Fruit of All Evil (30 page)

“We've got to kill her,” Mid said.

I looked at Sam's slumped and bloody body, and the tears started to fall harder. They probably thought I was crying in fear of my own death, but killing me seemed much less important than the fact that they'd already killed Sam.
How could he be gone?

“Hang on, Mid. Let's talk about this,” Shawn said.

“Talk about what? She can't live. She knows too much.”

“She knows about the police officer, but she doesn't know everything; she doesn't know all the details of
that,
anyway. Maybe we could just get out of here. Leave her tied up, and by the time someone finds her, we'll be long gone. Everything else can remain a secret.”

“Alan said she saw the letter,” Mid said.

“Alan said he
thought
she saw the letter. He wasn't sure,” Shawn corrected him.

They both looked at me as if I'd tell them what I knew and what I didn't know. I didn't say anything because I was choking on sobs. I wasn't scared, I wasn't even sad; I was angry, and I wanted my anger to burn through the ropes that held me in the chair. I wanted to hurt these two brothers. Badly.

“Here, use this,” Mid said as he reached to the back of his waistband. He pulled out a gun and held it out to Shawn. “It's his.” He nodded at Sam's body.

Shawn took the gun but pointed it toward the ground. “Mid, I just don't know.”

The sound of a vehicle quieted the brothers. Was it another police officer?

“It's Alan,” Mid said as he peered though the space between the doors. “I'll go talk to him. You stay here.”

Shawn looked at me. “No, she's not going anywhere. I'll come with you.”

Once they were gone, the barn filled up with Sam's death, and I started to cry even harder.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” I wailed loudly. I didn't think Alan would be on my side, but perhaps someone in the vicinity would hear me and offer help.

“Hush, Becca. Come on,” a voice said from Sam's direction.

I gurgled and gasped and stopped mid-sob. I looked at him. His eyes were open, and he was peering over at me.

“Oh, my God, you're alive?!”

“Yes, but come on, I need you to focus here. I'm hurt—I think they broke my ankle, and at least one of my shoulders is dislocated, so I can't get to you. You've got to get yourself over to me, get the knife that's in my side pocket, and we'll cut you free. And then we'll get out of here.”

I was frozen. He was only three feet away, but I looked at him hard. I wanted to make sure I wasn't hallucinating or having some weird hopeful vision. Not only had they hurt him in the ways he'd mentioned, but he had a huge gash on his head that had bled heavily, covering his head and face in a gory mask. If he really was alive, he might be close to being dead.

“Becca, come on, kiddo, you can do it. We don't have much time.” Sam smiled, his teeth bright against the background of the blood. It was the best smile I'd ever seen.

“I'm so glad you're alive,” I said.

“Me, too, but let's both get out of this alive. Get moving.”

At first, I couldn't make anything move, but I gritted my teeth and placed my feet flat on the ground. Somehow, I'll never understand how, I hopped the chair toward Sam. Pain burned in my head, but it was almost as if it was a separate part of me. I had often noted that there was a separate compartment in my stomach just for dessert. The pain was kind of like that—there, but not a part of my main self.

“Good,” Sam said. “Now, you need to try to turn about ninety degrees and get your fingers to my belt. My knife is in the pocket right there.”

“They took your gun but let you keep the knife?” I hopped the chair to my left.

“Shawn did. I don't think he wants to be as much a part of this as Mid wants him to be. He was supposed to kill me, but he didn't hit me hard enough. I wasn't out for long, and was conscious when he told Mid I was dead. Now you need to back up just a little . . . without knocking us both over.”

I dug my foot into the ground and tried to move only a little bit.

“One more time,” Sam said.

I did as he said.

“You're there. Your fingers are only about an inch away from my pocket. Reach. Come on, Becca, really reach.”

My fingers cramped from the awkward position, but a long moment later, I felt the solid metal of the knife.

“Good. Yes, that's it. Can you pull the handle of the knife up and out of the pocket?”

“I don't know,” I said, my teeth still clenched. I took a deep breath and put two fingers around the handle. I pulled, and the knife dropped back into the pocket. “Damn, my fingers don't want to move that way.”

“Try again.”

I pulled on the ropes around my wrists, trying to loosen them a little. Then I reached my right hand and put my fingers more firmly around the knife handle and pulled. Suddenly I had it, though my grasp was precarious.

“Okay, don't drop it. Hang on. Listen to me. You need to pull out the blade. It's folded into the handle. And then you need to move around me now so you can either cut my ropes or you can give me the knife and I can cut your ropes.”

Since I had to get my fingertips to pull out blade, I had to get the knife into my hand better. Surprisingly, that was the easy part. I had a grip on the knife and pulled the blade out quickly.

“Okay, which one of us is going to cut?” I asked.

“Just move first, and we'll see which one works better. Don't drop the knife, okay?”

I dug my feet into the ground again and moved. It wasn't as easy as it should have been. My ankles weren't tied together and neither of them was hurt, so I didn't understand why moving the chair was so tricky. I wasn't looking at Sam and was moving around him as I held the knife—barely held it. I could easily either drop the knife or stab him in a kidney.

“Just about a half inch more. No, stop. Back a little. There you go. I think you're at my hands. Do you want to try to cut the ropes or give me the knife?”

“How tight is the rope around your wrists?”

“Tight, but loose enough that I can move them.”

“I'm going to give you the knife, then. I've loosened my ropes as much as I can. Here. Got it?”

