C Box: Blue Heaven

Swann turned his attention to Monica and didn’t respond so much as growl, and he lifted Annie to her feet by her hair and pressed the muzzle of the hot pistol into her neck.

“Oscar, please…” her mother cried.

“Shut up,” Swann said. “I’ve got to use her to get out of here, to get that rancher.”

Monica glanced at the shotgun Villatoro had dropped on the floor, and Annie felt Swann tighten his grip on her and saw the pistol rise over her shoulder and aim at her mother. Villatoro was still.

Swann said, “Back off now into that room back there and take your boy. I’m going to lock you in because I may need you for later. But if you try and get out, she dies, you all die.”

NEWKIRK HEARD another bullet hit Singer, a punching sound, heard it go thump like when a baseball hits a batter. Saw Singer suddenly drop back into view, on the ground with him again, Singer squirming like he was trying to get ants out of his clothes. Inside the house there had been two quick gunshots. Newkirk thought, Hell has broken loose.

Newkirk and Singer were eye to eye. Singer’s coat was drenched with red. Newkirk could smell it, hot and metallic. Bright red blood foamed from Singer’s mouth and nostrils as he tried to breathe, but his eyes were blue and sharp, fixed on Newkirk.

“You hid,” Singer said, spitting blood as he talked. “You fucking hid…”

“It never should have gone this far,” Newkirk said.

“We deserved it, we earned it!” Singer said in a rage. He sounded like he was drowning inside, and he probably was, Newkirk thought. Singer’s lungs were filling up with his own blood. Bad way to go, but he wished he’d quit talking and twitching.

“It wasn’t worth it,” Newkirk said. He raised his weapon and shot Singer in the forehead.

Singer stopped squirming.

“There,” Newkirk said. “Enough.”

Then he heard the sound of a car coming down the road, and the faraway beating of a helicopter.

But behind him, the front door to the ranch house burst open, and there stood Swann, holding the little girl with his gun to her head, his mutilated face twisted in agony and fear.

“HEY, RANCHER!” Swann yelled toward the ridge, his voice cutting through the sudden morning stillness. “I’ve got the little girl here. I want you to stand up and throw down your weapon. We can work this out so nobody else gets hurt.” As he yelled, Annie could feel his arm tighten around her neck and the muzzle of the pistol press hard through her hair, biting into her temple.

Annie thought, If Jess goes for it, he’s a dead man . He should stay put. Look what happened to Mr. Villatoro when he listened to Swann. She hoped William wouldn’t try something stupid to save her and get himself hurt.

“You need to answer me!” Swann shouted, his voice cracking, revealing his fear. Annie craned her neck to see that the shouting had stretched Swann’s face, popped several of his stitches. Blood streamed down his face and dripped from his chin onto the top of his collar. It was soaking through his shirt onto her neck. It felt hot, like oil dripping from beneath a car. Be tough , she thought. Show grit. No crying. She was more angry than scared, and if he loosened his grip, she would fight her way free like a wildcat.

She felt Swann take a sudden gasping breath of alarm. She turned back around and couldn’t believe what she saw.

Jess Rawlins was running down the hill toward them, still holding his rifle, the barrel flashing in the morning sun.

“What are you doing, old man?” Swann yelled out. “You need to stop right now and drop the weapon. STOP!”

Swann jerked the pistol from her head, pointed it unsteadily out in front of them at Jess, and fired off three quick shots. She flinched with every explosion. Jess Rawlins jerked and stumbled, but didn’t stop coming.

The old rancher was close enough now that Annie could hear the sound of his boots crunching in the gravel.

Swann suddenly threw her aside like a doll so he could set his feet and grip his pistol to aim with two hands. He fired again, four shots in quick succession. At least two she could tell were hits. There were blotches of blood on the front of Jess’s jacket, but the man’s face and his look of pure determination hadn’t changed a bit.

When the rancher finally stopped it was to raise his rifle from twenty yards away, aim calmly, and shoot Oscar Swann squarely between the eyes. Swann dropped straight back into the doorway, his pistol thumping on the porch. Annie rolled away, unhurt.

MONICA ROLLED the dresser drawer as hard as she could into the locked door of the bedroom, and it swung open, the lock broken. She stepped over Villatoro’s body and grabbed William’s hand, pulling him through the living room behind her. She saw Swann’s trunk in the doorway. He was flat on his back, blood pouring from his ears, pooling on the floorboards. Annie was scrambling to her feet and running off the porch, toward someone out in the yard.

Monica heard it. The sound of a helicopter approaching, blades thumping bass.

She stepped over Swann’s body and saw everything at once. Singer, dead on the grass in front of his car. Gonzalez, splayed out and steaming, his face and most of his head gone.

The helicopter sliding over the southern hill, flying so low it was kicking up dirt and branches, coming straight toward the house. The sheriff’s SUV, siren suddenly whooping, speeding down the two-track toward the ranch, followed by two other departmental vehicles and an ambulance.

Jess slumped in the yard, sitting down, his rifle cast aside, his bare head bowed as if he were sleeping, his hat off, upturned in the grass next to his legs. Annie running toward him, her arms outstretched.

THE LAST THING Newkirk saw before he turned the pistol on himself was Monica Taylor and her two kids down on the ground with the rancher, hugging him, wailing, keeping him still in the grass as the sheriff bore down on them.

JESS RAWLINS ALMOST DIED three times in the helicopter before he finally stabilized, although there were periods when he wasn’t sure just which side of that line he was on. That was a month ago.

Now, he seemed to be emerging from his trauma, if only for a while. There were things he just knew had happened, without recalling the details. The ride in a helicopter, EMTs in flight suits prying his eyes open, asking him questions, talking about him as if he weren’t there. Villatoro lying next to him on one side, Hearne on the other. Both either asleep or gone. My team , Jess had thought. Jess’s world going black and wonderfully white twice while in the air, once while landing. The white was ethereal, welcoming. But turning back each time, thanks to the electric shocks that restarted his heart. Then surgery, doctors, bright lights, more surgery, the prick of needles on the undersides of his forearms, the sharp smells of antiseptic and his own blood, the tinny sound of bullets that had been removed from his body being dropped into metal trays.

In the midst of the surgeries, there had been a long parade of faces, voices, one after the other, some he knew, some he didn’t, some he wished he didn’t. He would try to sit up to meet and greet the people who were there to see him, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. He would be able to speak, smile, talk things out sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. There were instances when he could see them and hear them clearly, and his mind was active, but he couldn’t will his lips to move. He hated that.