Savich shot him.

The force of the bullet knocked Blessed against the wall, sending a picture thudding to the floor beside him. As he slid down the wall, he stared hard at Savich. He looked momentarily bewildered before he slammed his palm against his shoulder, and his mouth opened and closed as he watched the blood ooze bright red between his fingers.

Tammy Tuttle’s face was bright in Savich’s mind. This man was as mad and dangerous as she had been, and he knew he should kill him because he would never stop, never. But he slowly lowered his SIG.

Sherlock ran to Joanna, took the gun, stuck it in her belt, and shook her by the shoulders. Autumn kept hitting her mother’s arm. Sherlock yelled right in her face, “Wake up, Joanna!”

Tears streamed down Autumn’s face as her fists flailed at her mother and she cried over and over, “Mama, come back, come back!”

Sherlock continued to shake her until Joanna blinked, her eyes finally focusing on Sherlock’s face. She looked dazed, but she was herself again. “What happened? Autumn? Where are you?”

Autumn clasped her mother around her waist, squeezed hard, and whispered, “Dillon shot Blessed. It’s going to be all right now. Sherlock, you’re sure Mama’s okay?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Sherlock said, and hugged the two of them against her. She saw Dillon jerk the case off a pillow, watched him drop to his haunches and apply pressure on the wound.

Blessed was moaning in short gasps, deep in his throat, obviously hurting, and that was fine by Savich. His eyes popped open, and he stared up at Savich.

“How did you do that?”

“Sounds like a question for your guru, Blessed. Press your palm hard over this pillowcase, and the chances are good the bleeding will slow. Don’t press hard enough and you might bleed to death right here in the sheriff’s guest bedroom. I doubt anyone would feel sorry about it.”

Joanna walked to stand over him, but she didn’t look at his face. She looked at the blood smearing his hand and kicked him hard in the side.

He moaned, tried to spit at her but couldn’t. “I stymied you. I should have had you put that gun in your mouth right away and—”

“When you stymied me? That’s what you call it? I felt you, you bastard, trying to make me crazy, trying to make me see and feel horrible things. I should have walked in here shooting. I should have emptied my gun into you.” She kicked him again, in the ribs, and he gave a long, lovely cry of pain. “You got anything else to say, you monster?”

He looked at her hard, but she still didn’t raise her eyes to his face. “Look at me, woman!”

“Forget it, Blessed, or I’ll shoot you again,” Savich said. “You should step back, Joanna.” He looked up to see Ethan standing in the bedroom doorway, his two deputies behind him. “Ethan, could you call 911? We’re going to have to do this carefully, blindfold him so he doesn’t attack anybody else. I’ll ride in the ambulance with him.”

Joanna said, “Stymie. That’s what this pathetic worm calls what he does to people’s heads.”

“Stymie,” Ethan repeated, as if tasting the bizarre word. He went down on his knees beside Blessed, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and tied it around Blessed’s head, covering his eyes. “Try to take off the blindfold, Blessed, and I’ll kick you from here to the Sweet Onion River.” Only then did he dial 911. Faydeen answered on the first ring, as Ethan knew she would. Whenever she was on call for 911, she walked around with her cell phone clipped to her bra.

“Sorry to interrupt your lovely Tuesday evening, Faydeen, but we need an ambulance out at my place. We got Blessed Backman here, and he’s got a fresh bullet wound in his shoulder.”

“Good going, Ethan. Hey, why didn’t you kill the miserable bug?”

34

WHEN ETHAN CLOSED his cell he said to Savich, “Faydeen wants to know why you didn’t kill the miserable bug.”

Savich said, “I seriously considered it for a second, but I had to let it go. Sorry.”

Ethan shook his head. “We can’t kill him now, dammit. I mean, I’d like to, but I can’t, you know? Now we even have to keep him safe. All right, we’ll deal with it.”

“He couldn’t stymie Dillon,” Autumn said. “Dillon’s like me. We’re—what’s the word, Mama?”

Joanna patted her. “You and Dillon are gifted, thank heaven. You’re both special in a very good way.”

Autumn appeared pleased with that. Gifted. Savich realized it was a good word, the right word, and Joanna had taken a giant step in understanding her daughter’s gift to think of it in that way.