Chapter Twenty-Six.

"That is enough!" a voice screams from behind us.

I blink and see Dr. Vandewater striding to the doors. "Get out of the way, you idiot!" she says as she pushes past Dr. Rayburn. The doors slide open.

The Sheriff staggers back. He pokes one fat finger at the three-inch hole in his s.h.i.+rt. The wound beneath is ragged, red and pulsing blood. "Nessa." He looks at her pleadingly. "Help."

She gives him a cold stare. "You made your own bed, Marlin." Then she stomps out the door, Rayburn scuttling in her wake.

The room is still. Then both Betsy and Ethan erupt in talk that I can't hear since there's a buzzing in my ears, but I'm striding to Clay and putting my hands on him before I realize it. He s.h.i.+vers a little as if coming out of a dream and blinks at me.

"You okay?" I ask.

He looks at me, his face drained of color. He limps to face me and puts his hand delicately on my bruised cheek. "You?"

I nod, ignoring the pain flaring in my cheek and the dull ringing in my ears. Our eyes flick back to the Sheriff who staggers back to the wall and slumps against it. One hand leaves a red smear against the white paint. The man who used to terrify me looks small and helpless as he stares at his b.l.o.o.d.y hand in amazement. His s.h.i.+rt is sticky red. Blood puddles on the floor around him.

"Boy," he says, his voice trembling. "Help ... me." He reaches his hand out.

Clay drops his father's revolvers into his holsters as if they weigh a hundred pounds. He stares at the hole he's made in his father's chest. "She can save you."

The Sheriff shakes his head. A trail of blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, down his neck and spreads into the collar of his s.h.i.+rt. He slumps to a sitting position with is back against the wall. "Your ma ..." he draws a gurgling breath, "is a spiteful b.i.t.c.h. You ... gotta help me."

Clay opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. When he forces words out, his voice is flat. "That's done. I can't help you no more."

Clay reaches for me. I take his hand and lace our fingers together. We watch the Sheriff take a few straggling breaths. Finally Clay speaks, soft and low. "I bin standin' here trying to think of what to say before ya die. Most would tell their pa they loved 'em, but I just can't. Would be a lie and I can't lie with you like this." He gestures to his father's slumped body. "Best I can say is thanks for not throwing me to the coyotes when you found out I was a boy. Other than that, well ..." He sniffs. "Not much else I can thank you for."

The Sheriff's head bobs up and down. He forces his head up and looks into Clay's eyes. "I gave you everythin'."

Clay shakes his head. He squats down on his haunches. His hands tremble as he grasps his knees. "You used me for your own gain. That's all you ever did, Pa. Use people. And you taught me to use people. I've been trying to unlearn that lesson for a while."

"I ..." The Sheriff's voice is thick with fluid. Blood pools at the corners of his mouth. His breathing sounds like a clogged pipe.

Clay shakes his head. Tears wet the corners of his eyes. "It's done, Pa. Let it go."

The Sheriff keeps his eyes locked on Clay. His mouth forms words, but no sound follows. He gurgles a few times, more blood spilling from his mouth and pooling under this chin. A couple of wet breaths and then his head rolls to his chest.

Clay crouches, letting his lean shadow cover his father's body like a shroud. Finally, he puts his palm softly on his father's chest just above where the gunshot wound still dribbles blood. Then he stands up and wipes his hands on his jeans.

I can't believe the Sheriff is dead. I want to comfort Clay, tell him it'll be all right, but my throat is dry. I reach my hand out. Clay takes my hand and pulls me away. "Come on," he says. "We gotta go."

Clay leads me to Mama's bed. I help him push it to the door. The bed's bulky, but with all those cords and wires I don't want to risk unhooking her. Betsy and Ethan gather beside us. I put my hand on Betsy's arm. "What're you going to do? Go or stay?"

She gives a little frown, but then plasters on her chipper smile. "Course I'm going, puddinhead. Can't really stay here now, can I?" Her curls bob back and forth lightly.

By helping me, she cut herself off from this life forever. I owe her big time. I give her hand a pat. "Glad you're coming."

"Let's save the happy reunion for later," Clay says, drawing his father's revolvers. He hands me one of his father's guns. "You can shoot?"

I nod, looking over the revolver.

"Good," he says. He holds up a box of sh.e.l.ls he's dug out of his father's pants pockets and starts loading his two guns.

The four of us exchange our last looks. Ethan puts his hand on my arm. "Let's get the h.e.l.l out of dodge," he says. It's a perfect imitation of my stepfather. I almost smile. We walk to the door and it slides open.

