“Fuck you, you filthy swamp rat!” His aim steadies, and my vision tunnels to a single spot. It’s the place where his trigger finger meets his hand.
“Don’t—” That’s all I manage before I see the muscles in his firing hand twitch.
Of the two of us, Cash has always been the better marksman. He claims it’s because, thanks to Rick, he has a particular thirst for blood that I’ve never acquired. But just because Cash is better, that doesn’t mean I’m not still damn good.
I don’t miss what I aim for.
I get off two shots to Sullivan’s one, and the air is rent by the roar of gunfire. The smell of spent propellant blooms inside my nose like an acrid flower.
Luckily, speed of fire isn’t the only difference between me and the superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department. There’s a big disparity in accuracy too. While his shot ranges wide, whizzing by my shoulder and lodging into the corner of the house, both of my bullets find a home inside Sullivan’s big, barrel chest.
He goes down like a ton of bricks, his cowboy hat flying off his head and getting stuck between two balusters. (It’s a weird thing to notice at a time like this, but he’s bald except for the thin ring of reddish-brown hair that starts above his ears and circles the back of his head.)
His six-shooter slips from his hand and skids along the boards of the pier before coming to a rest near the edge. Now that it’s not in his hands, the weapon is no more a threat to me than a child’s toy. And yet the sheen of its chrome plating continues to sparkle menacingly.
I drop my own pistol to my side. It suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. Letting my head fall back, I gaze at the glistening underbelly of the night sky.
Deep winter in the bayou means deceiving stillness interrupted by bursts of volatile life. Wild boars crash through the underbrush. Egrets take unexpected flight from the water’s edge. A coyote ambushes a cottontail and drags it away while it squeals and wriggles. But right now…silence, as if the entire swamp is watching as a bit more of my light disappears. As a bit more of my soul dies.
I know from experience the necrosis will continue to spread in the coming days.
A fluttering sensation against my back has me lowering my chin. Maggie still has a hold of my shirt. She’s shaking like a leaf. Her skin is the color of milk glass. And her mouth is open, revealing the gap between her two front teeth.
No words issue from her throat, but her eyes ask,How did this happen?
I shake my head. If everything happens for a reason, I can’t figure the hows and the whys of this. It seems so pointless.
Cupping her jaw, I run a thumb over the tender skin of her cheek, wiping away the lone tear glistening there.
“It’s okay, Maggie May,” I tell her. But we both know that’s not true.
“S—” she tries, but has to stop and swallow. “Sullivan?” she finally manages.
Even though I know what I’ll find, I tuck my pistol into the back of my jeans and walk over to the police superintendent.
He’s faceup on the pier. Blood that looks black in the night continues to grow around him. It drips between the wooden slats and falls into the swamp below.
The iron-rich smell will draw the night hunters from their hiding spots soon. But for now, there’s only the hushed whisper of the breeze in the trees.
Pressing a finger to his neck, I check for a pulse even though there’s no point. My first shot blew apart his sternum. My second exploded his heart. He was dead before he hit the pier.
“Is he—” Maggie can’t seem to finish the sentence.
“Dead,” I assure her.
She stumbles to the railing and wretches over the side.
Turning away, I give her privacy. I lost my lunch the first time I saw a gunshot victim too. But the years, and the things I’ve witnessed since then, have forged my constitution into a thing of tempered steel.
When she’s finished, she wipes the back of her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispers, holding on to the rail to steady herself.
“Nothing to apologize for,” I assure her, my mind spinning through the details, sorting them into a list.
Funny how your brain can continue to function normally even when your whole world is falling down around your ears.
“I need you to go grab my cell phone. It’s charging on the bedside table.” Her eyes are wide and empty, like her mind has run somewhere to hide. She needs something to do. Inaction only strengthens shock. “Call the cops,” I instruct her. “Tell ’em to get here quick. Once you’re done with that, find Abelman’s number in my contacts. Ask him to meet me at the police station. I’m gonna need a good lawyer.”
Chapter Sixty-five
