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screamed through her ribs until her vision wavered.
She heard someone calling for her, shouting her name. Splintering wood.
Was that the sound of splintering wood or was her body just breaking in
two? The first slash of the belt across her back had her arm flinging
out. Her fingers brushed metal. Blindly, she closed her hand around
the gun. Choking on sobs, she pushed herself over. She saw his face as
he raised the belt again.
She felt the gun jerk up in her hand.
Michael broke in the door in time to see Drew stagger back, a look of
puzzlement on his face. Weaving, he lifted the belt again. Michael's
weapon was drawn, but before he could use it, Emma fired again, and
again. She continued to press the trigger long after it clicked
uselessly,
long after he was sprawled at her feet. She held the trigger down,
aiming at empty air.
"Good Jesus," McCarthy said.
"Keep those people out." Michael moved toward her. Peeling off his
jacket, he wrapped it around her. Her clothes were torn to bits and
soaked with blood. She didn't move, only continued to fire the empty
gun. When he tried to take it, he found her hand convulsed on it.
"Emma. Baby. It's all right now. It's over now." Gently he brushed at
her hair. He had to fight to keep his rage buried. Her face was a ma.s.s
of blood. One eye was already swollen shut. The other was gla.s.sy with
shock. "Give me the gun now, baby. You don't need it anymore. You're
okay." He s.h.i.+fted so that she could see his face. Taking a sc.r.a.p of
what had been her blouse, he dabbed at the blood. "It's Michael. Can
you bear me, Emma? It's Michael. It's going to be okay."
Her breath began to hitch violently. Shudders wracked her. He gathered
her close, rocking while her body shook. Her hand was limp when he
slipped the gun from it. She didn't cry. Michael knew the sound she
made as he held her couldn't be called grieving. She moaned, low animal
moans that died into whimpering.
"Ambulance is on its way." After a cursory check of Drew's body,
McCarthy crouched beside Michael. "Messed her up pretty good, didn't
he?"
Michael continued to rock her, but he turned his head and studied Drew
Latimer for a long time. "Too bad you can only die once."
"Yeah." McCarthy shook his head as he rose. "The sonofab.i.t.c.h is still
holding the belt."
BRim WATCHED THE CLOUDS race across the sky as he sat beside Darren's
grave. Each time he came to sit in the high, sweet gra.s.s, he hoped he
would find peace. He never had. But he always came back.
He'd let the wildflowers grow where his son was buried. He preferred
them to the small marble marker that carried only a name and two dates.
The years were pitifully close.
His parents were buried nearby. Though he had known them for decades,
he remembered his son with more clarity.
From the cemetery he could see plowed fields, s.p.a.ces of rich brown
cutting through the rich green. And the spotted cows grazing. It was
early in the day. Mornings in Ireland were the best for sitting,
