“Hurry up, hurry up.”
“Here.”
I hold my hands up as I approach, trying to signal that I mean no harm. But it’s a lie. I totally do.
There are seven rounds in the small pistol concealed beneath my shirt, and I’ll gladly put every single one of them into this guy’s skull if it means keeping any of the innocent people here from being hurt.
“Let me,” I say, slowly approaching the open counter gate.
The man eyes me warily as I step through the gap. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Cassidy,” I say calmly. “I want to help.”
“No.” The way the man shakes his head, too fast and erratically, one shoulder twitching with the motion, suggests that he is, indeed, tweaking right now. “Get over there with the rest of them. I want him to do it.”
Mr. Johnson’s eyes flash with fear, but as they meet mine, I see something else in them, too. Recognition.
“I’m not sure that he can,” I explain. “It can be hard for an older person to get something off the floor. Please, let me help.”
The entire time I talk, I continue inching forward. The man shifts the gun’s aim from Mr. Johnson to me as I come to a stop several feet away. Slowly, hands still held out, I start squatting.
“I said no!”
Given how hard the strike hits my cheekbone, I’d be willing to bet it was the firearm and not the man’s fist that made contact. Neither changes the fact that I’ve been knocked off my feet, flying back to the other side of the counter, bottles of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide scattering across the floor as I hit the endcap where they were displayed.
Fireworks explode inside my head. My face throbs. And my anger turns to rage.
I take a deep breath as I lie on my side on the floor. Place one hand in front of me, ready to push myself up, the other behind me like I’m going to grab the shelf against my back for support. But I tell myself to wait.
The man curses again. The gun wavers through the air, bouncing from me, to the terrified shoppers, to Mr. Johnson, then finally toward the ceiling as he clutches at his hair with both hands. I may not get a better opportunity than right now.
In an instant, I’ve drawn my weapon and pushed myself into a sitting position. Slapping my left hand over the fingers of my right, already curled around the grip of my gun, I aim the pistol at an invisible X I imagine on the center of the man’s skull.
“Drop your weapon.”
His eyes widen. I can see the gears turning inside his head. This isn’t going to end well.
Slipping my finger inside the trigger guard, I give him one final chance. “Put it down now.”
A high-pitched shriek sounds from my left. I glance toward it, trying to stay on top of the situation. Spot the little girl, now watching, her mouth open wide with fright though the rest of her cries are silent.
In an instant I return my gaze to the gunman. His tophalf has already disappeared into the aisle I vacated only minutes ago as he leaps toward escape. And though I yearn to pull the trigger, to sink a chunk of metal into his hindquarters to impede his progress, I don’t.
It’s too late. His steps are loud and heavy as he runs to the front of the store. Then he’s gone.
I screwed up. I just let a very dangerous man get away. Which means the already hazardous world is that much more unsafe. And if that man sees me again, and recognizes me, so am I.
CHAPTER 8
The muscles in my neck spasm, pulled impossibly tight. My nails dig deep into my palms. Though I long to open my mouth, to try and relieve some of the tension in my jaw, I don’t dare. Because if I release my tongue from where it’s clamped between my teeth, I’m definitely going to say something.
And it’s not going to be nice.
I turn toward my car, overwhelmed with guilt that the poor raccoon is still trapped in the carrier in my back seat. Even with the air conditioner running, it can’t be too comfortable in there. I need to hurry up and get it home.
Which is exactly what I told Sheriff Kingston almost an hour ago when he arrived. But instead of being one of the first that he interviewed, it appears he’s saving me for one of the last.
I take deep breaths, telling myself that they’re supposed to be calming, but they’re not. I don’t see how anything could be under the circumstances short of acoma, which is probably what it would take to block out the deep-seated anger stirred within me by my present company.
