much too long. That’s forever!
“By then it might be too late,” she said, feeling indignant and alone.
“Ma’am, it’d be best if—”
She pushed the phone back onto its hook. She couldn’t sit here like a trapped animal. She had to act. She hadn’t survived raising three boys without a little fire in these bones, no sir. If this intruder thought she’d be adefenseless little old lady waiting for trouble, he was wrong. Eve Coates was mad, and she’d let him know it.
With the barrel pointed at the ground ahead of her, she unlatched the front door and took a knee-buckling step. Out here in the moonlight she felt so small. Couldn’t turn back now. Best to keep on. The July air was mild, the sky dark and clear.
Sweaty-palmed, she marched across the yard, straightened her spine, and faced the cracked barn door. Lifted the shotgun, felt it tremble in her hands.
What to do now? Go in? Wait? Or—
A figure thrust open the door. With the light at his back, the creature appeared larger than life. In his hand he was aiming something her direction. Long and narrow, it looked like the barrel of a gun. His hand was on the trigger.
She fired first.
The gun leaped in her arms, bruising her shoulder, knocking her back a step. The intruder gave a hollow shout as the blast slugged him ten feet the other direction onto the straw-strewn floor. Torn open by pellets, the hand-pumped canister in his grip sprayed pressurized liquid in all directions.
“Eve!” The voice ripped through the chaos.
Mitchell? My Mitchell!
The horror was indescribable. That was her husband’s voice coming from the masked victim on the straw. What had she done? The consequence of the moment squeezed tears from her eyes, huge hot drops that spilled down her nightgown like a broken strand of rosary beads.
She forced aside the violence of the scene and let her love for him take over. She collapsed over her dying husband. Slipped the mask back off his forehead. Begged forgiveness from this man who meant everything to her.
“I thought you were … I didn’t know you’d come back, Mitchell.”
“The chemicals. Watch out for the—”
“Why didn’t you come straight to bed? I was afraid. I heard noises and thought someone was out here and … and …” A wave of emotion swept over her.
“I was gonna do some sprayin’. Without you here. It’s dangerous stuff.”
“Oh, Mitchell. Forgive me.”
“S’okay, darlin’.”
“I didn’t hear the van.”
“S’okay. Hush, it’s okay.” His voice was fading.
“I’ll getcha some help. We’ll getcha fixed up.”
“No.” He had hold of her arm. “Too late for that.”
“I’m so sorry. I thought—”
“Eve, I love you. Listen. We’ve had a … a good life, haven’t we?”
“Of course we have. I love you too.”
“A good life,” he repeated in a whisper. His hand tightened. His body sagged.
She sobbed over him, racked with grief. She called out to nobody in particular. To God specifically. She snuggled beside her husband, gasping. Her tongue grew thick and coppery, her cheeks burned where tears had run dry, and her skin became increasingly itchy.
This must be what guilt feels like
, she thought.
It’s what evil does to a person
.
The chemicals from the canister …
She realized they were all over her clothes, filling her chest and snatching her breath away. She hardly cared; in fact, she knew she deserved it. Quick justice. For that, she was thankful.
“Hail Mary, mother of …”
Losing consciousness and control of her bodily functions, she caught an image of argyle socks stepping close to her head. Tan pants, too. She tried to look up, but her muscles would not respond. The chemicals were corroding her nasal passages, coursing into her lungs. Too late now.
With concentric rings of red and black pulsing before her eyes, with a vise constricting her muscles, she hugged her husband’s neck and let herself drift away. If Mitchell was going, Eve wanted to
“By then it might be too late,” she said, feeling indignant and alone.
“Ma’am, it’d be best if—”
She pushed the phone back onto its hook. She couldn’t sit here like a trapped animal. She had to act. She hadn’t survived raising three boys without a little fire in these bones, no sir. If this intruder thought she’d be adefenseless little old lady waiting for trouble, he was wrong. Eve Coates was mad, and she’d let him know it.
With the barrel pointed at the ground ahead of her, she unlatched the front door and took a knee-buckling step. Out here in the moonlight she felt so small. Couldn’t turn back now. Best to keep on. The July air was mild, the sky dark and clear.
Sweaty-palmed, she marched across the yard, straightened her spine, and faced the cracked barn door. Lifted the shotgun, felt it tremble in her hands.
What to do now? Go in? Wait? Or—
A figure thrust open the door. With the light at his back, the creature appeared larger than life. In his hand he was aiming something her direction. Long and narrow, it looked like the barrel of a gun. His hand was on the trigger.
She fired first.
The gun leaped in her arms, bruising her shoulder, knocking her back a step. The intruder gave a hollow shout as the blast slugged him ten feet the other direction onto the straw-strewn floor. Torn open by pellets, the hand-pumped canister in his grip sprayed pressurized liquid in all directions.
“Eve!” The voice ripped through the chaos.
Mitchell? My Mitchell!
The horror was indescribable. That was her husband’s voice coming from the masked victim on the straw. What had she done? The consequence of the moment squeezed tears from her eyes, huge hot drops that spilled down her nightgown like a broken strand of rosary beads.
She forced aside the violence of the scene and let her love for him take over. She collapsed over her dying husband. Slipped the mask back off his forehead. Begged forgiveness from this man who meant everything to her.
“I thought you were … I didn’t know you’d come back, Mitchell.”
“The chemicals. Watch out for the—”
“Why didn’t you come straight to bed? I was afraid. I heard noises and thought someone was out here and … and …” A wave of emotion swept over her.
“I was gonna do some sprayin’. Without you here. It’s dangerous stuff.”
“Oh, Mitchell. Forgive me.”
“S’okay, darlin’.”
“I didn’t hear the van.”
“S’okay. Hush, it’s okay.” His voice was fading.
“I’ll getcha some help. We’ll getcha fixed up.”
“No.” He had hold of her arm. “Too late for that.”
“I’m so sorry. I thought—”
“Eve, I love you. Listen. We’ve had a … a good life, haven’t we?”
“Of course we have. I love you too.”
“A good life,” he repeated in a whisper. His hand tightened. His body sagged.
She sobbed over him, racked with grief. She called out to nobody in particular. To God specifically. She snuggled beside her husband, gasping. Her tongue grew thick and coppery, her cheeks burned where tears had run dry, and her skin became increasingly itchy.
This must be what guilt feels like
, she thought.
It’s what evil does to a person
.
The chemicals from the canister …
She realized they were all over her clothes, filling her chest and snatching her breath away. She hardly cared; in fact, she knew she deserved it. Quick justice. For that, she was thankful.
“Hail Mary, mother of …”
Losing consciousness and control of her bodily functions, she caught an image of argyle socks stepping close to her head. Tan pants, too. She tried to look up, but her muscles would not respond. The chemicals were corroding her nasal passages, coursing into her lungs. Too late now.
With concentric rings of red and black pulsing before her eyes, with a vise constricting her muscles, she hugged her husband’s neck and let herself drift away. If Mitchell was going, Eve wanted to
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