41. Chapter 41
Chapter 41
Dylan
F inally, I found them. I was definitely going to prison after this, but I found them. Elise was trotting along with a serious limp. And she was bleeding. Her legs were covered in red, and it dripped down one of her arms as well.
Pete was going to pay for this. I knew there was some kind of unspoken code that you shouldn’t beat up old geezers, but I didn’t care. I was going to kick the crap out of this guy.
Ducking between trees, I followed them as they wrapped around the lake and headed for the ridge. Elise fell twice while climbing up the hillside, and it killed me not to run out there and help her. The useless, selfish, ugly worm did nothing besides stare at her until she got up. For that, I planned to kneecap the guy.
They made it all the way to the top of the slope, then disappeared over the other side. Unfortunately, the trees didn’t quite reach that area. I’d have to creep up on them, and then what? The guy was packing, and all I had was a solid log, which would be useless unless I got a whole lot closer. I needed a distraction.
Thankfully, I still had my phone.
Elise
I prayed and begged for help so many times I lost count. No one answered. No help was coming. I was going to die.
“This’ll barely even hurt,” Pete said, shaking the syringe he’d pulled from his fanny pack.
I snorted. “That’s a load of garbage. You should've seen Tara when she was having her extremely long seizure. That didn’t look like any fun to me. You keep telling yourself that everything you’re doing is someone else’s fault, that it’s not really that bad. You’re lying to yourself. Dad’s death might have been an accident, but you’ve turned into a cold-blooded murderer.
“What you’re doing to me, what you’ve done to Tara and her husband, that will never go away, and if your family finds out, they will leave you, ‘plain and simple.” If my hands weren’t tied behind my back, I absolutely would have put those last three words in air quotes.
Slap! My head flew back, smacking into the rock behind me. The tang of blood slowly coated my tongue.
“You’ve got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” Pete spat at the dirt beside my feet before going back to tying my ankles. He barely had enough rope to tie a single loop and knot it after all he’d used to bind my wrists. It would still be enough to keep me from getting my feet free without him noticing.
Mom, Dad, I could really use your help right now.
After brushing off his hands, Pete straightened and walked over to where he’d left the syringe lying face up in some brush. No need to worry about keeping it clean now.
Kick the needle.
Was that Dad’s voice? Pete definitely hadn't said it.
He strode toward me wearing a somber expression. “Sorry about this, Elise. You should’ve minded your own business.”
The psycho came to kneel beside me, but he was too far to my right side. No way could I kick the hand holding the syringe from this angle.
Something skittered in the brush below us.
Kick the needle.
Dad finally spoke to me!
Pete turned to see what the rustling was, and I thrust my feet as hard as I could into his hand. Growling, he reared back. He cradled his now empty hand against his chest.
“You stupid brat! I should’ve shot you in the first place and been done with it.”
He grabbed his pistol and aimed it at my heart. I clamped my eyes shut, bracing myself.
From somewhere nearby came the sound pounding of drums and electric guitars.
“What in the name of Sam Hill?” Pete muttered.
Pete aimed his gun in the direction of the music. At that moment, Dylan came charging from the opposite direction, knocking Pete to the ground. They rolled back and forth, moving dangerously close to the cliff’s edge. Dylan landed on top of Pete and delivered a punch so loud it made my own knuckles hurt. While they tussled, I worked to loosen the cords wrapped around my wrists. All the while, their grunts and smacks were accompanied by the whine of an electric guitar. Of course Dylan would find a way to incorporate his tunes into a fist fight. While they went at each other, I used my still bound fingers to help my feet wriggle free.
Pow!
Dylan teetered, then fell back. He landed with one arm dangling over the ledge. His face was twisted in pain.
Pete cackled and got to his feet.
No. I was not losing one more person to this monster. Hopefully, Dylan wasn’t already dying thanks to the bullet wound.
Screaming, I charged forward. Pete turned, and I kicked at his knee. Eyes wide, he flailed his arms. They didn’t stop him from spilling over the cliff, his face frozen in terror. Soon, his shrieks were interrupted by thuds until the only sound remaining was the whistle of wind and shriek of a nearby hawk.
I pulled Dylan away from the edge, careful not to look over the side. There was no way Pete survived that fall, and even though he deserved it, I didn’t want to see what it had done to his body.
Instead, I turned my focus on Dylan and his shallow breathing.
“Dylan, can you hear me; are you okay?”
His face was slack, no hint of pain tightened his features. Did that mean he was dead? Please don’t let him be dead. This guy’s fun-loving attitude and smiles, even that blue hair had become as essential to my happiness as blood was to my body.
I brought two shaking fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. His chest was now still—not a good sign. The upper left area of his shirt was soaked with blood. Had Pete hit his heart?
“Don’t leave me. Please, Dylan. I need you.”
Finally, I found a faint pulse.
“Hey, over here!” someone called. Two men wearing bullet-proof vests burst through the line of trees, guns drawn.
“He needs help,” I wailed, tears dripping from my chin.
One of the strangers pulled out a walkie-talkie while the other approached cautiously.
“He’s been shot.” I tore at the bloody shirt to expose the wound. Why on today of all days Dylan had decided to actually stay clothed I couldn’t guess.
“Life flight is on its way,” the other guy said. He carried Dylan’s phone in one hand and his pistol in the other. “Where’s the other guy?” Neither man had lowered his weapon.
“He fell off the cliff. He and Dylan were wrestling. He shot Dylan, then I pushed him over the edge.”
Was I about to get arrested?
“And there’s no one else, just you two?” The first man asked as he knelt beside us.
“Just us.”
“Alright then, let’s get him stabilized. He looks like he’s lost a lot of blood.”
Using strips of his own shirt, along with strips from Dylan’s, the guy tied a tourniquet around Dylan’s chest. It looked like the bullet had gone far enough left to miss his heart, but I wasn’t an expert, and every time I asked the two men what they thought—which was at least twenty—they dodged the question.
Please live, Dylan. Use that same stubborn tenacity that kept you coming back for more of my crappy treatment to fight this. Please.
It was a good twenty minutes that felt more like an eternity before the helicopter arrived. By then, five other officers and a very sweaty Fulsom had joined us. I watched helplessly as they strapped Dylan to a gurney, then lifted his eerily still body into the air.
The minute the helicopter was no longer in sight, I rounded on Fulsom. “Why didn't you answer your stupid phone? Dylan would be fine if you would have come when I messaged you.”
He took a step back, giving me a hard stare. “I was in court. The building doesn’t have great reception. Besides, your boyfriend would have been just fine if he would have listened to orders. He was supposed to stay with Sergeant Wyath and Officer Ellison.” Angrily, the detective gestured to the two men who had joined us after Dylan had been shot.
“If he would have done that, I’d be dead,” I said in a small voice. “He stopped Pete from killing me.”
Fulsom growled, raking a hand through his hair. “I hate working with civilians.” Without a backward glance, he stalked over to the two officers who had helped us. What were their names again?
I moved to a nearby rock to wait for Fulsom’s temper to cool so he could ask me what he needed to, and I could get going. What were the odds he’d give me a ride to the hospital? More importantly, what were the odds Dylan would be okay?