But I couldn’t make him out.
“I know I didn’t hit you,” he called, his voice cracking weirdly. “I did, you would have gone down like the shit bag you are.”
I decided not to engage, to let him think he’d gotten lucky, taken me out with one bullet. And it was odd the way his voice had cracked, wasn’t it? Gone to a higher pitch?”
Tense moments passed, a minute and then two, while my eyes darted back and forth, trying to spot him, hoping he’d come in to make sure of the kill.
“How’s your partner?” he called, and I heard him chuckle hoarsely. “He took a hit, didn’t he? What I hear, best-case scenario, he’ll be a veg.”
It took every fiber of my being, but I did not engage with him, even then. I just lay there and waited, scanning and scanning and scanning.
I never saw him go, or heard anything like a distant twig breaking to suggest he was on the move again. He never said another word, and nothing told me he’d left but the time that kept ticking away.
I lowered my head after ten minutes and dug out my phone. No service.
The rain started in earnest then, drumming, beating down the fog and revealing the plantation. Nothing moved but a doe a hundred yards out.
I wanted to get up and go down there, look for him. But if he was waiting, I’d be exposed again. After fifteen more minutes of watching, I crawled back in the direction I’d come until I was well down the backside of the hill.
There was a bitter taste in my mouth when I got to my feet and started back toward the cemetery.
I hadn’t gotten halfway there when my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
A text from Billie.
“Alex, wherever you are, come. John’s taken a bad turn. We’re on deathwatch here.”
Chapter 21
By the time I reached the cemetery, the superintendent had already loaded the casket into the FBI van that would take it to Quantico for examination. I explained the urgency of my situation, and left.
I called ahead to New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland state police dispatchers, asking for help. When I reached I-95, there were two Jersey state trooper cruisers waiting. One in front, the other behind, they escorted me to the border, where two Delaware cruisers met me. Two more waited when I reached the Maryland line. At times we were going more than a hundred.
Less than two hours after I’d read the text, I got off the elevator to the ICU at GW Medical Center, still in damp clothes and chilled as I ran down the all-too-familiar halls to the waiting area. Billie sat at the back, her feet drawn up under her. Her elbows rested across her knees and she had a skeptical, faraway look in her eye, as if she couldn’t believe that God was doing this to her.
Bree sat at her left, Nana Mama on her right.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They decided to bring him up out of the chemical coma,” Billie said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“He flatlined. They had to paddle him,” Bree said. “He came back, but his vitals are turning against him.”
“Billie’s called in the priest,” Nana Mama said. “He’s giving John the last rites.”
Whatever control I’d maintained until that point evaporated and I began to grieve in gasps of disbelief and an explosion of sorrow and tears. It was real. My best friend, the indestructible one, Big John Sampson, was going to die.
I sank into a chair and sobbed. Bree came over and hugged me. I leaned into her and cried some more.
The priest came in. “He’s in God’s hands now,” he said, consoling us. “The doctor says there’s nothing more they can do for him.”
“Can we go in?” Billie asked.
“Of course,” he said.
Nana Mama, Billie, and Bree got up. I looked at them, feeling numb.
“I can’t do it,” I said, feeling helpless. “I just can’t watch this. Can you forgive me?”