“I believe I have a tissue. May I tend to it, please?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He reaches into his jacket, and my mouth opens as I lunge, ready to shout a warning.
Thepfftof a silenced shot stops me short. Muriel falls back against a tree, her mouth opening and closing.
Dalton rocks forward, but I stop him, and he stares, wide-eyed, at Muriel, slumped backward but still upright, hand over her heart, blood pumping out.
I take one slow and careful step, braced for the slightest rustle underfoot. Rutherford faces Muriel, his gun still raised, but held casually, knowing that if his shot isn’t fatal, he has plenty of time to fire one that is.
Muriel has dropped the knife—forgotten about it altogether—and she’s slumped against the tree.
“You shot me,” she says finally.
He doesn’t even answer that. Just shakes his head at her naiveté.
Tears glisten in Muriel’s eyes. “I did what you asked.Everythingyou asked.”
Silence. He’s not even going to give her the respect of an answer. To him, she’s already dead; he’s just waiting for her body to hurry up and finish the process.
This is the man who killed Blake and stalked Gretchen. Any lingering doubt evaporates as he stands there, cold-blooded and patient while a dying woman begs for an explanation.
He could say he killed her because she threatened his life and he can’t take another chance. But I can see that he was always going to kill her in the end. Now he doesn’t even need to worry about us searching for a missing innocent resident. Given her betrayal, we’ll presume he flew her out.
Muriel is gasping, beyond speech, dying, and I know I’ll pay for this later, regretting that I didn’t move faster. I’d refrained for fear of her escalating the conflict, but I still made a mistake. Whatever Muriel has done, she did not deserve this.
I’m creeping up behind Rutherford, Dalton at my rear, ourguns raised. When we round that corner, Muriel spots us, and I tense, finger moving to the trigger.
She blinks, as if we’re a mirage. And then, with her final breath, she laughs. The sound turns to a gasping snicker as her feet slide out from under her. Rutherford doesn’t even twitch. He can’t see us and he must presume her laugh is a final pathetic attempt at bravado.
Muriel hits the ground, still braced against the tree, head lolling, eyes shut. I wait for Rutherford to holster his gun, but he only lowers it and walks over to kick Muriel’s boot, making sure she’s dead.
Then he starts to turn.
“Stop,” I say.
His gun barrel swings up. I fire. He’s wheeling fast, and my bullet hits his arm, Dalton’s shot slamming into his shoulder. Rutherford fires, too, but he’s staggering back, his bullet going wild.
Rutherford tries to recover, but I’m there, kicking him hard, the gun flying from his hand. Dalton’s fist plows into Rutherford’s jaw. He reels, stumbles, falls, grabs for Dalton’s leg, yanking to bring Dalton down, get his gun, but Dalton jerks free and backpedals. Then both of us aim our weapons at point-blank range.
Rutherford’s gaze lifts to ours, grinding out pure hate. He knows why he’s still alive.
“I’m not telling you anything,” he rasps, wincing as he grips his bleeding arm. “You can shoot me or you can leave me here.”
“Okay,” I say… and I shoot him in the kneecap.
He screams, head flying back.
“Other one, too?” I say.
A string of profanity and pain.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I say.
He manages a short, agonized laugh. “If you think that’s going to make me talk—”
“Nope,” I say as I holster my gun and scoop up his. “But I think a few hours in the forest with three bullet wounds might.”
I collect Muriel’s knife. “Those wounds aren’t fatal, but that blood’s going to attract predators.”
