Deadfall(82)
“I don’t know anybody named Danny Martinez. What are you talking about?”
“Martinez delivered groceries here, the night your father was killed. I told you about that at Blanche’s, remember?”
“No.” Her headshake was violent this time. “You’re confusing me,” she said. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“Why don’t we sit down at the table over there? I’ll explain it all to you from the beginning—”
“No! Shut up, why don’t you just shut up?”
I shut up. The automatic wasn’t steady in her hand, but her finger was tight now on the trigger.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said. The bright stare shifted away from me for an instant, over to the side door that led outside; but the cockeye seemed still to be fixed on my face. “I can’t breathe, you’re not letting me breathe!”
I wasn’t breathing either. I might have confused her too much; the look on her face now was one of burgeoning paranoia, the kind that can explode into violence at any time. I stood rigid, poised, ready to throw myself at her. She could get a shot off before I reached her but the sudden movement might cause her to shy, to miss. It was the only chance I had if she decided to shoot and telegraphed her intent. If she didn’t telegraph it …
She didn’t decide to shoot. She said, “Get out, get out, ” talking to herself, not to me, and took a couple of herky-jerky steps sideways into the kitchen: parallel to me, toward the side door. Then she stopped, and bit her lower lip, and rubbed at her nose; and then she moved again, crossed to the door in that same herky-jerky way. Fumbled for the knob, got the door open. “Don’t come after me, I’ll kill you if you do.” And she was gone.
Some of the tension went out of me, just enough to loosen the rigidity of my body and let me move, too—without hesitation. I couldn’t let her go, the shape she was in, no matter what the risk to me; if she tried to drive she was liable to kill somebody else, an innocent party, with that MG of hers. And if my calculations were right, she only had one bullet left in the automatic’s clip. A Smith & Wesson .38 wadcutter held five rounds; she’d fired four into Dessault and her stepmother, and in her condition she probably wouldn’t have thought to reload.
I got to the door, yanked it all the way open, stumbled through. She was thirty feet away, out from under the portico, half-running toward the front of the house. I yelled her name and the sound of my voice brought her up short, brought her around to face me. I saw her arm go up and I ducked instinctively, dodging sideways; the gun cracked, glass shattered somewhere to my right, and I banged into one of the metal garbage cans, upset it, almost fell over it with pain tearing in my side.
“Melanie!”
It came out like the ghost-echo of a shout, low and strangulated; I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs as I righted myself. She was still standing a few feet away, the gun extended at arm’s length—pulling the trigger frantically now, the hammer making audible clicks as it fell on the empty chamber. I staggered toward her, and she threw the gun at me, just the way you see them do it on television, and turned and ran. But not toward the front garden this time; to the north, away from the house, into the black tangle of the woods.
I ran after her, with one thought boiling in my head: The cliffs, Christ, the cliffs! The trees swallowed her, but I saw through a blur of sweat where she went into them—the path, she was on the path. My side and my head were on fire when I got there and I was sucking air with my mouth wide open, still not getting enough; it felt as if something hot and dry was being forced down my throat, into my lungs. I plunged ahead, let the woods swallow me. Couldn’t see anything except grayness far ahead, the vague shape of her like something impaled against it, the tree trunks like prison bars in a nightmare. I tripped over something, fell, got up. I couldn’t run anymore because I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe; I had to feel my way along, blundering off the trail, back onto it, one hand up in front of my face to fend off low-hanging branches. The dark pressed in on me, added to the feeling of suffocation, so that I had to fend off the cutting edge of panic as well.
I heard her somewhere ahead, or thought I did; then all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears … no, it was the boom of wind-roiled surf, colliding with the rocks at the base of the cliff. Jog in the path—I almost ran into a tree before I realized it. And there she was, twenty yards away, out beyond where the trees thinned. Standing at the edge of the cliff, stiff and still against the fog like a condemned prisoner against a crumbling gray wall.