A Spark of Light(22)
What do you do when you realize you couldn’t save them?
Wren lifted her gaze to the man she had stabbed in the hand, the one who had tried to shoot her. The one who had shot her aunt. The one who had killed Olive.
He was wrapping gauze around his bleeding palm, and doing a really shitty job of it. When the gun had gone off, at first Wren couldn’t hear anything, and she thought for a second she had actually been shot and this was what death was. But the silence had been her eardrums shutting down, and the blood all over her had come from Olive. By the time Wren could hear again, the room bleating in fits and starts, she didn’t want to.
The tattered name ripped from Olive’s lips, for anyone who would be a messenger.
Janine keening.
Dr. Ward moaning in a yellow haze of pain as Izzy checked his tourniquet.
And a tiny, high whistle that it took Wren a while to figure out was coming from the center of her own body, the sound of fear vibrating through the tuning fork of her skeleton.
She stole a glance at the shooter. He clumsily tied off the bandage, using his teeth.
Just watch. Wren would be the girl who had come to a women’s health clinic to get birth control, but still managed to die a virgin.
Suddenly the man lunged forward. Izzy shifted slightly, as if she were willing to throw herself between Wren and the shooter, but Wren would be damned if she let that happen again. She twisted at the last minute so that when he grabbed her forearm and jerked her upright, Izzy couldn’t get in the way.
A small cry escaped Wren’s clenched teeth, and she hated herself for showing any weakness. She forced herself to look him in the eye even though her knees were knocking together.
Bring it, you motherfucker, she thought.
“Let’s go, girl,” he said.
She could smell the cellar of his breath.
Where was he taking her? Where was he taking her?
He glanced at the others. “Do not move. If any of you move I’ll make sure you never move again.” As if for punctuation, he glanced down at Olive’s body.
“Let go of me,” Wren yelled, actively fighting. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he was too strong. “Let go of me!” she shrieked, and she lifted her foot to kick him, but he twisted her around roughly, his arm pressing against her windpipe.
“Do not,” he said, “tempt me.”
He increased his pressure on her throat until she saw stars.
Stars.
And then it all started to go black.
Suddenly he let her go. Wren fell to her hands and knees, sucking in air. She hated that she was at this man’s feet, like a dog he could kick to the curb. “My dad is never gonna let you out of here alive,” she gasped.
“Well, too bad your dad isn’t with us.”
“Oh yeah?” Wren said. “Who do you think that is on the phone?”
For just a moment, everything stopped, like it does at the apex of the roller coaster when you are caught between heaven and earth.
But then, you plummet down.
The shooter smiled. A terrible, reptile smile. Wren realized she did not have the upper hand after all.
“Well,” the shooter said. “It’s my lucky day.”
—
HUGH LET THE PHONE RING five more times and then slammed it down. He was electric with frustration. The hostages had not come out. George was not answering. Hugh’s decision an hour ago to cut the Wi-Fi and block all phone signals except the landline had cost him the ability to text Wren to see if she was all right—or if she had been the one who was shot.
It seemed like yesterday that he had driven Wren to kindergarten in his truck. As they turned in to the half-moon driveway of the school, he would tell her to put on her jet pack, and Wren would wriggle into her oversize knapsack. He’d slow to a stop. Launching Wren, he would announce, and she would leap out of the car, as if she were setting foot on a new and unexplored planet.
After Annabelle had left them, for several months, Wren had asked when she was coming home. She’s not, Hugh had told her. It’s just you and me now.
Then one night, Hugh had gotten called to a domestic that was spiraling out of control. Bex had come to stay with Wren, who was inconsolable. When he got home at 3:30 A.M., his daughter was still awake and sobbing: I thought you were gone.
Hugh had pulled her into his arms. I will never leave you, he promised. Never.
Who would have guessed it might be the other way around?
He felt a shadow fall over him, and looked up to see the SWAT team commander standing shoulder to shoulder with the chief of police. “You should have told me about your daughter,” Chief Monroe said.
Hugh nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You know I can’t keep you in charge, son.”
Hugh felt heat spread beneath his collar and he rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. His cellphone—the one he had been using to communicate with George Goddard—started to buzz on the card table he was using as a desk. He glanced at the incoming number. “It’s him.”
Quandt looked at the chief and then cursed underneath his breath. Chief Monroe picked up the phone and handed it to Hugh.
—
IN 2006, IN THE STATE of Mississippi, sixteen-year-old Rennie Gibbs was charged with “depraved heart” murder when she delivered a stillborn at thirty-six weeks. Although the umbilical cord had been wrapped around the baby’s neck, the prosecutor claimed the stillbirth was caused by Gibbs’s cocaine use, due to trace elements of illegal drugs in the baby’s bloodstream.