"Holy shit," Jenny whispers.
I hand her the papers. "Hold on to these for a second."
She takes them. I run to the nearest trash can, where I proceed to vomit up everything inside my stomach. They'd been inside my house! Had watched me sleep! A thrill of terror spikes through me, followed by a nauseating sense of violation. Then anger. Beneath it all, terror remains as the backdrop. One thought shouts inside my head: It could happen again! My entire body is trembling, and I slam a fist against the rim of the trash can. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and walk back over to Jenny.
"You okay?"
"No. But let's finish it." She hands me back the papers. They shake in my hands as we continue.
Matthew and Alexa, such a shame. You, alone in that ghost ship of a home, staring at your disfigurement in the mirror. So sad. I think you are more beautiful scarred, though I know you believe that to be untrue. I'll say something helpful to you, Agent Barrett, just this once. Scars are not marks of shame. They are the brands of the survivor. You might wonder why I'd offer a helping hand. It springs from a sense of fairness. A need to make the game exciting. There are many in this world who could hunt me well, but you . . . I think you can hunt me best. I've gone to great effort to ensure that you are back in the game, and just one more thing is left, one last wound to stitch up. A hunter needs a weapon, Agent Barrett, and you cannot touch yours. We need to correct this, to bring balance to the game. Please find attached some information that I believe to be at the heart of this diffi- culty you are having. It may leave a scar of its own when you read it, but don't forget: A scar is always better than an unhealed, open wound. From Hell,
Jack Jr.
I flip over the page. It takes only a few moments for me to understand what it says. Everything around me goes silent and slow. I can see that Jenny is speaking to me, but I cannot hear her words. I am cold, and getting colder. My teeth chatter, I start shivering, and the world begins tilting away from me. My heart pounds, faster, faster, and then sound returns in a chaotic flash, like a thunderclap. But I am still so cold.
"Smoky! Jesus--Doctor!"
I hear her, but I cannot speak. I can't stop my teeth from chattering. I see a doctor come over to me. He feels my head, looks into my eyes.
"She's going into full-blown shock here," he says. "Lay her down flat. Put her feet up. Nurse!"
Jenny leans over me. "Smoky! Say something."
I wish I could, Jenny. But I am frozen, and the world is frozen, and the sun is frozen too. Everything and everyone is death, dead, or dying. Because he was right. I read the paper and, just like that, I remembered. It's a ballistics report. The part he'd circled for me said this: Ballistics tests prove conclusively that the bullet removed from Alexa Barrett came from Agent Barrett's weapon. . . .
I was the one who shot my daughter.
I hear the sound and marvel at it, before I realize that it is coming from me. It is a shriek, beginning low in the throat and then climbing, octave after octave, until it seems high enough to break glass. There it hangs, like an opera singer's vibrato. It seems to go on forever. Everything is going black now. Thank God.
19
I WAKE UP in a hospital bed to Callie hovering above me. There is no one else here. When I look at Callie's face, I know why.
"You knew, didn't you?"
"Yes, love," she says. "I knew."
I turn my face away from her. I have not felt so listless, so drained of life, since I woke in the hospital after that night with Sands. "Why didn't you tell me?" I don't know if there's any anger in my voice. Don't care.
"Dr. Hillstead asked me not to. He didn't think you were ready. And I agreed. Still do."
"Really? You think you know so goddamn much about me?" My voice sounds raw to me. The anger is there now, hot and poisonous. Callie doesn't even flinch. "I know this: You're still alive. You didn't put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. I have no regrets, honeylove." She says the next in a whisper. "That doesn't mean it didn't hurt, Smoky. I loved Alexa, you know I did."
I snap around at this, look at her, and the anger drains away. Just like that. "I don't blame you. Or him. And maybe he was right, after all."
"Why do you say that, love?"
I shrug. I'm tired, so tired. "Because I remember everything now. But I still don't want to die." I hunch into myself for a moment as pain shoots through me. "Which feels like such a betrayal, Callie. I feel like, if I want to live, then I didn't love them enough."
I look over at her, and I see that she is stricken by my words. My Callie, my happy-go-lucky Queen-Hell-on-Wheels, looks like I just punched her in the face. Or maybe the heart.
"Well," she says after a long moment, "that's not true. Going on after they're dead, Smoky--that doesn't mean you didn't love them. All it means is that they died and you didn't."
I file this profundity away for future thought; I can feel its merit.
"Funny, isn't it? I've always been able to hit what I want with a gun. It's always come naturally to me. I remember aiming at his head, and then he was so damn fast. I've never seen anyone move that fast. He yanked Alexa off the bed and made her take the bullet for him. She was looking right into my eyes when it happened." My face twists. "You know, he almost looked surprised. With everything he'd done, he still had this look on his face, like for just a moment he thought he'd gone too far. And then I shot him."
"Do you remember that part, Smoky?"
I frown. "What do you mean?"
Callie smiles. It's a sad smile. "You didn't just shoot him, honey-love. You filled him up with bullets. You emptied four clips into him, and you were about to reload when I stopped you."
And just like that, I am there and I do remember.
He'd raped me, cut on me. Matt was dead. I was coasting on waves of pain, surfing in and out of consciousness. Everything was slightly surreal. Like being a little bit drugged. Or the hungover feeling you can get when you take an afternoon nap that's just a half hour too long. There was a sense of urgency, I could feel it. But it was far away. I was feeling it through soft gauze. I'd have to wade through syrup to get to it.
Sands leaned forward, putting his face close to mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek. It was unnaturally hot. A flash of something sticky--I realized it was his spit, drying on my chest. I shivered once, a full-body shiver. A long, rolling shake.
"I'm going to undo your hands and feet now, sweet Smoky," he whispered in my ear. "I want you to touch my face before you die."
My eyes roll toward him, and then roll up into my head. I lose time. I coast back into awareness and feel him at my hands, loosening them. Coast back out, into the black. Surf in again, he's at my feet. Cowabunga. Light to shadow, shadow to light. I come to again, and he's next to me, spooned into my side. He's naked, and I can feel that he's hard. His left hand is fisted into my hair, bending my head back. The right is draped over my stomach, and I can feel the knife in it. That breath again, sour and hot.
"Time to go, sweet Smoky," Sands whispers. "I know you're tired. You just have one more thing to do before you sleep." His breathing quickens. His erection stirs at my side, poking into my hip. "Touch my face."
And he's right. I am tired. So damn tired. I just want to coast into the black, have it all be done and gone and over. I feel my hand coming up, to do this last thing he wants--and then it happens.
"MOMMY!" I hear Alexa scream. It is a scream of full-throated terror.