First Grave – Deleted Scene 2 (The End)

Originally, the story was going to continue in book two from this point, but I wanted a happier and much less cliff-hangery ending. Oddly enough, so did my agent.

SET UP: Charley is preparing to rush off to Santa Fe to make sure the injunction against the state to take Reyes off life support went through.

* * *

After dressing in a dark sweater and jeans and brushing my hair into a ponytail, I rushed to the office where I had all the numbers on the case listed on an array of colorful sticky notes. I tried Neil Gossett at the prison, but he was out. I tried the Guardian Long-Term Care facility, but the receptionist said she couldn’t give out patient information over the phone. I tried Uncle Bob, but he was in court. I tried the judge’s clerk where I’d filed the injunction, but she said the request had gone to the courthouse in Santa Fe.

Left with no other choice, I decided to drive there myself. Panic was setting in. What if the injunction didn’t go through? What if the judge in Santa Fe turned down the request?

Crossing the lot toward Misery, I realized I’d left my keys in the apartment. Cookie met me on the stairs and I told her where I was headed. She mumbled something about needing a raise, but I hurried past her and rushed into my apartment.

I came to a skidding halt when I saw Reyes. He stood gazing out of the window like before. Normally, I knew instantly when a person in my presence had passed, but Reyes was different. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or not. His coloring seemed the same, rich and vibrant. Had they taken him off life support? If I touched him, would he be hot or cold? Even if his physical body died, I had no idea if he would still be Reyes or if he would be like any other departed, frosty and a tad monochromatic.

He didn’t turn when I’d come through the door. I closed it softly and walked toward him. The closer I got the more real he seemed. He was wearing a denim shirt I’d never seen before with work jeans and boots. The rhythm of his breathing was steady, controlled. Then I realized he was paler than usual and my heart dropped into my stomach. Could he really be dead?

With my next step, I began to suspect something else was wrong. He had a fine sheen of perspiration covering the nape of his neck. As I rounded the sofa and stepped even closer, I saw blood soaking the front of his shirt and dripping down his pant leg. Then my eyes zeroed in on one of his hands, on the mammoth hunting knife in that hand, and I stopped in my tracks. Unable to take my eyes off the knife, I saw him turn toward me through my periphery. I ran.

Charging for the front door, I’d barely taken three steps when he was on me. He tackled me into the wall, and before I could even react, the knife was at my throat. I stilled. An amazing calmness enveloped me, giving me the ability to think with absolute clarity. Was this really what it came down to? Was this really the end?

He had one arm wrapped around my throat, locking my back against his chest, and the other holding the knife. I knew plenty of defensive maneuvers created specifically for this type of situation, but I also knew how strong and unimaginably fast Reyes was. Then again, he was human now. He was real and solid and not in a hospital bed an hour away. Had he escaped? Is that how he got wounded?

He held me a moment to make sure I wouldn’t try to bolt, then said, “I’m sorry to have to do this.”

I flinched and felt the razor-sharp edge break through the skin, the sting of the invading metal. Wow. This was going to suck. Reyes had said earlier that I could escape him if I knew what I was capable of. I obviously didn’t, because I could not imagine how to get out of this scrape. I bucked against his chest but his grip held firm.

“Stop fighting me,” he said, his voice strained.

“Stop cutting my throat,” I countered through gritted teeth.

“I’m not. You are. If you would just be still.”

“You’re the one with the knife.”

He growled, spun me to face him then clamped a hand around my throat, bracing me against the wall, the knife still perilously close to my jugular.

“We have to go,” he said, almost doubling over with the pain. I fought my natural instincts to reach for him, to offer support. I was done helping people. The world could go to hell for all I cared.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, vehemence sharpening my voice. “We are so over.”

With a disturbingly wicked grin, he leaned in until our faces were mere inches apart, until our breaths mingled on the thick, tense air, and asked, “Why do you think I brought the knife?”

Anger took hold, shook me into awareness. “You’re going to force me? Why?”

His eyes locked onto mine, the deep mahogany even more brilliant than before, the greens and golds sparkling through a veil laced with pain. Then he lowered his lashes and whispered, “Because they’ve found you.”