Barlow turned and found Howie Boy leveling a shotgun at his face. If he pulled the trigger, it would blow his head clean off. He had underestimated the man, figuring he would get in his vehicle and flee. Barlow did the only thing he could do at the moment and raised his arms in surrender.
Howie Boy's expression remained totally neutral, same with the tone of his voice. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to pick up the lady and carry her downstairs. As long as you're carrying her, you won't be able to do anything stupid."
"Carry her where?"
"I'll tell you. Let's go. Be quick about it."
Barlow turned to Pet, slid one arm under her legs, the other under her shoulders. She shuddered when he lifted her and started sobbing.
Barlow tried soothing her. "Shhh, put an arm around my neck."
She couldn't manage even that much and went quiet. Barlow guessed she had passed out from whatever pain she suffered. Although Pet was slender and had a great physique, she was dead weight. For the first time in his life, Barlow silently thanked his father for making him haul heavy bundles of shingles up ladders. It had developed his upper body strength making it possible for him to move her.
He carried her down the staircase taking care to not trip. Howie Boy followed behind. When they reached the bottom, he motioned with the end of his shotgun toward the door. "Outside."
So far, that was exactly what Barlow would've done in getting help for Pet, but he wasn't naïve enough to think Howie Boy would volunteer to drive them to the hospital. He stepped onto the porch. Three inches of snow had now accumulated on the grass, and it continued to fall relentlessly.
"Across the meadow, toward the far corner," Howie Boy ordered.
Barlow guessed the plan. Howie Boy had dug a hole as a grave. He meant to shoot them and bury their bodies. The knowledge should have filled him with fear. Instead, it gave him purpose. He had to figure a way out during the time it took to walk through the snow to the hole in the ground.
He could think of only one thing to do, and as tactics went, he knew it was pretty lame. But it was his only move. "I need to stop to take a rest. Pet is getting heavy."
"Keep walking," Howie Boy ordered.
"Seriously, man, I'm afraid I'm going to drop her." After saying that, Barlow faked like he was stumbling and went to his knees. Gently as possible, he laid Pet on the ground. He wasn't out of breath but pretended like he was and panted.
Pet moaned and trembled. Her eyes remained closed.
Barlow looked up at Howie Boy, gauging the distance between them. About ten feet. The man still had the shotgun pointed in his general direction, but he seemed more relaxed, as if confident. "Let me take off my coat and put it on her. She won't last long out here in the condition she's in."
"Pick her up," Howie Boy said with more heat in his voice than before. "In a few minutes she's not going to feel anything."
"I don't suppose there's any sense trying to reason with you."
"I said, pick her up."
Barlow sighed, faking resignation. "Okay, okay." He reached for Pet. While sliding his hands toward her, he scooped hands full of the wet, clumpy snow. They made tight, compact snow balls in his fists.
He swiveled his head toward Howie Boy. "Before you kill us, I'm hoping you'll do me the courtesy of answering one question." Barlow had no question. His statement was meant to mentally distract the man.
Before Howie Boy could respond, Barlow threw both snowballs in rapid succession. The first one sailed by his ear; the second caught him square on the forehead stunning him. Knowing he had only a split second, Barlow sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and went straight for the other man's knees. He tackled Howie Boy causing him to topple over backward. He heard him make a sound like, "Oof," and knew he had knocked the wind out of him. The shotgun fell from Howie Boy's grasp. For good measure, Barlow punched him in the jaw and saw the light go out of his eyes.
He gulped air and calmed himself. Letting the shotgun lay, he grabbed Howie Boy by the feet and dragged him toward the hole. The snow acted as lubrication, making the job almost effortless.
As they neared the hole, Howie Boy started coming to. He wheezed. "What are you doing?"
Barlow dropped him at the edge of the hole. "Where are the keys to your vehicle?"
"Why?"
Barlow kicked him in the ribs.
Howie Boy gasped. "In the ignition. Look, my father is a bottomless pit of cash. He'll give you whatever you want."
"Speaking of pits." Barlow rolled him over the side and into the hole.
Howie Boy landed with a satisfying thump and a yelp. "Wait! This hole is over my head deep and not braced. It could collapse. Don't leave me like this. I'll never get out on my own."
Barlow glanced down at the figure at the bottom. "It won't collapse unless you try climbing out. Wait quietly until the cops come for you."
"Goddamn it, I am Howie Boy Collier, the next governor of Idaho. You can't do this to me."
Barlow leaned over the hole. "Yeah? Well, I just did." He turned and ran toward Pet, a lump on the ground now covered by a gossamer veil of snow. He leaned over her and brushed flakes from her face.
She moaned.
"Thank God, you're still with me." He picked her up and quickly moved toward Howie Boy's vehicle.
The man hadn't lied. The keys were in the ignition. Barlow laid her in the backseat, removed his coat and covered her, tried making her as comfortable as possible. He climbed into the driver's seat and turned on the engine. He took off, not bothering to wait for the engine to warm.
"I'll try to be gentle as possible, but I'm going to need to drive fast to get you the help you need. The way out of here is rough." He wasn't sure she could hear him but sensed if Pet didn't have his voice to cling to, she would slip away. He still didn't know what the bastard had done to her.
He sideswiped his van, squeezing past, breaking off both vehicles' side mirrors. It would take an hour to drive to the hospital given the weather. "Hold on, Pet."
When they bounced over an unusually large hole, she groaned. To Barlow's ears, it was sweet music. She was still with him.
He needed to keep talking. "The bus shelter you and I helped your father build, I noticed is in need of repair. There are a lot more homes along our old road, so I imagine kids are still using it. Do you remember us building it? We were what, maybe nine at the time? Yeah, I think it was fourth grade."
Barlow recalled the autumn morning as if it were yesterday. "You were into bandannas at the time. That day you wore a blue paisley one, the back of your hair in pigtails. Your dad was laying shingles over a four by eight plywood sheet serving as our roof. You asked if you could climb up and help him."
Remembering the incident brought a smile to his face. "Your dad joked with you and said he'd let you help if you could prove to him you could drive a nail straight. You bent over, gosh you had skinny little legs back then. You picked a roofing nail from the box and handed it to me."
Even then, Pet had been his best friend, and Barlow knew how special she would always be to him. "You told me to hold the nail for you against the wall so you could show your daddy. The roofing hammer was heavy and you needed two hands to hold it. I was scared you would whack my thumb and told you so."
He flashed back and saw little Pet, hands on her hips, scowling at him. "You promised me you wouldn't miss, remember?" He giggled. "Stupid me. I held the nail. You reared back and closed your eyes. I think you know what happened next."
Barlow sure did. "I hopped around holding my bashed thumb. I yelled at you for closing your eyes. You accused me of moving the nail and said it was my fault."
A lump formed in his throat at the fond memory and from his desperation to keep her alive. Realizing he needed to fully concentrate on driving the treacherous roads, he refocused. "Stay with me, Pet. I love you so much. Don't leave me."
What do you suppose is really wrong with Pet? What damage did she suffer as a result of Howie Boy's vicious punch to her midsection?
Only two more chapters to go!