Last Summer (19 page)

“You’re not going anywhere, not after the
mess you’ve made,” says Big P.

“Logan!” I scream, but it’s too late. Big P
fires off two rounds, straight into Logan’s back. Logan’s body
freezes, his eyes bulging from his skull, and then he sputters and
falls over. “Logan, baby! LOGAN!” I shake him, but his eyes are
dulling out, losing their vivacity.

“Ice may have done a number on you, baby
girl, but it’s
nothing
compared to what I’m going to do,”
says Big P.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I beg.

“You see, Logan’s already killed three of my
boys, so it’s only fitting I do what I want with you and then dump
your body where nobody will find it. Maybe the lake. Maybe the
ocean. So, if Logan does live through this, and I doubt he will,
he’ll
never
see you again, just like I’ll never see my boys
again.” He aims the gun at my head.

I grasp Logan’s lifeless hand in mine and
squeeze.
Stay with me, Logan. Be alive. Don’t leave me.

Tires squeal as three cars tear around the
corner, red and blue lights flashing, sirens blaring. All three
policemen throw their vehicles into park and use their car doors as
barriers between them and Big P.

“Drop your weapon!” one of the officers
shouts.

“Drop your weapon and get on the ground!”
yells another.

I can see it in Big P’s eyes: a look of pure
suffering. He
wants
to kill me. He wants to avenge the
deaths of his friends, his boys, so he’s weighing his decision. The
wheels are turning in his mind, and it’s almost as if I can hear
his thoughts:
I can kill her before they take me, and my boys’
murders will be justified, even if that means a longer
sentence.

“Sir, we’re not telling you again. Drop your
weapon!”

Another one hollers, “Drop it!”

Big P’s finger fumbles on the trigger, but,
determined, he pulls.

Nineteen
•
Chloe

I
t jams.

In moments such as these, it’s the minor
seconds that count. Seconds that can make or break you. Seconds
that can save your life. And, lucky for me, one of the police
officers seizes the opportunity, the
second
, to pull his
trigger.

It doesn’t jam.

Big P stills, and then collapses on the
asphalt. All three police officers run to me, one of which is
Logan’s dad.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Phil
asks, squatting down in front of me. “I followed you two after
dinner. I just had a bad feeling about all of this.” He waves
toward the crime scene in front of us.

All I can do is mutter incoherently and bawl
my eyes out.

He places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re
going to be all right, sweetie.” He pivots toward his son and
presses the radio on his shoulder, mumbling a numeric code. Within
minutes, more sirens wail and appear in a show of flashing lights.
Paramedics wheel a stretcher to where Logan lies. One of them
checks his heart rate, while the other uncovers his fresh wounds.
Carefully, they load his unconscious body onto the stretcher and
into the back of the ambulance, poking him with an IV and other
miscellaneous gadgets.

I watch the ambulance leave with Logan and
almost lose my composure. As I stand up, Phil encircles me with one
arm, and I sag against him, crying out.

“They’re going to take good care of him,” he
says, his voice catching on a couple of words. “It’s all right.
He’s going to be all right.” He hugs me even tighter. “Why don’t
you come to the station with me? I’ll need a recap of the events,
in detail. Can you do that? Better yet, can you do it for
Logan?”

I nod.

“Okay, let’s get you situated, then.” He
leads me over to his patrol car, and I sit down in the
backseat.

During the ride, all I think about is Logan,
whether he’s going to make it, how we’ve come this far, and how
horrible it’ll be if he doesn’t pull through. Everything will have
been in vain. Phil is quiet, mostly. Is he thinking about Logan as
much as I am? He has to be. If I were in his place, I’d be
rehashing if there was anything I could’ve done differently.

Phil parks in front of a square, brick
building, where, directly in front of us, the police department
logo and name are proudly displayed on a rectangular sign. “Chloe,
you don’t have to do this right now, you know. You can wait, if
it’s too painful.”

I sniffle. “Doesn’t matter if I do it now or
five years from now; it’s something that’ll never leave my mind.
So, let’s get this over with.”

