The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(99)

I don’t know how long it took me to get through the round corral, across the field, and over the fence into Kathleen’s back yard, but it felt like years. Decades. When I reached the back deck and threw myself at the sliding glass door only to find it locked tight, I screamed in frustration and dread. Moses had been out on that deck for the greater part of the day, but he’d still locked the damn door when he was done. I ran around the house, fear making my thoughts pop like firecrackers, whizzing around uncontrolled in my head.

A white, Chevy Tahoe with Juab County Sheriff’s Department written along the side in gold lettering was parked out front next to Moses’s black pick-up and as I rounded the corner and ran toward the front door, a black Hummer swung in, gravel flying as it lurched to a halt. David ‘Tag’ Taggert shot out of the vehicle with a gun in his hand and murder on his face, and I almost collapsed in relief.

But that was before I heard the second gun shot.

“Stay here!” Tag roared, running for the front door. So I followed him. I had to. And when he burst through the front door without pausing, the first thing I noticed was the smell. But it didn’t smell like paint this time. It didn’t smell like pies either. It smelled like gun powder, and it smelled like blood. And then Tag roared again, and I felt his arm jerk as he fired his gun, and then fired again. Another shot rang out and a bullet hit the dining room window. Glass shattered as Tag stepped over something and then sank to his knees. At first I thought he was hit and I reached for him, my view of the rest of the room blocked by his big back. Then I realized Tag had stepped over Sheriff Dawson who was sprawled, staring up at the ceiling, a huge knife sticking out of his chest, a gunshot wound to his head.

And then I saw Moses.

He was lying on his side on the kitchen floor, blood growing in an ever-widening pool around his body, and Tag was turning him, trying to staunch the flow of blood, cursing Moses, cursing God, cursing himself.

And just like when Gigi died all those years ago, when Moses was covered in paint instead of blood, when death was on the walls instead of in his eyes, I ran to him. And just like before, I was helpless to do anything for him.





Moses



IT WAS LIGHT, I FELT SAFE, and I was perfectly aware of who I was and where I was. Eli stood beside me, his hand in mine, and from a distance there were others too, coming toward me. If I had to paint it all, I doubt I could, but maybe paint could better capture it than words. Yet even with the soft effervescence and the unyielding light all around me, it was Eli who held my attention. He lifted his chin and contemplated me, searching my face. And then he smiled.

“You’re my dad.” His voice was clear and sweet, and I recognized it from the memories he’d shared with me, though it was easier to hear now, unfiltered, crystalline almost.

“Yes,” I nodded, gazing down at him. “I am. And you’re my son.”

“I’m Eli. And you love me.”

“I do.”

“I love you too. And you love my mom.”

“Yes,” I whispered, wishing with all my soul that Georgia was here. “I hate that she’s alone now.”

“She won’t be alone forever. It passes so fast,” Eli said wisely, even gently.

“Do you think she knows how much I love her?”

“You gave her flowers and said you were sorry.”

“I did.”

“You kissed her.”

I could only nod.

“You painted her pictures and hugged her when she cried.”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“You laughed with her too.”

I nodded again.

“Those are all the ways to say I love you.”

“They are?”

Eli nodded emphatically. He was quiet for a moment as if he was mulling something over. And then he spoke again.

“Sometimes you can choose, you know.”

“What?” I asked.“Sometimes you can choose. Most people choose to stay. It’s beautiful here.”

“Did you choose to stay?”

Eli shook his head. “Sometimes you can choose. Sometimes you can’t.”

I waited, my eyes soaking him in. He was so clear, so sharp, so present and perfect that I wanted to take him in my arms and never let him go.

“Did someone come for you when you died, Eli?” I said, almost pleading, needing to know someone had.

“Yes. Gigi did. And Grandma too.”

“Grandma?”

“Your mom, silly.”

I grinned at him. He reminded me of Georgia, but I felt the grin fade almost immediately. “I didn’t know if my mom would be here. She wasn’t a very good person,” I replied softly. It surprised me to hear him call her grandma as if she fulfilled that role as well as Gigi did.

“Some people mean to be bad. Some people don’t. Grandma didn’t mean to be bad.” It was such a basic concept, said with such child-like wisdom and such a simple acceptance of good versus evil, that I had no response but one.

“Can I hold you, Eli?”

He smiled and was immediately in my arms, his own arms around my neck. And I buried my head in his curls and felt the silk of the dark strands tickle my nose. He smelled like baby powder, clean straw, and freshly laundered socks. I caught a hint of Georgia’s perfume, as if she’d held him tightly just like this, right before he left her, and he’d carried her with him ever since. He was warm and wiggly and his cheek was smooth and soft as he pressed it against mine.