Love Gone Mad (21 page)

Adrian angles himself at the obelisk’s far side as Wilson moves closer.

The light beam scans row after row, coming closer.

Adrian moves laterally as the shaft illuminates each row of gravestones.

The light comes closer.

Adrian holds his breath.

Wilson treads between tombstones, shifting the beam left, then right, then straight ahead. He’ll come to the obelisk, and then he’ll be inches away from Adrian.

Adrian’s body goes taut and then quivers in anticipation. He clutches the rock.

The light shaft shines on the ground, forming a white oval.

A sudden wind kicks up and gusts through the graves in an eerie whine. Adrian can no longer hear Wilson. But he can see the light beam on the ground.

Adrian’s pulse thunders in his ears. His face feels hot, flushed. He’s coiled in readiness, quivering.

The beam hovers on the ground. Its shape changes from a circle to an oval. The cone of light elongates and moves closer.

Wilson is beside the obelisk.

The shotgun barrel appears, waist high. It stops, hangs in midair, and slants downward.

Adrian waits, pressed to the monument’s granite, inches from the gun’s muzzle. His entire body shudders.

Wilson must be straining to hear him. But the wind gusts in shrill eddies through the graveyard. Adrian is poised, ready, rock in hand.

The shotgun barrel hovers so close he can touch it. It hangs there, a lethal-looking blue-black tube.

With a burst, Adrian’s legs uncoil; he swings, and the stone slams into Wilson’s head. There’s a deafening blast as an orange tongue of flame leaps from the gun.

Adrian grabs the barrel. The percussion shock shakes him as he yanks the muzzle upward. Blood pours from Wilson’s scalp, over his ear, forming a wide runnel. Adrian realizes the rock only grazed Wilson’s head. It’s a scalp wound.

Adrian’s right hand locks on the barrel; his left clutches the stock. He yanks the shotgun and pulls with all the force he can muster. Wilson has the trigger housing and clasps the barrel; he pulls. The weapon is between them, angled to the side.

Adrian pushes, then pulls, trying to twist the gun away. Wilson swerves and yanks with such power that Adrian’s feet leave the ground. He’s launched into the air, hurled aside like a hand puppet. He lands on his feet, still clutching the shotgun. He knows he can’t let go. But his grip feels slippery—from blood, sweat, and the rawness of his hands—and he knows he can’t hold on for long. But he holds, pushes, pulls, and turns, and both men grunt as the struggle goes on.

Suddenly, Wilson propels Adrian backward. He’s rammed against the obelisk. A cracking shock shoots through Adrian’s back and head as he slams against the stone. A starburst of white lights explodes in his eyes, but he holds on. Wilson forces the barrel upward to Adrian’s throat; Adrian’s skull is pressed to the granite while the steel tube presses his windpipe. Adrian sees the feral look in Wilson’s eyes and the spittle on his lips. He smells Wilson’s sour breath, sees a stream of blood on his face, hears his guttural grunts, and feels his power.

Adrian gurgles and chokes. He can’t get air, so he twists his head to the side, keeping his windpipe open. He tries to shove the gun back and let in precious air, but the barrel is wedged deeply into his neck, squeezing the carotid artery and cutting off the blood supply. Adrian feels dizzy. The night starts going hazy and white, and he knows he’s fading.

Adrian’s vision dims. He’s weakening, going down. His eyes bulge in their sockets. His head swims. He feels a frantic surge, knowing he can’t last much longer. As if by instinct, Adrian snaps his right knee up—into Wilson’s groin. Wilson grunts as breath bursts from his lungs.

Adrian pushes and drives Wilson back. They grapple for control—pulling, pushing, twisting—left, then right, up and down. Adrian is thrust sideways—all two hundred pounds of him—like an empty sack.

A half step back—Adrian jerks, pushes, and twists the gun. His arms cramp; a spasm clutches his shoulders. He realizes he’s no match for Wilson. The muzzle moves toward him—nears Adrian’s ear. He tugs the barrel. In a desperate move, he tries to flip Wilson over his hip, but Wilson yanks back. They stumble to the right, and Adrian’s grip weakens. Wilson will soon have the shotgun.

Suddenly, Wilson’s feet fly up—damp moss on stone. He arches through the air, and his head slams into a gravestone; Adrian hears a sickening thud. Wilson bounces and lies still, inert, his head angled to the side.

