You’re about six months younger than you believe.”
I examine his face for lies. Truth permeates the air around him, and I struggle to find my breath.
“It wasn’t just that,” he continues. “You were my closest friend . . . I didn’t want anything to change. If you knew, we’d be different.” His voice falters on the last word.
“You don’t know that.” But in my heart I knew he was right. Our friendship was—is still special, and perhaps an unknown family bond made it that way. I don’t hate him for his silence; I could never hate him. I’m disappointed.
I search for hints of myself in his face. Maybe around the mouth . . . the shape of the eyes.
“I always believed I had genes of violence . . . my father did horrible things.” My voice trembles. “I tried to live up to those genes. I acted out . . . I fucked around and played with people’s emotions, blaming my father for making me who I was.” I cover my eyes. I can’t stand the sympathy in Christian’s. “But it was just me all along . . . not his genes . . . That was who I am.”
I shudder. None of my life is what I thought it was.
“There he is!” Mercy shouts from downstairs. “He’s on the other side of his vehicle.”
I strain my eyes, but I can’t see any movement on the other side. “Is he leaving?” I yell down to Mercy.
Get to Morrigan. Now.
“I don’t know,” said Mercy. “I think he would have left by now.”
I move to the rail and look down to the first level. “Can we get to the barn?”
“You’re going nowhere. I’ll get them out.” Mercy looks up and our eyes lock. “I need someone to watch him and cover me.”
This is true, but I know she also stated it as an excuse to keep us inside. I admire and now trust this FBI agent. She’s tough, and her heart is good. I regret we met under these circumstances.
“He’s coming out!” Christian shouts behind me.
I turn around and Christian lunges at me, knocking me to the floor, crushing me with his weight.
The window shatters, and I cover my head against the shower of glass as the gunshot reverberates outside.
Mercy dived next to the woodstove as the shot destroyed an upstairs window.
Damned glass.
She looked up at where Salome had stood a second earlier. She’d vanished.
“Christian?” Mercy shouted.
The crash of breaking glass and another gunshot made her crouch lower.
“We’re okay, but two windows up here are destroyed.”
Abruptly another shot shattered the small main-level window at the front of the cabin, and the cold outside air blew across her cheeks.
No worries. It’s too small to climb through.
“Aunt Mercy?” Kaylie’s tinny voice sounded from her pocket.
She slid out the radio. “We’re okay. He’s shot out some windows, but they’re too high for him to get in. The two of you need to stay put!”
“Got it.”
The air roared with another shot as glass shattered upstairs again.
“Get down here!” she yelled and darted for her laptop.
Christian and Salome thundered down the stairs. “He’s using tree trunks as cover,” Christian pants. “I couldn’t get a shot.” He directed Salome to crouch on the side of the woodstove that Mercy had just left.
Mercy enlarged each view on the screen. “I can’t see him. Dammit!”
I’m putting in more cameras next week.
“What about the barn?” Salome begged. She huddled by the stove, seeking the protection of the iron.
“I can see the barn door. He hasn’t gone back there.”
Christian moved toward the small broken window, his rifle raised.
“Get back,” Mercy snapped. “He hit it once, he can hit it again.”
“Send out the whore!”
Mercy’s head jerked up at Gabriel’s shout, her fingers frozen on her computer’s keyboard. Christian paled and looked over at Salome. Her eyes widened and then sparked in anger as she jumped to her feet.
“I believe he means me.”
“You’re not going out there,” Mercy ordered.
“Of course not. But as long as his focus is on me, I know Morrigan is safe.”
“Gabriel!” Christian cupped his mouth and shouted toward the small broken window. “What the hell are you doing?”
“This isn’t about you, Christian!” Gabriel answered. “It’s that fucking witch!”
Salome laughed, making an odd sound as if she were laughing and choking at the same time.
Her spine tense, Mercy hissed at Christian, “You don’t know how to handle this.”
“And you do?” he snarled back. “That’s my brother out there. He’ll listen to me.”
“He’s beyond listening to anyone. His brain has moved into his finger on the trigger.” Mercy struggled to recall the negotiation rules from her FBI workshops. To keep him talking was all she could remember.
“I’ll send you to hell, Gabriel Lake!” Salome bellowed. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she grinned, a crazy shit-eating grin that made Mercy’s skin crawl. “I’ll fucking curse you!” Her cackle was high and distorted, straight from every child’s witchy nightmare.
Christian stared at her, his rifle clenched to his chest. “Are you nuts?” he whispered.
“He’s terrified of me.” Salome choked on her tears and giggled, a wet clogged sound. “He’s always believed I was a witch.”
“You would see him? When?” Christian still looked rattled.
“Our paths would cross here and there in the past. He always gave me a wide berth.”