Chapter 33. Jenny
JENNY
Car doors slammed.
Then a deep male voice. “Bones. How are you doing, old buddy?” Bones’s barking changed into excited whines.
Simon held up two fingers to her and mouthed, “Two.” He slid down into a crouch, pulling her with him. Maybe they should hide behind something. She gestured to the armchair.
“Stay still,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear.
She nodded, pressed her forehead into the hot skin of his shoulder. Her legs felt wobbly and weak, like all her muscles had turned to liquid. She held the rifle with the butt on the floor so she could use it for balance. Simon had turned his head and was looking toward the door.
Male voices, talking. Getting closer. Heavy steps on the porch. Bones’s collar jingled as he pranced around, still making happy whines. Jenny was shaking now with full body trembles. She clenched her jaw and tried to stiffen her muscles.
Two raps on the door. Jenny flinched, jolting into Simon.
“Ruth? William? It’s Constable Jack and Constable St. Pierre. Donna asked me to stop by and make sure you’re all right.”
Blood whooshed in Jenny’s ears. It was happening. They were going to be caught.
“I don’t see them out in the fields.” This voice was younger, with a French-Canadian accent. “Want me to have a look around in the barn?”
“Let’s give them a minute to get to the door.”
More knocking. Footsteps. She couldn’t tell who was moving.
“See anyone?” The older voice again. Was the younger cop looking in the window? He might be close. Simon was holding his right arm bent, with the handgun against the wall. She had an image of him suddenly turning and standing up to shoot through the glass.
“Can’t make out anything through the curtains.” The boots moved away.
“Donna will have my head if I don’t lay eyes on them myself.”
“Your wife, she’s very worried, eh?”
“We’ve never known Ruth to skip the fair. She wins first place for her pie every year.”
Jenny looked at Simon. Ruth hadn’t mentioned that Donna was married to a cop. She also hadn’t said anything about winning ribbons.
More knocking. Louder now.
“William, it’s Constable Jack.” The cop’s voice was loud, resounding.
Jenny dug her fingernails into her palms. Please, please, just go away.
“Better have a look inside. Something’s not right.” Sounds of the door handle being turned. “Huh. It’s locked. Key’s probably around. Check under the pots.”
No, no, no. They couldn’t come inside.
Simon dove for the armchair, his knees sliding across the wood floor, and gestured for her to follow. They crowded behind the chair, but it wasn’t wide enough for them both. She kept the rifle pointed up and held on to the barrel.
Simon looked around the side of the chair, then back at Jenny. “It’s too tight. I’m going to the other window,” he whispered.
Before she had a chance to register what he had meant, he crawled away. She moved over to his spot and watched him cross in front of the door. Now he was below the opposite window.
She felt exposed behind the chair. Even without Simon it was too small. Did she have time to hide behind the couch? There was a gap between the back of it and the china cabinet. She scooted toward it and had barely made it when she heard the metal slide of a key.
The creak of a door.
Jenny tried to squeeze herself into a tight ball. The rifle was flat on the floor beside her. She couldn’t shoot a cop. She didn’t want to shoot anyone.
“Hello?” The older cop’s voice was loud and close. “William? Ruth? It’s Constable Jack.”
Boots scuffing as the cop moved. Jenny licked her lips, tasted blood. She glanced up at the china cabinet and realized that there was a mirror at the back of it, behind the shelves, and it was showing the cop’s reflection as he moved into the living room.
Black police cap with yellow stripe. Dark sideburns. Strong nose. Thick eyebrows. Mustache. She couldn’t see if he was holding his gun. He was looking ahead into the kitchen.
Bones was inside now. Panting noisily and running around, his collar jingling.
“Where’s Ruth and William, Bones? Can you show me where they are?”
Oh, God, what if Bones found her or Simon instead?
The officer glanced over, and his eyes widened. It almost seemed like he was looking right at her. Could he see her in the mirror too?