Weapon in hand, Adrian—with a swift plunge—slams the gun butt into Wilson’s face. The impact sends a thump through Adrian’s arms. He hears bones shatter—a sharp, snapping crack, almost like cellophane crumpling—and blood sprays everywhere. Adrian raises the weapon, ready to smash again. He feels a primal surge of power and realizes a beast within him has roared to life.

Wilson lies in a limp heap. Adrian wonders if Wilson’s faking, playing possum.

He whirls the weapon; the muzzle snaps into position at Wilson’s head. He pumps another round into the chamber.

Goodbye, motherfucker
.

A rush of rage ramps through Adrian. He knows he can pull the trigger and blow out Wilson’s brainpan.

You’re one squeeze away from over. Yes … Goodbye, motherfucker
.

Adrian’s hands shake—a violent and sick trembling. His finger slides onto the trigger and begins the squeeze; the mechanism engages, ready to release the hammer, hit the load, and spew a burst of pellets.

But he doesn’t do it. Instead, his foot slams into Wilson’s groin.

No response.

Adrian tastes it and smells it—the urge to kill—to batter Wilson, smash him into pulp. He’s in another world. The graveyard’s pale light, the weight and heat of the shotgun, its oiled smell, the scent of earth and sweat and blood, and the singed stench of spent buckshot in the wind—it’s woven a sick spell, taken Adrian from himself.

A shell sits in the gun’s chamber, waiting to take a life—the life that would have taken Megan’s and his. This man would’ve killed him—wasted him with no remorse. He deserves neither mercy nor pity. Adrian knows he can snuff him out, ending his existence, and in that moment, he feels an overpowering wish to bring death to this man.

The sirens are closer. There’s still time. Adrian can kill this maniac—blow him away—and no one would ever know the difference. Not a soul on earth would know it was in cold blood.

And you’re not a physician, not here, not now. This is no operating theater. You’re standing in dirt and mud and rocks, you’ve come through woods and hills where you’ve been hunted like prey, and you’ve survived. You should terminate this son of a bitch. For Marlee’s sake, for Marlee’s, and for yourself; too, you should end it, here and now
.

Adrian yanks the pump mechanism. It slides back, clacks loudly, and a shell ejects and hits the ground. Don’t murder him … The man’s crazy, he thinks. But then an overpowering urge—an insane surge of rage seizes Adrian—and he pushes the pump action forward. There’s a snapping sound. Another cartridge slaps heavily into the chamber. The weapon is locked and loaded—ready to fire.

Nobody gets out of this life alive, motherfucker
.

The barrel’s at Wilson’s head. The trigger yields gently. It takes so little pressure—an ounce, maybe two—and he presses harder so the trigger nears the point of no return.

Adrian jerks the shotgun skyward. A hot flash roars from the muzzle. He feels the blowback from the gun’s breech as it blasts into his shoulder.

He racks the gun again and pumps another shot into the night.

He pumps again—a shucking sound—and shoots, then pumps and shoots again and again, emptying the chamber.

Eight shells, one after another, all blown out. Yellow plastic casings litter the earth. The air smells of propellant powder—a mix of charcoal and sulfur. The sooty odor stings Adrian’s nostrils. His ears ring and his arms feel dead. His eyes fill with water.

Wilson will never know how close to death he came. He’ll know only the bleakness of prison—the cinder-block walls and razor wire—caged like the beast he is, behind bars with the scum of the earth, extruded from society with tattooed shit-flingers and bellowing psychos in some gang-infested, filth-ridden hellhole.

Adrian pats him down. No weapon. No cell phone. No wallet, nothing. Just Conrad Wilson, lying in a lake of his own blood with his tongue protruding.

Adrian’s blood hums. He feels incendiary, yes, like he’s on fire and could explode. Adrian tells himself his job is to mend, not destroy. Not to shoot, stab, smash, or pound. He’s spent years studying biology, chemistry, anatomy, physiology. Countless hours in hospital wards and operating rooms, forestalling death, preserving life. Adrian realizes he’s viewed it with a certain reverence; it’s been his life’s work. He’s a healer. It’s been his way in the world.

Fixing God’s mistakes
.

But nothing stays the same. Everything changes if you give it enough time.

The moon’s luminescence gives Wilson’s shattered face a ghoulish look, with his blood-drenched hair and crushed cheekbone, blood leaking onto the granite slab.

Adrian wonders how this man could have been someone with whom Megan shared her life.

The puddle of blood spreads, glistening like an oil slick in the moonlight. Scalp wounds can be nasty. The bastard will bleed out, go empty, and die. It serves the fucker right. And you’ll go on with your life and try to forget this night and what you did.

