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TWELVE

GORDON

Tuesday Evening

“Shit, shit, shit,” Gordon repeated for the twentieth time in so many minutes.

His heart hammered wildly against his ribs, like a bird trying to escape the inside of a house. It made it almost impossible for him to draw a breath, and his head was oddly light and heavy at the same time. The worst though was the hot, piercing pain in his left arm. His vision blurred. Tears, or lack of oxygen?

If he couldn’t get a breath, he’d pass out.

What happened? He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting—needing—the images to go away, to never have been seen. Seeing Dwayne like that was, maybe, worse than getting shot. Dwayne lying on his back, his dead eyes staring up at the ceiling of the shed, was burned into Gordon’s brain.

The truck swerved over the rumble strip. Gordon blinked, jerking his eyelids wide again.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered again as he wrenched the steering wheel the other direction with his right hand. In his panic, he overcorrected and ended up in the oncoming lane of traffic. “Fuck me,” he said as he swerved to the correct side of the road.

Thankfully, there was no one else out this time of night. With his shitty luck, though, a deputy would be out on patrol and pull him over for driving erratically. That could not happen. He could not go back to jail. He would die there, never see the light of day again. As little as Gordon was sure about the way the world worked, he knew for certain that jail equaled death. And he kind of thought that’s what Sheriff Rizzi wanted. But why? What had Gordon ever done to him? Nothing. He wasn’t perfect, sure, but he’d never crossed the sheriff.

“What am I going to do?” he asked himself. He wished he could magically make the panic and pain subside. Make what had happened up The Valley a dream, or maybe like a nightmare, not real.

But it had happened—fuck, he couldn’t even think the word—and Gordon knew better than anyone that he was the one who’d take the fall and go back to jail. It wouldn’t be the county jail this time, either. They’d take him to one of the state prisons. He’d never be let out again, just like Mickie.

The general store and the marina flashed past, and the temptation to head toward Elton’s was hard to resist. Elton would know what to do. Elton was a wise old man. But he couldn’t stop. Gordon just needed a minute to—fuck, he didn’t know what he needed. His brain was sluggish and not working right.

Gordon couldn’t involve Elton. If he dragged him into this… He couldn’t finish the thought. What was happening? All he’d ever wanted was to live his simple life. Work a bit. Mess around with rally cars. Fix up his ten acres and build that little cabin he wa nted. To live in peace. To try and rebuild his life. But life, it seemed, was not having it.

The truck’s lights illuminated the sign for Smitty’s RV Park. Gordon slowed and almost flipped his turn indicator on when realization hit him, cold as ice. He couldn’t go home either. They knew where he lived. Someone had seen him.

There was nowhere safe.

“Fuck, I am so fucking stupid.” The truck swerved again as he swiped at his cheeks and the tears tracing down them.

He didn’t know what to do. He might as well end everything. End it all. He’d do the unthinkable before he let them send him back to jail. But he was too much of a coward and couldn’t even think the word. There were things he wanted to do before he died. Meet a girl. Go to the Daytona 500 just once. Was that too much to ask?

Instead of turning into Smitty’s, Gordon followed the road, lost even if he knew exactly where he was. Again, the truck swerved under his shaky single-handed grip on the steering wheel. He needed to get off the street before he caused an accident.

The dark route curved and seemed to disappear up ahead. Since there were no streetlamps this far out, the stars practically blazed—or they would, if it hadn’t been cloudy. The twin beams from his headlights touched briefly on the dead wild grass and thickets that lined the side of the roadway. This was a dangerous spot, the hedge offering drivers just the illusion of safety. However, there was not much on the other side of the scrub; the island dropped almost straight to the sea.

It gave Gordon an idea. Maybe it would work long enough so he could come up with a real plan.

This eastern edge of Heartstone Island was sparsely populated, only a few houses scattered here and there, many of which were second homes that were vacant during the offseason. Gordon knew that Greta Harris and her wife, two of the permanent residents, were away on vacation—they’d stopped in for gas on their way to the airport. They’d been full of smiles and so happy. Gordon had done his best to hide the stab of envy he felt. He didn’t want to go so far as Thailand, but he wouldn’t turn down some kind of vacation with a friend.

Braking, he pulled off the road, the scrape of blackberry brambles against the side of his truck sounding overly loud to his ears. But that could have been due to the rush of adrenaline making his heart pound. Now that he had a plan, sort of, Gordon could breathe again.

And think.

Turning off the engine, he flicked off the dome light and cracked the door open. His left arm pulsed and throbbed while simultaneously feeling like it was on fire. For a minute, he just sat there trying to gather his thoughts. He didn’t set the parking brake. Quickly, he glanced up and down the road. He was alone, no headlights approaching from either direction.

He eased out of the driver’s seat but not before grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder, almost forgetting his injury in his haste and using his left hand. The pain stopped him. He sucked in a gulp of air, this was the only choice.

“Thanks, truck, I’m sorry.” Gordon slapped the side of the Nissan like it was a living animal instead of a heap of metal. Then he went to work, ignoring the pain that rocketed up and down his arm and the increasing wetness that soaked his sleeve.

At first the truck resisted, almost as if it knew its coming fate, but Gordon was strong and determined. And scared. Ignoring the blood, he set his backpack down in the wet grass, then bent and pressed his shoulder against the tailgate.

After a tense minute or so, and one final hard shove, the Nissan plunged over the edge and down the steep embankment. He was glad it was dark so he couldn’t watch his beloved truck rumble down the hill to its doom, but he still sighed at the sound.

Hitching his pack up over his shoulder again, Gordon started down the dark road.