A gunshot rings out, and I crouch, hunkering behind the tree. The last two guys must have heard their buddy scream. They know I’m here.
Waves of drowsiness and weakness are rolling over me. My body telling me it’s about time to get some rest. But I gotta finish this. I’ve got to get her back.
I left my phone in the truck, so I don’t have any light, but I root around in the grass where I think the second gun fell. My fingers brush wet metal, and I pick up the weapon, checking to make sure the safety’s off.
For once, I’m grateful to Hindley. His constant need to compete with me for Buckland’s approval drove both of us to be better marksmen. Since I never go hunting, I thought those hours of target practice in all weather conditions were wasted, but it looks like I’m about to reap the reward.
I do a sidelong half crawl, half crouch through the bushes, quiet as I can, until I’ve gained some distance from the two bodies. I’m right on the edge of the graveyard now; I can see the dark pillars of Old Sheldon Church.
Something moves near one of the arches.
I squint through the rain, silently cursing the low visibility.
There it is again. Someone peeking out from his cover, growing bolder with every passing second.
I aim for the edge of that arch, and I wait.
When he appears again, I pull the trigger.
Head shot. His neck jerks, and he falls backward.
Swiftly I move through the trees, bent over, grateful for a rustling gust of wind that covers my steps.
A few minutes pass—and then a figure goes streaking past my hiding spot, running full tilt for the road. The fourth guard. He knows his buddies are gone, and he’s done playing watchdog. He’s hightailing it outta here, to wherever they parked their vehicle.
But I can’t let him leave. He might call whoever set this up and warn them that I’m here for Cathy.
I try to run after him, but my balance is shit, so I plant my feet, narrow my eyes, and shoot twice. Three times. Four, and he falls, right at the edge of the road.
My heart is pounding and my lungs feel thick. Breathing heavily, I walk up to the wounded guy, grab his arms, and drag him into some bushes. Then I crouch and rub the gun around in some wet leaves and dirt to get rid of any fingerprints.
The guy I shot is moaning, fumbling for his pocket. Probably try to get his phone.
I could just take the phone, smash it on the road, then knock him out. Or I could hold his head just right and snap his neck.
This guy participated in Rockford’s murder. He’s been hired by whoever killed Cathy. Which means he’s guilty as sin.
I kneel. Brace his skull between my hands. Look down into his eyes.
“Where is she?” I demand through the cold rain streaming down my face.
“She?” He coughs, spits blood.
“Don’t play dumb. The woman who was killed tonight. The one whose body you were sent here to guard. Where the fuck is she? Tell me, and I’ll let you live.”
“The crypt.” He lifts a shaking finger and points. “The big one, on the right. Please…”
One, two, three…snap.
I bow over him for a second, a silent confession of what I’ve done. Owning it.
Then I drag myself upright again and stumble toward the crypt. It’s an old one, a huge rectangular stone box with a cracked slab of stone as the lid.
There’s a smear of blood glistening on the underside of the granite edge, where the rain can’t reach.
Cathy.
She’s in there. My girl is in there, and I have to get her out.
