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She stumbled forward, her knees giving out, her brain unable to command her legs.
There was smoke coming from the chimney. More smoke inside the house.
She found her way to the back door, aware that she had no weapon, that she was as vulnerable as she could ever be.
In the red light from the fire, she saw Hale and Charlie at a standoff. Charlie had a palm up to the bright flames, as if warding them off, and he held a knife in his other hand. Hale held a wrench. Her gun was nowhere to be seen, but at least the shot hadn’t hit Hale.
And there, standing near Clausen’s body, unbelievably, was Mickey. She’d thought the warbling of “Jesus Loves Me” had been in her head.
“Hale,” she whispered through a raw throat.
Hale glanced up just as Charlie charged him, running at him with the knife. Hale moved back, but Mickey, by accident or design, tripped Charlie, sending him sprawling face-first into the fire.
The wail that rose to the heavens was inhuman and caused Savannah to grab the island granite countertop to keep from collapsing.
Hale jumped forward toward Savannah. Mickey moved at the same moment, accidentally blocking him.
Savvy said, “Watch him! Watch him!” as Charlie writhed and screamed on the floor. His movement tangled up Mickey’s feet. The homeless man went down, grabbing at Hale, who managed to stay upright.
The smell of cooked flesh permeated the air, making Savannah gag. Where was the knife?
Then Hale was there, holding on to her. “Savannah,” he said in a voice that broke.
“I’m okay.”
He stripped off his jacket. “You’re freezing.” “Detective,” Mickey said weakly. They both looked over.
Charlie had dragged himself to Clausen and was pulling his gun free of its holster, still sobbing.
Hale lunged to the right, taking Savannah with him.
Bang. Bang. Bang!
The rapid-fire shots were aimed where they’d been standing. Glass shattered on the microwave oven behind them. Hale covered her with his body.
And then there was silence.
Hale lifted his head and looked over. Mickey was lying on the floor, his arms crossed over his chest. Clausen’s body was beside him, his holster empty.
There was no sign of Charlie.
Hale started to go after him, but Savvy said, “No. He has Clausen’s gun. He can’t get far. . . .”
She lifted a trembling arm to him, and he sank down beside her. “My God, Savannah,” he said.
She wanted to say, “I love you,” but it came out as a trembling “Thank you for finding me.”
And he did what she’d been dreaming about for days. He leaned down and kissed her. She wound her fingers in his dark hair and kissed him back, hard. We have to go, she thought. Before Charlie comes back.
“Come on,” Hale said, as if reading her thoughts, helping her to her feet and guiding her arms into the sleeves of his jacket.
She clung to him and looked down at Mickey, feeling a weight on her heart at the sight of Clausen’s dead body and Mickey’s still form, while Hale reached into his pocket for his cell phone to call the cavalry.
“Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher’s tinny voice sounded from Hale’s cell.
Before he could respond, Mickey drew a breath and sang lustily, “Jesus loves me! This I know, cuz the Bible tells me so. . . .”
Three days later Savannah sat curled on Hale’s den couch, snuggling her baby boy to her breast. Hale was seated beside her, and they were both sober and quiet. The memorial service had been at the venue Astrid Carmichael had suggested, and it had been a solemn and poignant affair. Savannah had taken baby Declan with her while Hale addressed the crowd with kind words about Kristina, which made Savvy tear up and feel sorry for her sister all over again. She’d been one of Charlie’s most tortured victims.
