After Darkness Fell by David Berardelli Page A

. And he really wanted to shoot me. I saw the blind rage in his eyes, and if it hadn’t been for the severity of his wound, he would’ve shot me. Right before you came around the corner, he was aiming, ready to shoot ... and then he coughed. If he hadn’t coughed...”
    “But he did.”
    “It was too close. Way too close.” She rubbed her eyes. “It’s getting to me, Moss, and I’m not sure I can handle it anymore.”
    “We have to handle it. We’ve got no choice.”
    She buried her face in her hands and began sobbing quietly again.
    I stayed silent for the rest of the ride, struggling with myself to figure out something I could say that would help her.
    But what could be said about any of this that would make it more tolerable? How could I possibly make her feel better when we both knew that what had already happened on this miserable day would most likely happen again tomorrow?

SEVEN
    It was 4:30 when we reached Bakerstown–Culmerville Road. Before driving down the hill that led to the farm, I pulled into the abandoned garage at the top of the hill and sat in the truck with my window lowered, listening. Fields sat staring at the abandoned two-story house on the side of the hill directly across the road. I forced myself to stop worrying about her, at least for now, and focused on the present issue. I still wondered about that light-blue compact. Although I didn’t see it anywhere, my gut told me it wasn’t too far away.
    I spent the next fifteen minutes listening and watching. When I was certain we hadn’t been followed and that there wasn’t anyone else close by, I put the truck back in gear and went down the road, to the bottom of the hill. Before turning off, I stopped again and listened another minute or so. Then, confident everything was as it should be, I took the truck up the long, winding drive.
    Fields still stared straight ahead. Her eyes were wet, her face flushed. Her hair was dirty and matted. Thick strands dangled in front of her face. She made no move to push it back or even nudge it away. In fact, as I opened my door and glanced at her, I faced the cold realization that the woman sitting beside me was no longer aware of anything but what was going on in her troubled mind.
    This disturbed me, but I fully understood. Fields had been through hell and was seriously wounded. Judging by her glazed eyes and empty look, I could tell she’d ventured much too close to the brink of her own sanity. I’d seen it too many times before. Some never come back. Others do, leaving vital parts of themselves behind. Still others bring much of their trauma back with them and let it dominate them for the rest of their lives.
    Fields was a strong person; I was confident she’d survive this and bounce right back. We’d endured other horrors before and would be forced to struggle through many more. If she wanted to handle this by herself, I’d step back and let her. If not, I wouldn’t hesitate to help her.
    I climbed down, approached the garage door and got out my keys. Behind me, the passenger door slammed shut. I turned. Fields had already climbed down and was shuffling down the drive. As she neared the stoop that led to the concrete walk, she stopped abruptly and stood quite still, her head lowered. It took me a few moments to realize she was gazing at blood and brain matter from this morning’s battle. After just a few seconds, she straightened and veered left, toward the stoop. She then climbed the step and went down the concrete path leading to the kitchen door.
    I climbed back in the truck, pulled into the garage and killed the engine. Grabbing the .357, I climbed back out, then closed and locked the garage door.
    Fields was standing a few feet from the kitchen door when I got back to the house. She stood with her back to me, facing the pine trees on the other side of the property.
    I opened the screen and unlocked the back door. I waited for her to turn around and join me, but she didn’t move. I went