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“What’s your location?”
I use the map on my phone to explain where we are. In the middle of nowhere, maybe just a mile from the Blacksmith lake house.
Badger is looking past me and I turn to see what he sees. A man limping toward us in the road, the snow coming down all around us.
Santa.
He’s wearing a Santa mask.
“Stop,” says Badger, pushing me behind him. “Stop right there.”
The figure starts to shake, then drops to his knees. He issues a kind of wailing cry. Finally, he pulls off his mask.
It takes my brain a moment to adjust to the non-reality of the moment. The dying girl, the blizzard, a man in a Santa mask, weeping.
When the pieces click into place, the whole is ugly and heartbreaking.
It’s Chet, our collective sweet, stoned little brother, his face bruised and bloody.
I stay back with Lolly, who is so still. But Badger approaches him, then drops to his knees as well and takes his brother into his arms.
“Chet,” he says. “What have you done? What have you done?”
And Chet starts to weep, a helpless, hopeless wail that fills the night, even as the distant scream of sirens grows closer.
27
Harley Granger isn’t sure where he is. The room is dim, and he hears a phone ring, an electronic purr that no one seems to ever answer. Something’s wrong. He knows that, but he can’t remember what and he doesn’t want to open his eyes to find out.
When he does, there’s an angel before him. A tall and willowy blonde with a cloud of curls and serene features. She’s sleeping, tilted in a chair, her face resting on her hand. He watches her and the room comes into focus.
She opens her eyes.
Not an angel. Mirabelle.
“Harley,” she says, and offers him a smile. “You’re awake.”
It comes back in a rush. “Rog,” he says.
“He’s okay,” she answers. “Hurt but he’ll make it. Got lucky. The bullet missed his heart by an inch.”
“Who? What happened?”
She shakes her head. “Police don’t know yet. I tracked your location when Rog hung up on me and called the police. Then I got up here as fast as I could. I barely made it before the roads closed.”
She’s crying, and Harley is amazed to realize that she really does care about him.
“Someone shot you both,” she says. “You didn’t see who?”
“No,” he says, grappling for memory. “There was a truck. The lights were so bright.”
“The police want to talk to you as soon as you’re awake. I’ll call them.”
“Wait,” he says. “Come here.”
She wipes angrily at her eyes, moves over to sit beside him and take his hand. “You two. You scared the crap out of me. You could have died.”
“Are you sleeping with Rog?” he croaks.
