When they started climbing the long hill, the police car gained on them, the siren still furious and insistent. Holliday, grim, was pushing their car as fast as it could go, flashing his headlights to get the cop’s attention. Nobody stopped. When Emma reached the top, the car shuddered for an instant, then banked into a sharp curve. Connolly saw it swerve. Then the squeal of tires as it slid toward the edge of the road, the crack as it hit the tree, so fast that it bounced away, fishtailing back in an uncontrollable circle until it flew off the road, plunging backward over the side. He heard the sound of metal crashing, louder even than the siren, a roar. Connolly’s mind went blank. He thought for a second that he could not see, but that was only because the car was gone.
At the top, he jumped from Holliday’s car even before it stopped, the momentum pitching him forward, past the traffic cop standing at the side of the road, over the rim, then down the hill in great leaps, sending up clouds of dust. The car was on its side, driver’s side up, steam rising from the hood. There was glass everywhere. Running, Connolly thought he heard a new siren, but it was his own screaming, shouting her name. He was still screaming for her when he fell against the car, unable to stop his run. Pain shot through his chest. He yanked the door handle, pulling with both hands until it finally came unstuck and popped open. The angle of the car made it snap back, hitting him on the shoulder, and he groaned, then pushed it again until it stayed open. She was flung over the steering wheel, her face covered with blood, not moving.
He reached in to pull her body out. Her head fell back. Was she breathing? He put his arm around her waist, pulling her toward him, straining with the weight. She was wedged against the steering wheel, so that finally he had to pull her out by her arms, the lower part of her body dragged along like a twisted stuffed animal. When she was halfway through the door, Holliday came to help lift her out.
“Is she dead? Is she dead?” Connolly was yelling, putting his ear against her mouth. There was a lot of blood, gashes along her arms from the windshield glass, her face almost covered with it.
Holliday quickly bent over, feeling for a pulse, checking for breathing. “She’s unconscious,” he said briskly. “Help me get her out of here.”
“We’re not supposed to move her!” Connolly shouted, out of his mind. “Don’t you know that? You’re not supposed to move her! You could break something.”
Holliday looked up at him, using the force of his stare to calm him, bring him back. “You’d better move her. This is going to blow.”
A small explosion, not deafening, then a whoosh of fire igniting. Connolly leaned over, covering her as if they were being bombed. When there was no after-explosion, he knelt back, nodding to Holliday, who grabbed her other side to carry her away from the car. They staggered uphill under the weight, finally stopping halfway up. Connolly wiped his face, thinking it was sweat, then saw that it was tears-had he been crying? hysterical? — and fresh blood.
“She’s breathing,” Holliday said. Then, to the traffic cop, “Here, give me a hand. We have to get her to a hospital. Connolly, out of the way. That’s not doing her any good.”
He was wiping some of the blood away, to see her face. Holliday touched him on the shoulder, pressing him gently backward, away from her body.
“She’s not dead,” Connolly said absently.
“Not yet,” Holliday said. “Come on.”
“What about the other one?” the cop said.
Connolly looked up, surprised. The other one. Flames were eating around the back of the car now, the air pungent with oil smoke. The one who would have killed her. Without thinking, he plunged back down the hill, stumbling, his body shaking with a fury he had never felt before.
“Get away from there!” Holliday shouted. But he had to see.
She was lying flat against the passenger door, her neck twisted, Mills’s gun still in her right hand. He looked down into the car, wanting to hurt her more, and then suddenly felt nothing. Her skirt was hiked up, thrown back when the car overturned, and he felt oddly embarrassed. Had she died when the car hit the tree, snapping her neck? Or had she had a few awful moments when the car tumbled over, falling, and she knew. No more secrets. But she’d kept her last one-now she’d never tell him anything. And there was no one else. Connolly had lost them all.
There was another pop as the fire spread from the back seat. He knew he should run, but he stood there transfixed, watching it creep along until it reached her and she too began to burn, her clothes scorching and smoky. He drew his head back, away from the flames that had begun to engulf the car, and through the smoke he thought he saw her body fold into itself, curling up like a secret message burning in an ashtray.
19
The rain woke her. The blinds in Eisler’s old hospital room blew in with a small gust, then flapped back against the half-open window. There had been hail earlier, the nurse had told him, but the violent clouds had passed, leaving patches of evening drizzle. She stared at him for a minute, adjusting her eyes to the dim light, to any light. Her face, wrapped in bandages, moved faintly in a dreamy smile. Sitting on the bed, looking over her, he was all she could see.
“Where am I?” she said in a whisper, trying out her voice to see if it was still there.
“On the Hill. The infirmary.”
She tried to move and winced with pain. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder. Leg fracture. Shock. Multiple lacerations. Some internal bleeding they’re watching.” He paused. “You’ll be all right.”
She smiled at the medical report. “I must look a sight.”
He felt her unbandaged hand. “Terrible.”
“Am I on drugs?”
“Painkillers.”
“So I’m not dreaming. This is all real.” She moved her eyes again, focusing. “Why do you have your clothes off?”
He was shirtless, his lower chest wrapped in white adhesive tape. “Oh, this,” he said, fingering the tape. “Hector.”
Her eyes clouded. “What happened to him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead,” she repeated, dismayed.
“I didn’t mean to hit him so hard,” he said slowly. “It must have been the angle.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, confused.
“I hit him with the statue,” he said, looking at her directly. “It was self-defense. That’s the way it makes sense. There won’t be any more questions. He knocked you over-do you remember that?” He waited for her nod. “He killed Karl.”
She watched him as he spoke, then closed her eyes. For a second he thought she had drifted back to sleep. “You got your man,” she said.
“We did.”
“So it’s finished?”
“Yes, finished.”
She opened her eyes. “Hannah?” she said, remembering.
“She was the contact. The end of Matthew’s chain.”
“But she never-at the ranch.”
“She didn’t know. She only knew Eisler.”
“All this time,” Emma said vaguely, lost in her thoughts. “I thought she was my—”
“She was. She liked you.”
“Then why?”
“You got in the way. Like Karl.”
“Like Karl,” she repeated, trembling.
“Get some sleep,” he said.
But she grabbed his hand more firmly. “No, don’t go. Stay. I don’t want to dream about it. I want to be awake.”
“You can be awake tomorrow. You’re really going to be all right, you know. You’re lucky.”
She smiled, her eyes closing again. “Yes, lucky.”
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Call Daniel. I want to see him.”
Connolly nodded. “They’re putting a call through. He’s at the site.”
“It’s finished now,” she said, not hearing him. “I can sort things out.”
He looked at her nervously. “What are you going to do?”
“When I saw him hitting you,” she said slowly, “I knew. So clear. Just like that. I killed him, didn’t I?”