Phil nods his head once in understanding,
but doesn’t say anything. Irritably, I wipe the tears from my
cheeks before I exit the car, before anybody sees me as an awful
mess. I tug my shirt together and cross my arms, holding it in
place. The lobby is filled with angry drunks and battered and
bruised people, none of which pay attention to me as I pass by.

Phil takes me to an interrogation room
located in the back of the building. The room is cold, the walls
gray and uninviting. I glance up and note that Phil is watching me
like he’s afraid I’ll spontaneously combust any second now.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says once
again.

“No, I know. I want to do this. For Logan.”
This time, I manage a weak smile.

“All right,” says Phil. “I’ll just . . .” He
points toward the double-sided mirror behind him.

I nod.

Five minutes later, he returns with another
officer. “Chloe, this is Officer Rodriguez. He’s going to be asking
you questions.”

I glance up at him, wide-eyed. “What? Where
are you going?”

“To the hospital, to be with Logan.”

Of course. How stupid am I? Logan might be
dying on a table due to his gunshot wounds and here I am, playing
the role of damsel in distress. Except, this time, Logan’s not here
to climb up the lattice and rescue me. I’m on my own, as is he.

“Right. Okay.”

“Hi, Ms. Sullivan,” says Officer Rodriguez.
He sits down across from me at the table, and I wave goodbye to
Phil as he closes the door behind him.

“Hi,” I reply meekly.

Officer Rodriguez says, “Let’s start from
the beginning.”

So I do. I tell him everything: from the
first time Logan and I met, to the death of Jake, to the encounter
Logan had with Big P in town. How Phil’s reputation would have
suffered if the whole town found out a police officer had a
drug-addicted son. Above all else, I tell him what happened
tonight, because that’s what he’s most interested in. By the time
I’m finished, Officer Rodriguez looks more than a little
shocked.

“Well,” he says, “we appreciate your story.
I know it’s a lot to take in, and there are counselors I can
recommend to you, if that’s what you want.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I just want
to forget all of this ever happened.” And it’s not like I can
prosecute anyone; they’re all dead.

“Is there anything I can get for you?
Coffee? Water?”

“Can you give me a ride?” I ask. Glancing
down at my shirt, Officer Rodriguez takes the hint: I need a new
top since mine was ripped.

“Sure,” he says, gathering his paperwork and
standing up. “I’m just going to run this to my office, and then
I’ll be back.”

I step into the hallway as he disappears
around the corner. From here, I can see the lobby, where drunks and
other strange people have congregated. Some are handcuffed and
chained to long rows of chairs, others are arguing with officers at
the front desk. Are they in here for anything similar to what I
went through? I doubt it. These look like regulars; they’re too
calm about their transgressions not to be.

“All set,” Officer Rodriguez says, startling
me. I follow him out a backdoor, where his patrol car sits in a
parking lot.

Thirty minutes or so later, we pull into the
driveway of the lake house. Officer Rodriguez pulls out a couple of
cards from his front shirt pocket. “Here,” he says, handing them to
me. “One is mine, and the other is my wife’s. She’s a local
counselor. Call either of us if you need anything, all right?”

I nod and open the passenger door.
“Thanks.”

Apparently, my mom has been worried about me
and noticed the police car in the driveway, because she’s waiting
at the front door when I walk across the lawn. Her face is
contorted in anxiety, and one of her hands covers her mouth.

She holds the door open for me. “Chloe,
what’s happened? What’s going on?” One look at my shirt and her
eyes fill with horror. “What the hell happened? Are you all
right?”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes
out. Instead, I collapse into her arms and cry hysterically all
over again. She pets my hair, hugs me tightly against her tiny
frame, and gently shushes my out-of-control wailing.

When I finally regain my voice, I wipe away
tears and say, “Oh, Mom, I have so much to tell you.”

Twenty
•
Logan

T
houghts:

I hate bright lights.

If I’m vaguely sensing them, does this mean
I’ve crossed over, that I’m dead?

Opening my mouth, I rasp, “Chloe.”

Where is she?