I'm the first to step into the hallway. I skid to a stop. The hospital bed crashes into my back. Ten yards down the hall, Dr. Vandewater stands with her arms folded across her chest. Her long red fingernails look like b.l.o.o.d.y talons. Behind her, guards line the corridor, guns slung across their arms, bullet-proof vests strapped on their chests. My mouth drops open. Betsy lets out a little squeal.

"No more deals," the doctor says, her face a cold emotionless mask. "Come with me, Clay, or die with them. You have one minute to decide."

I stare for a moment, unable to move. This? This is what we've come down to?

Clay turns and pushes us back into the room. We fall in. Ethan's hand gropes for mine. Silent tears trace Betsy's face. My eyes flick from the open doorway to Clay's face. He stares back in shock.

"What'd we do?" I ask.

Clay looks to the door, then back at me. He shakes his head slowly. "I don't ... I don't know."

A sob breaks from Betsy. Ethan's whole body begins to tremble. I pull him to me. I squeeze him hard, trying to hold back my own tears.

"This is all my fault," I say, pressing my face into Ethan's hair. "We can't go against that many guards. We're done." My eyes flick up to Clay's stunned face. "I should've listened when you said not to be reckless. I had to run here with no thought, no plan." I wrap my arms around Ethan. My hand finds my mother's arm on the bed. "It's all my fault."

Clay grabs me by the shoulders. I press my face into his chest, my angry tears seeping into the fabric of his s.h.i.+rt. Is this my last moment with him? I try to memorize the smell of his neck, the flex of his arms, the touch of his hand on my cheek. This can't be the end. He lifts my face to his. His sky blue eyes stare deep into my own.

"No," he whispers, brus.h.i.+ng his fingers against my cheek, "you were right. Sometimes you have to be reckless for someone you love."

He draws me to him, his lips pressing into mine, first soft, then harder. Pa.s.sion rips through me, heating up my chest, my arms, my hands. I fold into him, drinking up this moment of sweetness. Our first kiss. Our last.

When he pulls away, I'm light-headed and breathless. "Clay."

He gives me one more longing look. Then he draws his gun, strides through the doorway and opens fire.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

"No!" I shout.

My voice is drowned out by the rattle of gunfire.

In the hallway bullets ping off the walls, lights shatter. A smoke grenade plinks off the tile and begins spewing gas into the air. Betsy and Ethan cower. I can't take my eyes off the spot where Clay was a moment ago. He sacrificed himself for me.

I can't let him die.

I grab his father's revolver and spin toward Betsy. "Get my mother and Ethan out. Clay and I will cover you." Her eyes are round, cow-like. I grip her arm hard. "Find a way, Betsy. Tell me you will."

She blinks and nods, her curls bobbing slightly. There's no perky smile now. "Okay," she says.

Ethan's hand snakes around my arm. "No, Riley!" He pulls me away from the door and the gunshots that crackle every few seconds. There's no time.

"I love you!" I hoist the revolver and run into the smoke-filled hallway.

I skid to a stop next to Clay, my eyes burning. He looks at me and frowns, but his attention turns to a bullet cutting through the smoke like an angry hornet. It zings past close enough to blow my hair back. Behind us a light shatters. I hear the whine of the gurney wheels as Betsy and Ethan push my mother down the hallway.

Everyone I love is in peril at this moment.

A guard rushes through the smoke, gray tendrils curling around him. I see the whites of his teeth before the barrel of his gun aims for my chest. Clay fires and the guard staggers into the wall, but not before he gets a shot off. There's a thunk and a spray of blood from Clay's thigh. He lets out a snarl of pain, but aims and drops the guard with a bullet to the brain. Clumps of red and gray splatter the pristine hospital walls.

A moment of silence. My eyes are streaming, but I lock them forward and peer into the smoke. Beside me Clay's fingers fly as he reloads. The silver chamber spins as the bullets drop in with quiet clicks.

Fifteen feet away, a head hops out of a doorway, then a gun. A guard rattles off a few wild shots. I duck. Plaster sprays into my already streaming eyes, patters against my face. Clay stands stock-still, raises his gun and fires. His bullet buries itself into the guard's shoulder. He disappears, screaming.

"Go!" he says, squinting through the smoke that seers his eyes like acid. He fires again, the bullet pings off something metallic in the distance. "Go, Riley!"

"Not without you!"

He opens his mouth to protest, but a bullet zings between our two heads, hitting a light fixture that rains sparks on our heads.

A guard pops up ten yards away behind a metal bench. My finger draws back the trigger and my gun explodes, rocking my shoulder back. The bullet cuts through the smoke and hits the guard's vest. The guard staggers back, his mouth open. When he realizes he isn't dead, he smiles tauntingly. He lifts his gun to finish me. There's a crack beside me. The guard's neck springs a leak. His gun clatters to the tile. Blood patters the wall as the guard topples over the bench and sprawls on the floor.

