Page 112 of Death at a Highland Wedding
Keep walking. Just keep walking.
He doesn’t, though. Müller is a hunter, and I have the feeling he hunts more than deer. He knew how to subdue me. He has experience at that and probably experience at chasing prey that has fled his grasp.
He takes two steps from the row of bushes. I can see him there, through the branches, as he looks around.
He knows I didn’t run across the meadow. He’d see me if I did. It’s too far to the nearest shelter. I couldn’t have made it in time.
He looks both ways. I’m in the bushes. He knows that. But to his left? Or his right?
I reach in my pocket for something to throw the other way. There’s nothing, and even if there was, I’m not sure I’d dare. I’d be more likely to hit the branches with my swing.
I hold my breath, fingers playing with the switchblade handle. I need to be ready. He will come this way and—
He turns the other way.
I grip the knife even tighter as I weigh my options.
No time,my brain screams. I’ve already paused long enough, thinking when I need to act. This hedgerow isn’t that long. He’ll reach the end and come back.
I slide out, breath held, back throbbing. I roll my footsteps as I try to see where I’m placing my boots, but it’s too dark and I can only brace, ready for attack if so much as a twig scrapes under my boot.
I have to fight the urge to run the rest of the distance. He’s ten feet away, nine, eight. When I hit four, he’s too close to the end of the row. He’ll turn around at any second.
I charge and slash at the only exposed piece of skin I see. The side of his neck. I don’t cut deep enough to kill him. I don’t think I could do that unless I was absolutely certain I had no choice.
The blade splits the skin, and he howls. He starts to spin, and I grab the gun barrel. A shot fires, white hot as it rips down the barrel.
I force the gun up. I’ve still got my knife in hand—no time to put it away—and it keeps me from getting a good grip on the rifle, but blood flows from the side of his neck and panic floods his eyes.
We’re locked in a standoff—me awkwardly holding the barrel, switchblade still in my hand, him clenching the gun but all too aware of blood gushing down his neck. When I yank hard, he loses his grip. Then he punches me, another of those no-holds-barred blows that sends me flying. I manage to keep the gun, but my knife falls. He dives for it. The rifle is too big for close-quarters combat. I pitch it aside as far as I can manage.
I get to my knife first. Then he runs for the gun, and I do the same. We reach the rifle at the same time, but my injured back seizes, and I stumble, hissing in pain. I slash at him as he goes for the gun. My blade catches his arm, but he’s wearing too many layers for it to do any damage.
I kick the rifle. It’s all I can manage. My back is on fire, my stomach screams from the earlier blow and my head pounds from the other two. I can’t keep fighting or I will lose. All I can do is kick the gun and then run.
I race for the house. Behind me, Müller fires once, but I’m veering too wildly for him to hit me. At first, his footsteps pound behind me. Then they slow. Then they’re erratic, and I risk glancing back to see him staggering, hand clamped to his neck, rifle lowered in the other hand.
I run straighter now. I try to run faster, too, but my entire body is screaming for me to stop. There’s a moment when the world seems to dip, and like Müller, I stagger and stumble. As I get my balance, I look back to see the gamekeeper on his knees, both hands to his neck, rifle forgotten.
I slow then. I have to. The world sways, and my head throbs, and my lungs burn.
The house is there. It’sright there.I can see a light in one of the windows. Someone is up. I just need to get to the house. Another hundred feet. Less than a hundred steps. I can do this. I—
My foot slides. It doesn’t even slip. It slides in slow motion, and I fall, hard enough to gasp.
I’m on my knees, pain matched by exhaustion, as if I’ve run ten kilometers instead of a hundred meters.
Get up. The house is right there.
I can’t pass out. It’s still the middle of the night, hours before even Gray and McCreadie will be up for their dawn departure.
I rise slowly, pushing with everything I have. I peer at the house. It’s only a hundred feet, but it seems an impossible distance.
Just move. One foot in front of—
“Mallory!”
My head jerks up. Someone is running from the house, and I can’t see who it is, but I know that voice.