He pulled his gun out of his holster and aimed it at the couch. He was backing up, trying to get out the door. “Stand up and show your hands!”
“Drop the gun!” Simon’s voice.
The officer spun. She could only see his head, the evening light of the open doorway.
A gunshot, so loud and close. She screamed and clapped her hands to her ears. More gunshots. She dropped to the floor, curled on her side, eyes clenched. Where was Simon? Glass shattered. The cops were yelling. She was crying and shaking, and she wanted it all to stop.
A sudden silence.
She was lying with her cheek pressed to the floor, her face wet with tears. She opened her eyes to find herself staring under the couch at broken glass. The door slammed, and she flinched, but then she saw Simon crawling across the floor toward her.
He stopped to crouch against the wall beside the window. He met her eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He peeked out at the yard from behind the curtain. He was breathing fast, his knees cut from the glass, but more blood was running down from the fleshy part of his shoulder.
She got to her knees. “Simon! Your arm.”
“Stay down,” he whisper-yelled. She flattened herself again, but she wanted to be closer to him. She used her elbows to pull herself, and the rifle, over to the armchair.
“Where are they?” Her ears were still ringing, her voice like she was talking underwater.
“Behind the car. I shot the shit out of it, but I don’t have many bullets left. The extra box is in my backpack.” He shoved the gun into the pocket of his jean shorts. “Pass me the rifle.”
She slid it over to him. “Is the cop hurt?”
“I got him somewhere in the chest or his shoulder. It happened fast. I might have got him again outside.” He stumbled on the last words.
“You’re bleeding a lot.” She felt sick from it and put a hand on her stomach.
He glanced at his arm, rolling his bicep so he could see it better. His eyes were glistening. Tears from pain or fear? She didn’t know. He turned and looked outside again.
“Find gauze. Or a towel. Something to press on it.”
“Okay.” She kept low and skirted the edge of the living room. She didn’t see Bones. She wondered if he’d run out the front or if he was hiding in the bedroom. She hoped he was okay.
She quickly searched the bathroom medicine cabinet and found gauze pads, medical tape, and a small tin of antibacterial cream.
She wet a cloth and rushed back to Simon.
She knelt beside him, peeled up his sleeve.
“It’s not so bad,” she said, to him, and to herself.
The bullet had sliced his skin, but it hadn’t gone into his arm. She pressed the cloth to the wound.
He hissed and jerked away. “Jesus, that hurts.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”
“Just wrap it up.”
She spread a dollop of ointment on one of the gauze pads, placed it over the wound, and taped it down. She watched his profile. His eyes were flicking back and forth, scanning the yard. Sweat rolled from his forehead down his cheek. He wiped it away with his forearm.
“Are they still behind the car?”
“Think so, but they might try to get to the barn.”
“What are we going to do?” She stuffed the pads, ointment, and tape into her pocket.
“We’re getting out of here.”
“The truck—”
“I was coming to tell you that it’s ready.”
If only the cops had come a little bit later. They’d have been gone.
“We need Alice. I can’t drive and shoot.”
“I might be able to drive the truck.”
“Through the garage with cops shooting at you?”
She had no answer for that.
He leaned forward, lining up the rifle’s sights in the window.
“Come here. I need you to keep the rifle on them while I get Alice. If they see the barrel sticking out, they probably won’t move. If they do, shoot them.”
“I can’t shoot a cop!”
“Shoot near them. Or over their head. I just need them to stay where they are.” He kept his body low as he moved from the window to the wall, then he ran hunched over to the kitchen.
She could smell the farm through the broken window. Hay and dust. One of the horses, or maybe both of them, were running up and down the fence line. She could hear hooves pounding and loud huffing and blowing sounds.
She lifted the curtain away from the corner. The horse was definitely running back and forth, but she couldn’t tell if it was injured. The black-and-white police car sat in the middle of the driveway. The windows were shattered and the tires deflating. The rear one was nearly flat.
That was when she saw the drag marks in the dust around the car, and the trail of blood.