“I didn’t think they really believed me,” she said. “So I turn to Jo. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes, the pistol barrel right against her temple. Her eyes.” She paused. “They’re so calm as she looks in mine because . . .”
Her voice shook.
“Because she wants me to know she loves me . . .” Lucy chokes on sobs. “She loves me! She wants me to know because she believes . . :” Her voice went up and stopped. “She believes we’re going to die. And that’s when I start yelling at her. I call her a stupid fucking bitch and slap her face so hard my hand goes numb.
“And she just looks at me as if I’m all there is, blood trickling out of her nose and the sides of her mouth, a red river down her face, dripping off her chin. She didn’t even cry. She’s out of the story, lost her role, her training; everything she damn well knows what to do. I grab her. I shove her hard to the ground and get on top of her, swearing and slapping and yelling.”
She wiped her eyes and stared straight ahead.
“And what’s so awful, Aunt Kay, is part of it’s real. I’m so angry with her for quitting on me, for just giving up. She was going to just give up and die, goddamn it!”
“Like Benton did;” I quietly said.
Lucy wiped her face on her shirt. She didn’t seem to hear what I’d said.
“I’m so fucking tired of people giving up and leaving me;” she said in a shattered voice. “When I need them and they fucking give up!”
“Benton didn’t give up, Lucy.”
“I just keep swearing at Jo, screaming and hitting her and telling her I’m going to kill her as I straddle her, shaking her by her hair. It wakes her up, maybe even pisses her off, too, and she starts fighting back. Calls me a Cuban cunt and spits blood in my face, punches me, and by this time the guys are laughing and whistling and grabbing their crotches . . : ‘
She took another long breath and shut her eyes, barely able to sit up. She leaned against my legs, firelight playing on her strong, beautiful face.
“She starts really struggling. My knees are so tight against her sides I’m surprised I didn’t break her ribs, and while we’re going at each other like that, I tear open her shirt, and this really gets the guys going and they don’t see me grab my gun out of my ankle holster. I start firing. I just fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire . . :’ Her voice trailed off.
I bent over and put my arms around her.
“You know? I’m wearing those wide-legged street jeans to hide my Sig. They say I fired eleven rounds. I don’t even remember dropping the empty magazine, putting in a full one. Racking it back. Agents are everywhere and somehow I’m dragging Jo out the door. And she’s bleeding heavily from her head.”
Lucy’s lower lip trembled as she tried to go on, her voice far away. She wasn’t here. She was there, living it again.
“Fire. Fire. Fire. Her blood on my hands.”
Her voice rose to God.
“I hit her and hit her. I can still feel the sting of her cheek against the palm of my hand.”
She looked at her hand as if it should be put to death.
“I felt it. How soft her skin was. And she bled. I made her bleed. The skin I had touched and loved. I drew blood from it. Then the guns, the guns, the guns, and smoke and ringing in my ears and it’s a blaze when it happens like that. It’s over and never started. I knew she was dead.”
She bowed her head and wept quietly, and I stroked her hair.
“You saved her life. And you saved yours;” I finally said. “Jo knows what you did and why you did it, Lucy. She should love you all the more.”
“I’m in trouble this time, Aunt Kay,” she said.
“You’re a hero. That’s what you are.”