Pressing my back to the wall of the sheriff’s station, I moved in a shuffling crouch, trying to stay low and keep behind the vehicles. The concrete wall scraped my back. Pebbles skittered underfoot. I caught the first whiff of gun smoke, and it made the hair on my arms bristle.
“That was stupid,” Tripple shouted. His voice sounded unhinged—manic, and then I realized: excited. “That was really stupid!”
I didn’t say anything back. Believe it or not, sometimes Icankeep my mouth shut. I continued shuffling along the wall, aware, at the back of my head, that I was doing Tripple’s work for him, because I only had another fifteen feet before I cornered myself. Yes, it was possible I could try the flashlight trick again, or I could jink or juke or deke or dive my way to safety and sprint out of the parking enclosure. But the most likely outcome was that Tripple would pin me down and put a bullet in me.
It didn’t matter. Every second I was alive, every second I slowed him down, was time for someone to come. Someone whomight not get here in time to save me, but who would save Bobby.
“I can see you,” Tripple sang out.
The flashlight, my brain said.
It was still on, and I was shining it right at my feet, creating an ultrabright puddle. I snapped it off, but it was too late.
Tripple’s laughter was even worse than his voice. Like this was a game. Like he was having fun. And then he fired.
The sound of the gunshot made me jump. Concrete cracked, and something stung the back of my neck. The old, animal part of me took over, and I ran. Sheriff’s office vehicles blurred. The fence loomed up in front of me. At the top, the razor wire glinted in the security lights.
Tripple appeared in the corner of my vision, stepping out from behind one of the SUVs. He fired again.
I dropped, and it saved my life. The bullet shattered concrete again. Old asphalt tore up my joggers as I crouched behind the last cruiser in the row.
Despair made me heavy. My knees, lacerated from my fall, stung. My head pounded with blood and adrenaline. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to close my eyes and go to sleep. I wanted Bobby. But most of all, I wanted him to be safe.
“You should have gone for a ride,” Tripple said. He was breathing faster than usual, but he didn’t sound winded. “This all could have been a lot easier.”
“I hate this part,” I said. The words escaped me before I could stop them. “I hate every stupid bad guy who thinks he’s the one exception to murder, that he was justified, that he didn’t do anything wrong, and that somehowI’mthe problem,I’mthe idiot,I’mthe one who messed everything up.Youmessed everything up, you—you jackanapes!”
(It was one of Fox’s favorite words; it just slipped out.)
Tripple’s silence suggested he was on unfamiliar ground. For that matter, so was I—I hadn’t done a lot of yelling-at-murderers in my life, so I figured we were both figuring this out as we went along.
“And for that matter—” I said.
And then a loudspeaker boomed: “HEY! OVER HERE!”
My horrified realization came a heartbeat behind: it wasn’t a loudspeaker.
It was Millie.
I opened my mouth, but when I tried to simultaneously scream “What are you doing?” and “Get out of here!”, it all got caught in my throat.
Tripple started to turn in the direction of Millie’s voice.
I mean, you can’t really blame him, can you?
And then Keme launched himself out of the dark. Somehow, he’d circled behind Tripple, and now he sprinted toward him and jumped on his back. Tripple shouted and staggered under the impact. Keme rained down blows on Tripple’s head, and Tripple stumbled, rocking under the unfamiliar weight of a second body. The gun went off. Muzzle flash lit up the night in a single stroke of flame, and then the dark descended again. Keme did something—I didn’t see what—and Tripplescreamed. He tried to run, lost his balance, and fell. And Keme stayed with him, clobbering him as he rolled with him.
My feral wolf-child. My beautiful, brave, tremendously stupid feral wolf-child. Who was also, if you asked anybody else, apparently my big brother.
I ran. I didn’t even think about it. Tripple had dropped his gun when he’d fallen, and I scooped it up. He was still trying to roll away from Keme, and Keme was still beating the stuffing out of him. I wasn’t even sure Keme was seeing him—the boy’s eyes were huge, his pupils dilated, and he was screaming—which hadn’t registered until now. The little armchair psychologistinside my head suggested maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t entirely about Tripple for Keme. Maybe Keme had a lot of feelings he was getting out. Maybe this was catharsis.
It also looked like if I let it go on for too much longer, it might end in a very cathartic manslaughter. (Not to mention, Millie had appeared, and she was carrying a paving stone almost as big as her head, and it looked like she might want some catharsis too.)
“Keme, that’s enough.”
Apparently, it wasn’t.
“Keme! Hey! Get off him! Millie, put that thing down.”
