Chapter 42

Melender crouched down behind the pile of fertilizer bags. She had managed to hang onto the shears in her dive to safety and now used the clippers to slice through the plastic ties binding her ankles. Free from her restraints, she duck-walked toward a covered riding lawnmower, its metal bulk appearing safer than the fertilizer bags.

She peeked around a corner. Quentin and Smith continued to wrestle for the gun. A second shot shattered a flowerpot on the opposite wall as the men grappled for the weapon. Quentin must have rushed Smith to prevent him from shooting her. Why he did so was a mystery, given her uncle’s role in setting her up. Questions popped into her mind. Had Jillian accidently smothered Jesse? Or had Jared given the toddler too much of the wrong kind of medicine and that killed him?

Shaking her head to clear the questions she couldn’t answer, Melender refocused her attention on the fight. She edged around the lawnmower, keeping the shears in her hand. A third shot, then a grunt. Her heart rate accelerated to warp speed. The sound of a body hitting the floor echoed in the sudden quiet.

Dropping to her belly, Melender peered under the tractor to see Quentin lying on the floor, blood spreading rapidly from his upper thigh. Her uncle’s face contorted in pain as he clutched the wound.

Smith stood over him, gun firmly in his hand. “You’ll bleed out soon enough. After I kill your niece, I’ll make the whole thing look like a shootout. An all-too familiar scene among family members these days.”

The shed door burst open, and Brogan raced inside. Melender sucked in a breath at the sight of him. She wanted to run into his arms but didn’t budge. Best if she stayed hidden for now.

Brogan took a step toward Quentin, whose moans had quieted.

“Stop right there.” Smith squeezed off a shot that whizzed past Brogan to the opposite wall, hitting a bag of potting soil sitting on a shelf.

Brogan froze. “Let me help him.”

“Stay where you are.”

Her uncle’s gray pallor revealed he didn’t have much more time. No matter his role in her conviction, she couldn’t let him die. But to save him, she needed a bigger weapon than gardening shears. Rising to her knees and carefully keeping her head below the top of the lawnmower, she slowly scanned her surroundings.

“The washed-up reporter seeks redemption by proving an ex-con innocent of murder.” The derision in Smith’s voice chilled Melender as his words pierced her heart. “If that isn’t the ultimate cliché.”

“The truth is never a cliché.” Brogan’s reply countered the coldness seeping into Melender’s bones.

“Ah, the truth.” Smith made a circular motion with the gun. “The truth is whatever the person holding the winning hand says it is.”

“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? That way you don’t have to live with the consequences of your actions.”

Melender spied a heavy metal garden rake on the floor a few feet away from her position. The short, sharp tines would make a good weapon.

“I’ve lived my own truth for years, and no one has objected yet.”

“Maybe you have ‘gotten away with it.’” Melender could hear the air quotes in Brogan’s statement. “But that doesn’t mean what you’ve done isn’t wrong.”

She eased close enough to the rake to touch the handle, then maneuvered herself to the front of the lawnmower. Smith stood a few feet away, his attention focused on Brogan. With a prayer for success, she rose to a half crouch, keeping her upper body level with the lawnmower’s height.

“While I find this philosophic discourse interesting,” Smith said, “I—”

Melender stood to full height, lifting and swinging the rake toward Smith with all her might. As if sensing movement behind him, Smith turned and raised his gun.

Melender continued the forward motion of the rake, which hit the man square in the shoulder, the metal tines digging into his flesh and sending the gun skittering to the floor. Brogan dove for the gun as Smith careened into shelves holding terracotta planters. The shelving toppled, bringing Smith down with it in a heap of broken pots.

Brogan aimed the gun at Smith. “Don’t move.”

“Quentin!” Melender dropped the rake and scrambled to her uncle, who was unresponsive. She had to stop the bleeding. A pile of old towels on a shelf a few feet away caught her eye and she sprinted to the shelf and grabbed them. Back at her uncle’s side, she held one of the towels over the leg wound, pressing down as hard as she could manage. “Stay with me.”

Her uncle’s eyes fluttered open. “Melender. You’re okay.”

“Yes.” In the background, Brogan requested an ambulance on his phone. Sirens punctuated the air, their strident call music to her ears. Maybe Brogan had called in backup before coming to rescue her. She leaned over the wounded leg, keeping the pressure steady.

“I’m sorry.” Quentin’s voice held a weary note. “I shouldn’t have…”

“We can talk later. Save your strength. Help is coming.” Please, God. Don’t let him die. She gazed into her uncle’s eyes, where regret mingled with the pain.

Quentin placed his blood-stained hand over hers. “Why are you helping me? Why don’t you hate me?”

“I did at first for what you and your family did to me.” But during her incarceration, she’d seen firsthand how anger fueled many of the prisoners’ waking moments. Sudie’s calming words had echoed in her mind whenever temptation to give in to despair and fury tried to rule. Child, when we allow anger over wrongs done to us to take root in our hearts, we’re saying to God Almighty that crimes committed against us are worse than crimes committed against Jesus. Our crimes against Jesus were nailed to the cross. How can we hang on to unforgiveness when our Savior does not?

“Something Sudie said to me made me try not to let hate stay in my heart.” Melender shifted her position to keep the pressure steady on the wound. “Because of Jesus, I don’t hate you.”

“How is he?” Brogan’s question startled Melender.

For a moment, she’d forgotten everything but her uncle and the past. “He needs medical attention.” She sent a worried look at her uncle’s ashen complexion. Quentin had closed his eyes again, giving his countenance a death-like hue. A quick glance at Brogan showed he kept his attention and gun trained on Smith, who now sat amidst the pottery shards with his head in his hands.

“Seth says the cops have arrived,” Brogan said.

“And the ambulance?” She repositioned her hands on the bloody towel. The blood flow from the wound appeared to have eased, but she didn’t dare remove the towel to check.

“On its way.” No sooner had the words left his lips than the shed door burst open. A stream of police officers rushed into the space, guns drawn.

“Drop your weapon! Put your hands in the air!” one of the officers commanded.

Brogan complied. Several officers hurried to Quentin. Melender briefed them on what she knew, and one of them coordinated an exchange of positions, taking over from her.

She rose, but her legs nearly gave out from the adrenaline depletion and kneeling.

“Steady there.” Brogan cradled her against his body, taking the weight of hers as she faced him. His arms encased her with strength.

Melender closed her eyes and collapsed against his broad chest. Words failed her, so she simply wrapped her arms around his waist and allowed her mind to relax for the first time in nearly two decades.