Robert Browne - Kill Her Again

The shotgun roared, bucking hard against Anna’s already-wounded shoulder, pain reverberating through her body as the charge flew, and she had no idea if she’d hit anything, until she was on the ground, and realized the stranger had stopped firing.

Fighting against her pain, she scrambled to her feet and saw him lying about five yards away.

Half of his face was missing.

Motherfucker.

“Evan?” she shouted, and the boy started to cry again.

Anna turned and saw him sitting on the ground nearby, banged up, but still in one piece.

Then there was a groan behind her and she spun around, moving to Pope, who lay on his back on the mottled pavement, his chest bloody, his breathing ragged and labored, his eyes staring blankly at the sky.

“I think I’m hit,” he said, and she fell to her knees beside him, grabbing his hand — Oh, god, oh, god — but there was nothing she could do for him, he’d be gone soon, and tears flooded her eyes as she looked down at him, not knowing what to say, wanting desperately to rewind the clock, to take it all back — and then his eyes shifted slightly, as if he’d seen something in some far-off place.

He said, “Ben?”

— then stopped breathing, stopped moving, all the gears grinding to an abrupt halt.

Anna just sat there, tears falling, not quite believing what had happened here, not wanting to let go. Evan was still crying, too, but she couldn’t find the strength to move, couldn’t go to him, as sirens wailed in the distance, signaling that help was on its way.

But what did it matter?

Pope was gone, Evan’s family wiped out, Susan in jail, little Jillian Carpenter taken long before her time, and all Anna could claim in return was a small scrap of her gypsy soul.

Red Cap had won. He may have been lying at the bottom of those steps, but he still had most of their soul and would carry it on to another life, another time.

And when he realized who he was and what he needed to do, it would start all over again. She would never be free.

Never.

But then it suddenly occurred to Anna.

Time.

What if she could rewind the clock?

What if she could take it all back?

What is the harm, Mikola had said, in simply looking into the mirrors and asking that they take you where you wish to go?

Just like Peabody and Sherman. Her own personal wayback machine.

Was it possible?

Could it be done?

She was, after all, Chavi Zala, the gypsy witch, one of the most powerful chovihanis the Zala family had ever seen.

All she had to do, Madam Zala had told her, was look beyond her reflection, and when she ceased to see herself, she’d see the world, all the way back to its beginning, and forward, to eternity.

And suddenly Anna knew where she needed to go. What moment in time. The only moment where she knew he was certain to be, a part of the past that could be replayed and retooled, and would change everything that came after.

Getting to her feet, she shuffled over to Evan, crouching beside him, putting her arms around him.

“It’ll be all right, hon. Everything’s gonna be all right. You hear the sirens?”

Evan wiped his face, nodded.

“They’re coming to help you,” Anna said. “To take you away from here. But I can’t go with you. I have to go back inside.”

“No,” Evan whimpered, grabbing hold of her arms. “Don’t go.”

“I have to, dear. But I promise, I’m going to make it better. Everything will be better. All your hurt will go away forever.”

“No,” Evan cried, clinging to her, but she pried herself loose and stood.

“I’ll make it better,” she said. “You’ll see.”

And then she turned, shuffling back toward the entrance to the building.

Back toward the magic mirror maze.

Back into the past.

Jillian Carpenter moved down the street, approaching the Rambler parked just outside of Carl’s Liquor Store.

“What are you doing?” Suzie Oliver asked, sounding a little nervous.

“I wanna look inside,” she said.

“What?” Suzie sounded alarmed now.

“Just a quick look,” Jillian said. “I’m not gonna get in or anything.”

“What if somebody catches you?”

“I’ll tell him we thought it was your uncle’s car.”

Moving up to the driver’s window, Jillian peered inside, cupping her hands for a better view, then crouching down a little to look at the locket dangling from the rearview mirror.

Then Jillian moved to the Rambler’s rear passenger window, staring into the back, before something on the rear windshield caught her attention.

A parking sticker.

“Come on, Jillian, let’s go,” Suzie said. “Somebody’s gonna come.”

Jillian turned, looking at her friend, then headed back and grabbed Suzie’s hand.

“Race you home,” she said, then they broke away from each other and ran.

As they tore past Carl’s, Mikola Zala stepped out of the liquor store, and watched them intently. Taking a last drag off of his cigarette, he tossed it aside and crossed to the Rambler, quickly unlocking it and climbing inside.

This was Anna’s cue to move.

Opening the Honda Civic’s door-the Honda Civic she’d stolen from the Big Mountain parking lot-she got out and crossed the street toward the Rambler.

“Excuse me,” she said, waving her hand at Mikola.

He started the engine, paying her no attention.

“Excuse me,” she said again, and he turned, scowling at her, rolling down his window.

Anna knew she must’ve been a sight, with her wounded shoulder and the gash in her cheek.

But Mikola didn’t seem to notice. “What do you want, woman?”

“You don’t remember me, Mikola?”

He looked surprised. “How do you know my…”

Then the surprise turned to recognition as he looked into her eyes.

“Chavi?”

“That’s right, motherfucker.”

Anna raised her Glock, touching it to his chest. Before he could react, she said, “ Mine.”

Then she pulled the trigger.

On APRIL 14, 1981, Anna Elizabeth McBride ceased to exist. There are no records of her birth to be found.

Two weeks later, the girl who carried Anna’s soul celebrated her eleventh birthday at the Big Mountain amusement park, with her mother, Delilah, her stepfather, Craig, and her best friend, Suzie Oliver.

Later that night, as a special surprise birthday present, Craig gave Jillian a puppy, which she promptly named Stinky, Jr.

During a poker game, at approximately 2:00 a.m. on November 16, 2007, Oasis Hotel-Casino owner and reputed organized crime figure Anderson Troy bit into a slice of pepperoni and onion pizza and began to gag.

When those around him failed to administer the Heimlich maneuver, he promptly choked to death.

Three weeks later, Troy’s loyal manservant, Arturo Medina, was arrested for the murder of the hotel chef who had prepared Troy’s pizza.

An undercover investigation into Troy’s illegal activities was promptly abandoned.

On May 12, 2009, Evan Fairweather and his little sister, Kimberly, attended the wedding of their mother, Rita, who married a visiting certified public accountant named Hans Crawford, whom she had met at the bar where she worked three nights a week.

The family moved away from Ludlow to Santa Barbara, California, where Crawford lived on an acre of land. Crawford later filed papers to adopt the children, both of whom took his name.

The children’s biological father never attempted to find them and his whereabouts are currently unknown.

Jillian Carpenter was sitting on a bench in the middle of the Midstreet Mall in Northern Las Vegas when she saw her.