Where is she?

Big P. Chloe. Gun.

It’s all coming back.

Holy shit.

I don’t know what’s worse:

Knowing I’m dead,
knowing
I can’t be
there for her ever again, or narrowly escaping fatality and, as an
alternative, Death trading my soul for Chloe’s.

A single tear slides down the side of my
face, and I can’t move my arms to stop it.

Twenty-one
•
Chloe

I
’ve told my mom
everything. There’s not a single detail I left out; no skeletons in
the closet. Amazingly, she doesn’t behave like I thought. Instead,
she wraps her arms around me and whispers how our predicament will
work out on its own, how Logan’s going to pull through and live.
But, most of all, she wants to meet him, even if he’s on his death
bed. For all I know, he might be gone already.

After I obtain a hot shower and a change of
clothes, Mom grabs her purse and keys, and we pile into the trusty
RAV4, traveling to the hospital. I can’t believe the events over
the past two hours. Everything’s unfolded so quickly. One minute we
were ready for the next chapter of our lives and looking forward to
Logan patching up his relationship with his family, the next we
were cornered and unable to run from Logan’s turbulent past.

I imagine Big P and his buddies lying face
down in a puddle of their blood. Do they have family and friends
who will grieve their passing? If they do, are these people aware
of their deaths yet? Visualizing the crime scene sectioned off with
yellow tape causes a shudder to surge up my spine. Never in a
million years have I thought,
Oh, yeah. I’ll definitely be a
part of a crime scene one day.
And now, here I am.

Mom pulls into a parking space at the
hospital. Logan can’t be anywhere other than ICU, so we might as
well bypass the ER. They’ll stick him in a room to recover after
the bullets are removed . . . if he survives. Thinking about him
being taken from my life causes tears to spring forth, and it takes
every bit of strength left in me to push them away. I can’t think
like that; Logan wouldn’t want me to.

“C’mon, sweetie, let’s go find him,” says
Mom.

We enter the non-emergency side, hoping
they’ll have some information, but the nurse at the front desk
doesn’t have any new info on Logan, other than he’s in surgery.

“I’ll let you know when his surgery is
complete. Why don’t you have a seat over there?” she says, pointing
toward an empty waiting area. I’m sure if this was the ER, there’d
be plenty of people to sit next to. Momentarily, I wonder if that’s
where Phil is right now, or if they have him somewhere else in the
hospital.

Hours later, the nurse at the front desk
looks up from her computer and says, “They’ve taken him into
recovery. I’ll call up there and see if he’s able to have
visitors.”

Are you kidding me? I’ve been here for hours
and she’s just now telling us we may not get to see him? I want to
concurrently strangle her flabby throat and smack the bright-pink
blush off her cheeks.

But, thank goodness, the heavens have opened
up and spread a blessing on my mom and me, because they allow us to
see Logan.

“Room 407,” says the nurse. “Fourth floor,
seven rooms down on the left as you exit the elevator.”

Now my stomach decides to tether up.
Jeez, Chloe, it’s not like the guy won’t remember you.
He’s
probably so sedated that he won’t be awake when I do show up. What
I seem to be forgetting, though, is how he’s made it through
surgery, which sounds like he’ll be okay. If he wasn’t, he’d be in
there much, much longer. Logan’s a strong man, through, and I have
utter faith in him to pull through this, just like he’s pulled
through his therapy with me.

The elevator dings and we step off, making
quick strides down the hall. Mom opens the door to Room 407.
Several nurses busy themselves around the room and pay no attention
to us. Phil is bedside with Logan, holding his hand, crying. He
doesn’t acknowledge our presence, either.

“Let’s stand outside for a minute, sweetie,”
Mom whispers in my ear. “Give him a moment.”

After five minutes or so, Phil steps into
the hallway and says, “I’m going to get some fresh air and call my
wife.” He nods at me, and glances at my mom warily.

“Phil, this is my mom, Sandra. Mom, this is
Phil, Logan’s dad,” I say, introducing them.

“Were you the one who saved Chloe?” Mom
asks.