Prom Night in Purgatory (Purgatory #2)(80)

Billy didn’t remember running down the winding stairs to his brother’s side, but he was suddenly there, kneeling next to Johnny, begging him to hold on, begging him not to leave. Johnny’s breath was labored, and blood soaked his shirt and pooled beneath him. His eyes were wide and scared.

“Maggie?” Johnny groaned.

“She’s hurt bad, Johnny!” Billy cried, tears dripping down his young face and onto his brother’s heaving chest. “I’ve got to go get help. For you and for her! Hold on Johnny, please hold on!”

***

Maggie eased herself down the stairs, clinging to the railing with her good arm, her right arm useless where the bullet had sunk into her shoulder. She could hear Billy talking, begging. She had to get to Johnny. She wouldn’t look, wouldn’t allow herself to turn her head to see the bodies of the fallen boys. She had to focus, had to get down the stairs. She was weak and dizzy, but surprisingly free of pain, as if she had physically passed beyond the earthly plane and existed somewhere between time’s layers. The wrenching, pulling, pounding at her core demanded she succumb and fly away. She fought it desperately as she focused on one step and then one more, moving faster than she thought she could, letting her need to reach Johnny fuel her efforts.

And then she heard Billy leave, racing through the double front doors, out into the night beyond. Maggie cleared the bottom step and let her gaze rest on the figures sprawled in horrific display in the center of the rotunda. Maggie’s legs buckled at the sight.

“Johnny!” Her keening voice echoed through the stately entrance like a death knell. She attempted a step forward, but gravity swallowed her whole.

***

Johnny tried to keep his eyes open and resisted the magnetic pull that fought to wrench him from himself. It was like the pull of the undertow, and for a moment Johnny thought he was dreaming. He thought he was back at the beach -- ten years old -- feeling the sand being sucked out from beneath his toes, his mom and Billy back on the blanket, the sun bright overhead. But the pull was much stronger, and Johnny fought for something to anchor himself to. His hands didn't want to work, and his legs felt like they'd fallen asleep. His chest burned like he'd been too long underwater. He curled his toes inside his boots and fought against the pull with all his might. Why was he wearing his boots at the beach?

In terror, he realized what the pull was, and he forced his eyes open to find his brother. But it wasn’t Billy that lay beside him. Billy had gone for help. Billy was okay. Billy was safe. But Maggie wasn’t .

"Maggie?" He tried to form the word, but he could not.

"Maggie!" He tried again and heard only a whisper of breath.

Johnny screamed inside his head. He screamed, and he fought the pull and demanded an audience with the source of the power trying to disconnect him from his body.

"I'm not going anywhere!" he raged over and over, over and over, until the pressure built and exploded in white light and brilliant sparks like a blow torch on metal. Johnny felt a snapping and a shredding, but there was no pain, only pressure, and then a giant crack, like a million balloons simultaneously popping. And then…nothing.

***





2011


When Maggie again became aware, she was lying across the front seat of the pink Cadillac. For a minute she didn’t know where she was, or more specifically, when she was. The pain that had been held at bay by time or adrenaline was now almost unbearable, and the seat beneath her was slick with blood. She eased herself to a sitting position, and her head spun and unconsciousness rose to claim her again. She protested loudly, crying out against oblivion’s lure. She struggled to maintain her grip on reality, whatever that was, and find a clue as to where she had landed.

“I’m in 2011,” she moaned, seeing the blackened shell of Honeyville High School through the car’s front window. The silk trees that lined the Prom’s dance floor stood like a sentinel between the hope of before and the despair of after. Her small purse and her phone lay on the floor where she had tossed them earlier. She stretched, whimpering, and wrapped her left hand around the shiny gadget. She pressed the button to turn it on, breathing through clenched teeth. It lit up briefly and then gave the cascading tones of shut-down mode. It was dead. Maggie moaned again, lying back against the seat, pressing her palm against the flow of blood below her right shoulder. Her dress was useless, the fabric completely unsuitable to staunch its flow. The flesh of her palm would have to do, but it hurt too much to press as tightly as she should.

She was in trouble. And she was too tired and heartbroken to care. The image of Johnny, bloody and motionless, with Roger Carlton lying in a twisted heap at his side, filled her head, and she turned her face into the seat, letting her tears flow with the blood that wouldn’t be stemmed.

Suddenly, the passenger side door was wrenched open. Maggie lifted her head wearily, unable to find the energy for surprise. Johnny was framed in the opening, moonlight at his back.

“Johnny?” Maggie whimpered in disbelief.

“Maggie!” Johnny flipped the key in the Caddie’s ignition, illuminating Maggie where she huddled against the seat.

“Come on, baby! We’ve got to get you to the hospital.” His hair was disheveled, his white sports coat abandoned, his dress shirt untucked, and his tie dangling.

“Why does Heaven hurt so much?” Maggie whispered, wanting to embrace him but unable to move.