I looked below and saw Moon and the remainder of the guardrail hit the ground fifteen feet below. Moon crawled to his feet, looked up at me, then began picking up rocks and throwing them at me like a big league pitcher.
The first one missed, but the second one hit me in the kidneys and made my breath catch. I turned and tried to pull myself up on the deck.
Moon threw another rock the size of my fist and caught me high in the back, almost paralyzing me.
I let go and dropped, hitting and rolling to put some distance between us.
He’d found the poker and picked it up. His face showed more hate than I had ever seen on anyone. “Today,” he said as he advanced.
I slipped on gravel and turned to my hands and knees to get traction as I heard him coming.
In front of me lay the buntline pistol, a .22. I grasped it and turned just as Moon reached me with his raised weapon and his mouth open in a scream.
I shot him through the roof of his mouth.
He made a funny coughing sound and collapsed on me. The poker slipped from his hand and clattered to the rocks beside us.
I pulled myself from under him and checked his pulse. Dead.
I tried to pull out the ice pick, but it remained stuck, and the pain of trying made sweat pop out on my forehead. I got to my feet staggering up the slope, hoping and praying for Amber to be alive.
I made it into the house and to her side. She looked in bad shape, with a wheezing sound and blood from her mouth that told me the shot pierced her lung. I turned her on her side so the lungs wouldn’t fill and sat with her, brushing the hair from her face and whispering to her that I loved her, and for her to hang on. Her hand moved feebly to mine and squeezed it with a barely discernible strength.
I had no cell phone to call. I whispered to her, “I have to get the house phone, I’m right here.” She squeezed my hand.
I reached the house phone and called 911, then Hondo. I hurried to Amber, bringing dishtowels and saran wrap from the kitchen. Uncovering her back showed the small wound bubbling as she breathed. I peeled a sheet of saran wrap and placed it on her back over the hole, then pushed a kitchen towel over it so I could hold gentle pressure.
After a moment, her breathing became easier, less like someone drowning.
Hondo beat the ambulance to my house. He checked her, and checked me. He said, “Get comfortable,” as he went out on the deck and verified Moon had expired.
When he returned, he checked Amber again. Then he said, “Hold on to yourself, this is gonna be tough.”
He grasped the ice pick handle and braced his feet on each side of it, then pulled and twisted. My body shook all over, but the ice pick didn’t budge. He stopped pulling, and I exhaled a shaky breath, “Hoo-wee.”
He said, “I know. Hang on.” He pulled harder and twisted the handle like he was unscrewing a screw. My vision swam. Then it was out, and I gasped.
The ambulance arrived and took Amber. I said we’d follow in our vehicle. Hondo drove and I closed my eyes, wiping tears from my face as I thought about Amber being hurt because of me. Hondo tapped my shoulder and I opened my eyes. He held out a handkerchief. I took it and leaned my head against the window, feeling like a failure.
At the hospital, I went to the ER and x-ray while Hondo checked on Amber. The ER doctor checked the x-rays and then me, saying, “I need to admit you.”
“No, just patch me up.”
“You have two fractured ribs and a number of injuries and contusions, Mr. Baca, and maybe a concussion. We need to keep you for observation.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
The doctor said, “I’m afraid that’s not good enough.”
He was a determined one. I said, “It’s a matter of national security.”
“What?”
“Highest priority. Alpha five.”