Or you could rip off your shirt, stanch the bleeding until the medics get here … You’re a physician … a healer … You know what to do
.

Pressing his ear to Wilson’s chest, he hears the man’s heartbeat rushing in a thready symphony, like a hummingbird’s fluttering wings—a sure sign he’ll lapse into shock. In maybe a minute or two, he’ll bleed out and be gone.

Does he really want this bastard to die?

Yes, he does.

Shame shudders through him. He’s appalled by his own fury.

Adrian waits for numbness, hoping for some kind of disconnect from the rage, from the wanton wish for this man’s death, from his own remorse, from fear and guilt and the absolute horror of it all. He’s appalled at himself. It’s stomach-churning revulsion, and it sickens him to his core. Jesus, how he wants to not care, to not give a shit, but that’s not him. It’s an impossibly callous level of indifference. So Adrian tears off his shirt and presses it to Wilson’s scalp. Blood blossoms into the cotton and seeps through the fabric, soaking Adrian’s fingers. He presses harder; the bunched shirt squishes in his hand.

The wind kicks up and whistles in a shrieking eddy between the granite stones. Adrian’s feet are soaked, numb. His palms burn; he’s torn and bleeding. His arms and legs feel weak, jelly-like—dead. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears—he’s shotgun deaf—and everything sounds muffled, clogged, distant.

Sirens wail, then burp; then there’s a dying whine. Adrian hears car engines. The cops are here. Doors slam. Shouts carry on the wind, which now gusts through the headstones with lusty howls. Lights whirl in a multicolored frenzy; some pulse and flicker while others shoot blinding beams into the night. Adrian hears voices, radio static, crepitating commands, police jargon, men running.

On his knees between the graves, in milky moonlight, Adrian presses his blood-soaked shirt to the slippery wetness of Wilson’s wound, trying to keep a life from leaking away—trying to stop the dying of this man so mired in hatred, rage, and violence.

The wind gathers more forcefully, and a shrieking eddy of air lashes between the gravestones. Flashlights approach, gravel crunches beneath jump boots, voices grow louder and frantic, and Adrian hears a police dog’s throaty barking, followed by growling; the dog must smell blood.

Crouched beside the man who tried to kill Megan and then him, Adrian shivers, surrounded by tumult, and inhales the organic smell of earth and blood and torn flesh. He waits in this graveyard above the dust of the dead—weak, drenched, bruised, and bleeding—and amid a swirl of lights and clamor of voices, he cannot believe he somehow managed to survive this night.

D
r. John Grayson nods at the cop sitting in the chair outside Conrad Wilson’s hospital room. The cop nods back. It’s the same Eastport officer who was here yesterday, and he’s been told that Grayson is evaluating Wilson’s mental state.

Wilson occupies a single room. He lies in bed, wearing short-sleeved, blue hospital pajamas. His left wrist is cuffed to the bed-rail. Entering the room, Grayson notices the television is on and muted. Wilson’s bed is in the half-raised position, and he stares off into space.

As a former NCAA basketball player at Duke, Grayson’s encountered some pretty big guys, and while Wilson’s by no means the tallest, he’s possibly the most formidable-looking man Grayson’s ever seen. He looks like what he once was, a champion wrestler—a bulldozer of a man. He has plenty of bulk, but he’s sinewy and athletic-looking, too. His thick forearms ripple with bands of tendon and muscle, as though heavy-duty cables reside within them. And his face—tough-looking, sullen—reminds Grayson of the mixed martial arts fighters he’s seen on Spike TV.

Huge purple swellings bulge beneath Wilson’s eyes. His right cheek was reconstructed by the plastic surgeons and it’s swollen and discolored. The hair over his right ear has been shaved where the scalp was sutured and bandaged. Grayson thinks the guy looks like a gargoyle.

“How’re you feeling?” Grayson asks.

“Could be better,” Wilson says with a grimace. His nostrils quiver slightly, as though he’s sniffing something. Wilson pulls at the handcuff and rattles the bedrail. His forearm muscles writhe beneath snakelike cords of veins.

Grayson pulls up a chair, sits down, and crosses one long leg over the other.

Wilson shifts his bulk. “Hey, Doc, you’re not gonna ask me where we are or what the date is, are you? Or if I can spell ‘world’ forward and backward?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence.”

Wilson exhales. “I don’t have time for dumb questions.”

“Just one more question,” Grayson says. “How much is one hundred forty-four divided by twelve, plus the number of days in the month of April, divided by two, minus the number on a clock when the long hand is at three forty-five?”