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He pulls me forward and we walk around the house. I look out for the soldier. He must be here. He has to be. But Caius leans toward me.
“Looking for the third man?” he asks. “Don’t bother. He can’t help you.”
“Did you hurt him, too?” I ask, trying to pry his hand off me now that we’re around the back of the cottage.
“Santos trusted them more than he did me.” He just keeps jerking me forward up toward the dune that will lead to the beach.
“I can see why,” I yell over the wind, falling when he gives me a shove at the top of the dune. I scramble to my feet, stumble, but he has me before I’m even upright.
He grips my jaw, fingers digging painfully into my face. “You don’t get to say that. You get to shut the fuck up and die, and if you’re good, I won’t make it hurt any more than it needs to. For my brother’s sake. Move.”
He hurls me forward, so I stumble and slide down halfway before I’m able to get up.
“What are you going to tell him? How are you going to explain it?” Running is impossible in this soft sand, and he’s just faster than me and stronger than me. But I keep trying. I have to.
“What am I going to tell him?” he asks, his big hand landing between my shoulder blades and pushing me hard. I fall to my hands and knees, winded. He leans over me, grabs a handful of hair, and hauls me back to my up. He doesn’t let go of my hair as he walks me to the water.
“Caius. Please!” I scream, my voice lost over the sound of the waves as I wrap one hand around his forearm, trying to stay upright as he marches me forward.
“People drown all the time, Madelena.”
He pushes me to my knees in the icy water and I scream. He kneels too, and I don’t know how he’s not feeling the cold. He brings my face to his, but I can barely see him through the spray of water.
“Besides, you’re sick, aren’t you? Like Mom. Maybe you walked into the water yourself. Willingly.”
“I wouldn’t do that. He knows—”
He pushes my head down roughly. Wet sand gets in my nose, my eyes, but it’s when the water rushes me that true panic has me windmilling my arms trying to pull him off me, trying to get my head above the water.
Then I’m up again. He’s pulling me out. I cough up saltwater and sand. I claw him, try to leave some mark. Something. Anything. Because I’m not going to survive this. I know. And Santos can’t think I killed his baby. He can’t.
“Maybe,” he says, pulling me to my feet, dragging me deeper into the water so we’re waist deep. “Maybe you drowned her now because you didn’t want to wimp out like Mommy did.”
“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t!” But I’m under again, water bubbling around me, choking me. He pushes me down, and I see his dark form above me before a wave throws him off balance and he loses his grip on me. I gasp for air, swallow water, loudly choke it up as I try to run for the beach.
I won’t make it though. I know that.
He’s on his feet again, and he grabs hold of me. This time, his face is set when I see him for the last time. His mouth is hard. His rage makes his blue eyes blaze even in this darkness.
As water bubbles around me, I stop fighting. Because there’s no air left and there’s no time. Even as I feel myself slip away, even as my arms stop their grasping and my legs float on the salty bed of water, he keeps me down. Keeps me under.
And I keep thinking about my baby. About Santos. Until I’m gone.
35
SANTOS
Ican’t be too late. I can’t be too late.
I keep trying Father Michael’s land line. I keep calling and calling, but he must have it unplugged. Police from the next town over went out to the cottage. At least there’s that. I drive like a mad man to Hells Bells.
The sun is breaking the horizon when I turn onto the street where the chapel is quiet, the windows of Father Michael’s rooms still dark. I can see from here, though, that the lights in the cottage are on. When I pull up, I see the police cruiser.
For a moment, I’m relieved.
I park and open the door of the SUV. It’s quiet. Keeping my eyes on the window with its drawn curtains, I reach across to the glove compartment and take out my gun before stepping out of the vehicle. The first light of morning shines across the driveway. I make no sound as I walk toward the too-still house, weapon at my side. It’s when I get around the cruiser that I see it. There, on the ground, are the police officers. I don’t need to check either of their pulses. I know how dead looks, and they’re dead.
Something sharp spears my insides as I get closer and take in the bullet holes. One was shot in the middle of the forehead. The other man in the heart. The one who took the bullet to the brain wouldn’t have seen it coming.