I squint through the haze toward the wall of guards. Our victories are a drop of water in the ocean. The guards keep coming.

I shoot a look down the hallway. Betsy and Ethan round the corner and disappear. Thank G.o.d for that, I think. Time to go.

A gun cracks. A cry of pain pulls me out of my thoughts. I look over. Clay's hand is tucked to his chest. The palm is such a b.l.o.o.d.y, shredded mess, I can't tell what's happened. His revolver clatters to the floor. I reach for him, but the guards smell their victory. Bullets fill the air like lead rain.

"Come on!" I scream, dragging him away. "Run!"

He turns and stumbles along side me. Bullets zip past, slicing through the smoke, spraying plaster and shards of light casings on our heads. Something punches into my calf. I stumble, but Clay's good hand on my arm steadies me. Then a bullet smashes into his shoulder and he goes down on the tile.

"Clay!" I scramble over to him and drag him forward. He's drenched in blood. One pant leg clings to him in a red sopping mess. His white t-s.h.i.+rt is soaked through from his shredded hand. He stares up at me, his eyelids fluttering.

"Go," he croaks.

I slip my arms under his and drag him backward along the tile. His boots leave two red tracks on the floor. Ahead the pounding of footsteps sounds like a giant crus.h.i.+ng wave. We're about to drown.

I grunt and tug, but it's no use. They'll soon be here. My eyes are already streaming, but the sobs that shake from my chest are new. "We gave 'em a good fight," I whisper. I lean down and kiss the top of his blood-speckled head. Beneath the blood and smoke and gun powder, there's still a trace of his familiar scent. I'll take it with me wherever this path ends.

A door pops open across the hall. Through the haze, I can just make out Dr. Rayburn's shocked face behind his bleary gla.s.ses.

"Good G.o.d," he says. Then his eyes flick to where the guards are breaking through the smoke. "Come on." He waves me over. I heave Clay over with all my might, but my wounded calf has stiffened and doesn't seem to work. Rayburn scuttles out, puts his hands under Clay's armpits and drags him into the door. I limp after.

The door slides shut. Dr. Rayburn mutters over the keypad, frantically punching b.u.t.tons until the lock clicks. He stands against the door, breathless. His white lab coat is streaked with Clay's blood. He adjusts his smeared gla.s.ses and runs a trembling hand through his greasy hair. "Door won't hold them for long." He nods toward the back of the room. "We got a truck."

We're in the same storage room where Rayburn handed me off to Clay and the Sheriff. There's an idling supply truck by the open garage door. I stare out into the fresh night air on the other side of the door. Can that really be freedom? My mother's lying in the back of the van, still hooked to her IV. Ethan sits beside her, holding her hand. When he sees me he waves and then frowns. He starts to climb out but I shake my head and hobble forward. Betsy, who's busy chucking supplies into the van, stops when she sees me.

"Oh my heavens, are you hurt?" She waddles over and reaches.

I shake her off. "Help me get Clay into the van!"

Her eyes go wide at the sight of him. She grabs Clay's b.l.o.o.d.y boots. I take his arms. Rayburn jumps in the van's driver's seat. The engine revs.

Fists pound on the door. Rifle b.u.t.ts slam into the metal, denting it. If Rayburn was right, they'll be here in seconds and my legs won't move any faster.

My wounded calf throbs, but Betsy and I double-time it to the van. It seems like a million miles. My back finally b.u.mps into the van's b.u.mper. I hoist myself up and then reach down for Clay's arms and draw him inside. He's so heavy and my arms so weak. Ethan reaches down and takes an arm. Together we heave Clay upward. Betsy pushes on his legs, her pudgy face red with strain.

The door flies open. Guards pour in like insects. They're coming.

"Come on!" yells Rayburn, looking in the rear view.

It's a swarm of guns and arms and angry faces. And black gun barrels. Hands reach out and grab Betsy's pudgy arms and legs. They drag her backward into the mound of guards. Rayburn hits the gas.

"Betsy!" I scream.

I drag Clay into the van as we bounce out of the storage room and into the parking lot. I get a glimpse of Betsy's terrified face in the sea of guards. So frightened. Then Rayburn takes the corner.

She's gone.

I scramble toward the van doors. I gotta go back for her.

Ethan's hands grab my waist. I turn my tear-filled eyes toward him. "Let me go!"

Then I see them, Clay and my mama both unconscious on the van floor. Ethan's terrified face is speckled with blood. "Riley," he says quietly. "We need your help, too."

I fold into his arms. He holds me as we speed through Albuquerque's darkened streets.

Now it's my turn to cry.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

We drive for eight straight hours.