William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

I hit the floor back first, head tucked, then rolled, like they teach us at the academy, but I was certain I’d broken my right arm. Maybe a leg. It sure hurt enough. Possibly had a concussion. I didn’t have time to do a personal inventory. As soon as I opened my eyes, he was standing there, hovering over me, his foot between my legs.

“You know I loved you. You know that.” He looked like Satan, with belching smoke and billowing flames in the background.

Blood trickled out of my mouth when I tried to speak. I knew I couldn’t escape. He could pump three rounds into my skull before I could blink. “You had a damn funny way of showing it.”

“I let you live.”

A silence fell, blocking out the fiery chaos surrounding us.

“I did that for no other,” he continued. “It was not the will of the Raven, but I did it, because I so desperately wanted you to see the path.” His lips trembled. “You must hate me.”

“No.” And as I spoke, staring up at his twisted, pathetic face, I realized it was true. Whatever anger I’d had, whatever enmity I’d borne, was gone now. “I don’t hate you. I did. But not anymore. I told you already. We’re a lot alike.”

“We are?”

I nodded. “Both haunted. Both screwed to the max.” I wiped the blood from my mouth. “I used to think you were evil. Like if I demonized your psychosis, that somehow made it easier to deal with.” I laughed. “Hell, you’re not evil.”

“I’m… not?”

“No. You’re just a poor schmuck who misses his sister. Like I miss my husband.”

He hovered over me, gun still pointed, listening.

“I couldn’t forgive my husband for what he did. And I channeled all that anger against you. But that’s no way to live. I’m not going to spend my whole life angry, tearing myself apart. I forgive you.”

“You-what?”

“You heard me. I forgive you.”

He hesitated, gun wavering, sweat and blood trickling down the sides of his face. “You know I can’t let you live.”

I spat more blood out of my mouth. Something inside me was broken. I couldn’t remain conscious much longer. “So if you’re going to kill me, do it already. What do I get, the axe? I don’t think you have time for dental surgery.”

His face knotted up. “You are so… hard on me.” He pressed the gun against the side of my head. “I’m sorry, Susan. Goodbye.”

The gun fired. I winced. And waited, expecting to feel the intense pain-and release-that did not come. Always I think I’ve made it, but it never, never comes.

I opened my eyes. Abbott had crumpled to the floor. And behind him stood Darcy, shaking from head to foot, his normally inexpressive face contorted with pain, his eyes streaming tears.

He was holding his father’s gun.

After that, everything got kind of fuzzy. I know police and fire teams invaded the ballroom, and I know they got me out of there. Darcy hovered by my side the whole time. He was horribly torn up about what he had done. I knew it would haunt him for a long time, maybe forever. But at that moment, all he seemed to care about was me.

Next couple of days were pretty much a haze, too, but I eventually got the lowdown on what had happened in the aftermath. There were surprisingly few casualties from the fire. Many injuries, lots of smoke-inhalation-related respiratory problems, but only a few fatalities, mostly because O’Bannon had blasted open an exit to speed up the evacuation. That ballroom and the one adjoining it were wrecked, but most of the rest of the hotel was still sound. I’d prevented Abbott from detonating the remaining incendiary bombs, which were found and removed.

O’Bannon was seriously wounded and would be in the hospital for months. He’d already had his phone rerouted to his room in the recovery ward and had all his open files sent over. He might be laid up, but he was definitely not out of commission.

Patrick had been killed with an axe, which Abbott had apparently brought along to cut the rope he used to string up the girls. We assumed he’d come upon Abbott at work and Abbott killed him. Hid the body where he thought no one would find it, at least not before the explosions started. What a waste. He was a good man, a kind man. A rarity, in our field. I miss him.

Abbott died, almost instantly. Darcy’s gunshot got him in the brain. Although I could empathize with the pain his life had brought him, I had no regrets about his execution. He had crossed the threshold into utter psychosis. No drug therapy ever would have brought him back. It was better this way.

Rachel was alive. The bells hadn’t been as hard as they looked-not real iron. She still had a concussion and had suffered some hearing loss, at least temporarily. But she was alive. And the docs told me that if I hadn’t gotten to her when I did and stopped that bell, she might not have made it.

That was something, anyway.

The other three girls, Tiffany and Judy and JJ, were also alive, but seriously messed up, far worse than Rachel. They hadn’t been in their bells as long-apparently they had helped him secure Rachel-but they were suffering severe psychological trauma from their time in captivity. It would be a long while before they were normal again, if indeed they ever were. But they were alive, and where there’s life, there’s hope. Right?

This time, I let the docs keep me in the hospital just as long as they wanted. I was in no hurry, and it gave me time to do some thinking. Which for me, was long overdue.

After six days, I was released. My arm was in a cast, my leg bore a brace, and I had a cracked rib, but I was out of there. Lisa picked me up at the hospital.

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Positive.” I wondered if I needed a friend who was a better driver, because each little bump of her Porsche radiated through my tethered arm and leg. “Thanks for being my chauffeur.”

“Hell, honey, you’re unsafe at any speed when you’re well. No way I’m letting you drive.” She paused. “But this could wait.”

“No, I want to do it now.” I reached out and lightly ran my fingers across her cheek. “I love you.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the road. “Tell me the trauma of your near-death experience hasn’t made you realize that you are at heart a lesbian.”

I smiled. “No.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that. God knows you couldn’t be a worse kisser than some of the male lovers I’ve had.”

“No. Just wanted to tell you. I know you’ve been taking care of me. Not just the big stuff, like driving and finding places for me to live, moving me and taking care of my life while I drank myself into oblivion. I know you’re the one who put Sugar Babies in my empty holster. Who quietly replaced my ratty old black turtleneck with a much nicer new one. Who kept taping Dr. Phil and leaving it on my VCR.”

Lisa’s eyes crinkled. “That’s what friends are for.”

I laid my head on her shoulder. “Alcoholics don’t usually have friends. They don’t deserve them. But you stuck with me through it all. I won’t forget it.”

She blushed, actually blushed. “Have you given any more thought to L.A.? It’s a great house in a great town. Swimming pools, movie stars. It would be good for you.”

“I know it would. You’re right, as always.”

“You flatterer. So… chick night tonight? TNT is running a MacGyver retrospective.”

“You’re on, girl.”

My esteemed lawyer, Quentin Delacourt, stared uncomprehendingly across his desk. I knew I should be taking his mystification more seriously. But he was wearing a red bow tie, and how can you take anyone seriously when they’re wearing a red bow tie?

“I don’t understand,” he said. “You want to give it up?”