I call out again. Dread sends every nerve in my body tingling. Why is Zane not here? I look around for him, still scouring the woods forhim or anything or anyone lurking in my periphery because I can’t help but wonder, is the Confession Artist near?
Have they gotten rid of my protective detail? A new fear spreads like spilled ink in my mind.
This time, a voice drifts out from around the side of my house. “Here.”
“Zane?”
I’m sure it’s him. The voice is strained, so I run to the side and look around, but don’t see him.
“I’m here,” he calls again.Backyard.
I hurry around to the rear, scan with my light in one hand, my gun in the other. I spot him sitting against my crab apple tree.
He’s paler than a ghost and is holding his hand over the apex of his chest above his heart.
“Been shot,” he says.
“Oh my God, Zane.” I kneel down. A patch of blood blooms outward from under his palm, and every time he inhales, a small sucking sound emanates from under his hand. I start to call for help.
“Already did that,” he says, his breath raspy and irregular. And sure enough, before I say anything back, I hear the sirens.
He keeps his hand over the entrance wound, but I know from my training that I need to get pressure on the exit wound if there is one, and most likely there is. I peek at his back to find a larger spot blooming with much more blood. I don’t want to set my gun down with the CA stalking me, but I need both hands, so I put my gun in its holster and press my one hand tightly over the hole, feeling the wet blood under my fingertips and how hard he’s struggling to breathe. I place my other hand over his to provide a counterpressure and to help keep the pressure strongly on the wound, which, from the sucking sound, must involve one of his lungs.
“Saw a light. In your field,” he tells me. “Drove up to—” He squeezes his eyes shut and winces and breaks into a coughing fit.
“Shhh,” I tell him. “Don’t talk right now. They’ll be here any second.” My mind races. I try to keep my face calm for Zane, but my eyes dart from him to the woods to the house and back to him.
You’re out there, somewhere? Aren’t you? You’re out there watching.
“Saw a guy snooping around your garage,” he tells me anyway. “Had a face mask on. I called out. Fired at me.” He spits blood that runs down the side of his chin.
“Shhh,” I say. “Stay still.” I squeeze harder from both sides. “They’ll be here any second.”
“Shot back but he ran. In there.” He lifts his chin to point to the woods beside the house. He scrunches his face up from the pain, clenching his eyes shut again. I look to the woods again, try to stare into the trees like dark-hooded ghosts are weaving in and out among them.
“Andy.” I use his first name, trying to get him to really tune in. “Don’t talk. Don’t move.”
His eyes droop at half-mast. He looks like a child, and my world spins. How could this be happening? Fear for him on top of the dread the CA is out there somewhere rushes up inside me. My heart might explode. I cannot bear it if this young man dies or is incapacitated. I do not want to see him, practically a kid, still fresh off the Hutterite farm, pay for my mistakes. My lies. I can barely swallow. I feel useless and responsible.
More than that, I feel menacing, that I’m the culprit of too many awful things. I want to ask him, this innocent, critically injured young, young man,Zane, Zane, can you do bad, bad things and still be an okay person?
Of course I can’t. I don’t. I wait with him, pleading with the universe that he’ll be okay while I scan the forest like a stressed animal for any sign of someone, wondering if the killer is out there watching, observing, or if this is Ridgeway’s doing and his goons are long gone.
I follow the ambulance to the hospital and stay in the reception area until I finally get some news from Alderson, who’s been filled in by a nurse. Deputy Zane, he tells me, is in intensive care with a collapsed lung. The surgeon has inserted a chest tube. He is fortunate the bullet missed major blood vessels.
I slump into a chair in the waiting room, relieved that he’s stable but thinking of my impetuousness. I think of how I took that backpack from Ridgeway’s shed. Was that why someone was snooping around my garage? Is this all because of Ridgeway?
Either way, all my decisions cause pain.
I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.
I want to keep Jess and Sam safe.
I want to catch whoever killed Clarissa.
I want whoever shot Zane to pay.
And even if I’m simply some copycat’s victim, I want to help catch the real CA even after I’m in the clear.