“Almost. Yes. Good. We're running out of time, but I'm going to try to place the blade on your ropes. Tell me quickly if I'm on your skin.”

“'K.”

I held still as I Sam struggled to do whatever it was he was doing. I felt pressure on my wrists, but no blade.

“Go, Sam. Cut quickly. Do whatever you have to do.”

With surprising strength, Sam sliced through the ropes. My hands flew apart.

“Hurry, get the knife from my hands, Becca. I'm about to drop it.”

I caught it just as it came out of his grasp. I hurried through the ropes around my chest.

“Good. Now, Becca, get out of here and get some help. I'm not sure I can walk. Hurry.”

“Not a chance in hell I'm leaving this barn without you.” I cut the ropes around his wrists and his chest. I hadn't noticed it before, but his ankle was swollen to about three times its normal size, and his right arm hung limp once he was free.

“Really, Becca, this isn't a good idea. You can't carry me.”

“If I have to, I will. Shut up and do what you can to help me. Can you move your left arm?”

“Yes.”

“Put it around me, and I'll lift you up.”

He did as I commanded, and somehow I got him to a sort of standing position. His legs buckled once, but then he stabilized.

“I can't go far with this ankle. Get out of here. Get some help.”

“Your ankle just needs to hold long enough to get us out to the road,” I said.

We were both silent for a moment. The road might as well have been a million miles away. It was going to be a long journey, but we didn't have a choice.

“Come on, Sam,” I said.

We didn't have time to waste, but suddenly, we were both caught in the moment. With his good arm around my shoulder, he pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. There was nothing romantic about the gesture, but there was something that seemed bigger than that— stronger, perhaps. I couldn't define why, but I didn't want him ever to let go.

“You're okay, Becca. We're okay. Let's get out of here.”

We hobbled toward the back doors of the hay barn. On the other side were the pasture, the cows, and the road; the world and safety.

But we weren't quick enough.

A noise sounded from the front of the barn.

I turned just as Alan flew through the doors. He landed on his gut and rolled as though he'd rehearsed the move. In the next instant, he noticed us and his eyes widened.

“Run if you can,” he said, just before the boom of the gunshot rattled my teeth and all the bales of hay, and I dropped the knife into a small pile of straw.

We tried to do as Alan said, but didn't get far. We didn't even
make it to the back doors before Mid stopped us. He pointed Sam's gun at us. “Get back here,” he said calmly.

I looked at Sam's face. Blood had dried and crusted thickly on the right side of his forehead and his cheek. He was unrecognizable except for his blue eyes that could be friendly one moment and iced with anger the next. I was now scared, but one look at his icy blues told me that he wasn't scared. He was angry, to the point that I was worried he'd do something stupid, like put himself in the line of fire. I placed my hand on his arm and hoped my expression told him not to be rash.

We turned and hobbled toward Mid, Sam making sure he was slightly in front of me, his body protecting mine.

“Mid, put the gun down. You haven't done anything yet that we can't work out,” Sam said. I was surprised at the evenness of his voice.

Mid laughed. “Right. We've assaulted a police officer. Thought you were dead, but I guess not”—he looked at Shawn—“and my brother coldcocked her.” He flicked the gun. Sam leaned even more in front of me.

“We're okay. Alan's okay. Let us go, and we'll get you some help,” Sam said.

“Help? You want to get me some help?” Mid laughed. The maniacal tone in his voice made me swallow hard.

“Maybe they're right,” Shawn said as he came through the opening. “We've caused enough harm. Let's talk about this, Mid.”

“You killed our aunt. I don't think you'll get off that easily,” Alan said. He was still on his side on the ground. I cringed at his timing. Even though he'd told us to run, I still didn't like him.

Mid walked over to Alan and kicked him hard in his back, probably right on a kidney. Alan made a horrible noise that sounded like an exhale mixed with a groan, and then curled into the fetal position.

“Mid, stop,” Shawn said. He looked at Sam, and his expression seemed to plead for help or mercy. Sam couldn't do much, but I didn't point that out.

Clearly, it was all of us against Mid. Even Shawn wanted his brother to stop, but Mid had the gun and that made him more powerful than the rest of us combined, unless we could come up with a way to get it away from him. And that didn't seem very likely. Sam, Alan, and I were addled, and Shawn didn't seem to the have the guts or influence of a goldfish.

“You could have helped, Alan,” Mid said, but Alan was in too much pain to care what Mid said. “You didn't have to let her see the letter. We should have killed you, too.”

“No more killing, Mid,” Sam said. “Listen to me—no more killing. We can still work all of this out. If you kill anyone else, we won't be able to help you. Okay?”

Mid looked at Sam, and though he held the gun and had pretty much admitted to murder and to wanting to kill again, a wave of sorrow rolled through my gut. It mixed with fear and anger, and again I wanted to throw up. I tried to swallow the huge lump in the back of my throat.

“Mid,” I said, surprised my voice still worked. “What happened? Why did you have to kill your aunt?”

For a moment it seemed as if he wasn't going to answer. He moved into his own thoughts, and his eyes became glazed and distant. I thought he might actually be tearing up. He lowered the gun.

Shawn noticed, and stepped toward him as though he might try to take the gun. But Mid recovered too quickly, as if remembering where he was and what was going on. His eyes cleared, he took a step away from Shawn, and raised the gun again.

“She set us up. She gave us the dairy and made sure we'd fail.”

“No, Mid, she didn't make sure you'd fail, she just knew you would,” Alan said.