John Lutz: Burn

“I’ve been thinking some more about the baby,” Beth said. “Trying to come to a decision.”

“It’s your call,” Carver said. It sounded lame, but he didn’t know what else to tell her. He was with her either way. And either way, it wasn’t the kind of decision a woman made then walked away whistling. Whatever she decided, he knew he might lose her if she thought he’d pressured her into it. She’d talked to the doctor, who’d quoted her the odds on giving birth to another dead child. She knew her chances but hadn’t told Carver. With something like that, what did the odds mean, anyway, if you were the one taking the risk?

“Let’s try it,” she said.

He couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “You sure it’s what you want?”

“No. But I’ve made up my mind.”

He touched her hand in the dark and she squeezed his fingers hard, digging her nails into his flesh. Then her grip loosened and he heard her quiet sobs and felt their subtle vibrations.

Carver knew the truth now. She needed him.

The cruise ship’s lights had disappeared. A cool breeze came out of the night with a sound like a sudden intake of breath. Gazing into unbroken blackness, he thought of Portia and Joel Brant, of Charley Spotto and Achilles Jones, of Willa Krull sitting alone in her apartment with her gin and her Shooter’s World subscription, her guilt and her guns. With her time running out.

He pulled Beth to him and held her close.

Death was in the air, and she was life.