Forgive Me(109)

Raynor’s vision was dimming. He wasn’t sure he could make Angie’s suffering last as long he wanted. He needed to get to a hospital and come up with some way to explain this mess.

Angie had no last words. She refused to avert her gaze. Hatred had replaced much of the fear Raynor had seen in her eyes. He admired her even more at that moment.

Raynor adjusted his aim. “Then all that’s left to say is good-bye.”

A gunshot sounded with a cacophonous bang and the smell of blood succumbed to the overpowering stench of gunpowder.





Angie heard the bang, but instead of pain, she saw blood rise up from behind Raynor’s head in a great red wave. His legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, where she could see how a gunshot had taken apart much of his skull. Her gaze moved away from his inert form and onto the figure of a man who stood ten feet away, holding a hunting rifle in his hands.

Walter Odette.

Angie felt weightless in her body. A feeling of incredible, profound relief tempered the pain of her many injuries. For a moment, all she could feel was the joy of still being alive. Walter had come to her rescue. Of course it would have to be him. All her life, he had been there for her, playing the role of her entire extended family. He had protected her by putting her into witness protection, and here he was, all these years later, protecting her once more.

Walter had two guns on him—the hunting rifle in his hands, and slung over his right shoulder was the Remington Raynor Sinclair had used to murder her father. Angie needed to get up off her knees, desperate to hug Walter close to her. Somehow she found the strength in her legs to begin to stand.

As she started to rise, Walter set the hunting rifle on the ground and took Raynor’s Remington into his hands. Then he aimed the barrel of the Remington at Angie’s head and said something she simply couldn’t comprehend. “This isn’t the first time I killed for you.”





CHAPTER 59



Angie sank back to her knees. Electric currents of pain like nothing she had ever experienced surged through her body. Bryce, also wounded, also on his knees, teetered beside her. He was too weak and dazed to speak. Though bleeding profusely, he somehow managed to keep upright and conscious.

“Uncle Walt, what are you doing?” The strain in her voice was matched only by the strain showing on Walter Odette’s face.

“I’m so sorry, Angie,” he said, his voice cracking, sputtering his words. “It was never supposed to have ended like this. Never. I love you and I’m so very sorry. But I have no choice.”

Walter took aim once more. He had gloves on, and was going to use Raynor’s gun to kill them. It was obvious Raynor would take the blame for all the murders, except for his own. Walt would get credit there—a hero neighbor who came just a little too late to prevent a tragedy. Whatever motive he would invent for Raynor’s rampage didn’t much matter.

Angie covered her head with her hands, expecting a bullet that didn’t come. She uncrossed her arms to look at Walter, who stood ten feet in front of her.

“Please Walter, don’t do this,” Angie pleaded from her knees.

Walter’s finger trembled against the Remington’s trigger. “May God forgive me.”

Those words—so familiar to Angie—hit her like a bolt of lightning. She expected to hear a shot, and again braced herself for a pain that didn’t come. Walter had hesitated once more.

She sensed a blur of motion to her right.

Leaning forward, Bryce had managed to pick up one of the paint cans Angie had knocked over, and with the grunt of a shot putter, hurled it at Walter’s head. The throw was perfectly on target, and Walter used his forearm in a reflexive countermeasure to deflect what would have been a direct hit. The paint can bounced off his arm and fell to the floor with a clang. The top came off and a thick pool of turquoise spilled onto the cement.

Angie used the distraction to her advantage. What had worked before could work again.

Ignoring the pain of her injuries, fueled only by adrenaline, she fell to her right and leaned her body into the crawlspace, emerging a moment later with the CZ 75 in her hand. She had stashed the backup gun there before surrendering to Raynor. She had expected a trained professional would search her person for a second weapon, but had counted on him not searching the crawlspace.

Unlike Walter, Angie didn’t hesitate to shoot. Four bullets spit out the barrel of her gun, and three punctured Walter’s chest. A grunt, and he collapsed to the floor, falling onto his back, his gaze fixed to the ceiling. The Remington tumbled from his grasp and fell safely out of reach.

Angie turned her attention to Bryce. He was slumped forward, using his hand to apply pressure to the gunshot wound to his chest.

“Bryce, talk to me. How bad is it?”

Angie’s own wounds continued to throb and the loss of blood made her feel lightheaded.

Bryce grunted through the pain, but managed to get out his cell phone. “I’ll call 911.”

Angie felt the room spinning. “What can I do to help?”

“Get . . . the . . . truth. . . .” Bryce struggled through every word. A new resolve came to him. “I’m going to be okay. I can breathe. It just hurts like a bastard. But he’s not going to be here long.” Bryce pointed a bloodstained finger at Walter, whose chest rose and fell with the fast action of fireplace bellows.