Don't Whistle Past the Graveyard

Ch. Forty-Four

Shane looked down, a startled breath escaping from between parted lips, then his knees gave out and he was on the floor, slumped against a wall that had been sprayed with his blood.

There was a distant ringing in my ears, though, I couldn't tell if it was from the gunshot, or from what was happening. Something nudged my leg and I felt a bite of pain on my calf. Numbly, I looked down to find the man I had shot had stabbed the scalpel into the muscle just under my knee.

It was all just kind of distant, you know? Numb and quiet.

I bent down and yanked the scalpel out, looking at the bloody piece of metal in my hand for a moment. I heard feet shuffle on wood and looked up to see the other man turning to face me, a smile dancing around his mouth.

The man who had watched Kyle.

The one who had shot Shane.

He'd shot Shane.

A scream tore its way out of me, and I slammed my shoulder into the man's chest, sending us crashing into the sofa. I smashed my fist into the crease of his wrist, forcing him to drop the gun.

He looked up at me.

I don't think he was scared. I don't think he even knew how to be.

His eyes were already empty.

It was surprisingly easy to do what I did next.

Another scream worked its way loose, and I stabbed the scalpel into his chest, then pulled it out, just to repeat the action. I found the spaces between his ribs, cut into the soft flesh of his throat, sliced at his upraised arms.

I didn't mean to find the artery. I didn't want him to die that quickly.

I pulled the scalpel out, and blood sprayed in a thick coat across my face then someone's hands were on me.

I screamed one last time, thrashing briefly before I realized who it was pulling me away.

"He's dead! Raleigh he's dead! He's gone!" Cassidy's voice cut through the red fog in my brain, and it was like all the nerves in my body had been severed. I sagged back into her and Danielle, who smoothed my hair back, ignoring the blood covering me.

Danny whispered something in Spanish, then said, "Shane needs you."

All the feeling in my body snapped back into place and I scrambled over the top of the dead man, flipping myself over the back of the couch and skidded to a stop next to Shane, my knees smashing painfully into the hardwood floor.

Shane was breathing in tight pants, his teeth gritted, his hand pressing into his shoulder, where blood was making its way steadily down the front of his jacket.

He looked up at me and his eyes widened slightly, but he didn't say anything.

My voice shaking, I asked, "Can you take your coat off?"

Shane nodded and sat up, letting me help get his coat off. I looked at the three or four shirts he was wearing, and couldn't stand to even think about how much pain that would cause him. I sprang to my feet and went first into the kitchen, then what appeared to be a study, rummaging through drawers until I found what I wanted.

I came back in and Shane sighed wearily when he saw the scissors, but was wise enough not to argue.

Carefully, I cut the shirts away until I got down to skin and looked at the neat hole that had been punched through his right shoulder, blood sliding thick and hot over his skin. I could almost imagine the red coloring in the stark black lines of his tattoos. Shading in the wings of eagles and the words that branded him a soldier.