The Final Kill. Meg O'Brien
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too-sweet smell of hay filtered through the wall of the stable, along with the sweaty odor of horses in their warmed stalls. Abby’s nose began to itch, and she pressed a finger under it to keep herself from sneezing. That did nothing for the smell of manure, which was faint but enough to make her empty stomach clutch. She hadn’t eaten in twelve hours, and she was hungry suddenly, though not in a good, healthy way. Instead, she really thought she was about to vomit. Covering her mouth with both hands, she gulped back the bile that rose in her throat, telling herself over and over, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. Just don’t make a sound, not a sound.
It was Frett himself who saved her. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold it back any longer, she heard movement at the rear of the barn. She forgot all about throwing up and crouched, moving that way, listening for a direction. Then she saw him. He was crouching, too, and then running from the barn toward the little chapel, his body nothing more than a black form about fifty feet ahead of her.
She brought her gun up and pointed it at his back. “Stop!”
He twisted around, his own weapon raised. But she’d taken him by surprise, and she shot first. He went down.
Abby ran over to him, touching his leg with her foot. He didn’t move, and the splattered red blotch on his chest told her she’d hit her mark.
“Gotcha,” she said softly. “Your days of poisoning lilacs are over, Frank Frett.”
“You think so?” he taunted, grabbing her pant leg and yanking at it. She was so surprised, she lost her footing and fell, dropping her gun. Stumbling to her feet, she picked it up, but he was already running again. Reaching a live oak tree, he stood behind it for cover, and she ran in a zigzag pattern until she was close enough to shoot again.
It didn’t work, and she saw it coming before she felt it. He stepped out from behind the tree and aimed his Shocktech 2003 at her. The thrust went straight to her heart, and she went down with an enormous rush of breath and a moan.
She wasn’t faking it the way he had. The pain was sharp and stinging, and for a few seconds everything went black. Then, her vision clearing, she saw “Frank Frett” kneeling over her in the person of Ben Schaeffer, her lover, his face twisted in anger.
“Dammit all to hell, Abby! Why aren’t you wearing your protective gear? A face mask, at least! Paintballs can blind you, you know.”
3
Considering Abby’s “injury,” Ben wasn’t all that gentle as he dumped her from his shoulder onto her bed.
“If you’d worn the damned chest protector I bought for you, this never would have happened!”
“Don’t swear,” she said, laughing facedown into her pillow. “The nuns might hear.”
“I don’t give—” He checked himself and lowered his voice. “And why the hell didn’t you wear your face mask?”
“It makes me sweat,” she said.
“So you’d rather lose an eye? Turn over.”
“No.”
“Turn over!”
She pressed her belly into the sheets rather than give in.
He tugged at her shoulder. “C’mon, Abby. I want to see how bad you’re hurt. If you don’t turn over, I’ll turn you myself.”
She knew he could do it, so she rolled over, grinning. “You think that silly little paintball did me in? No way.”
“It got you square on the chest,” he argued. “For God’s sake, it almost knocked you out.”
“Don’t be so dramatic! All it did was smart and knock the wind out of me. A little. Besides, I got you first.”
“So you did. But I, at least, was wearing my chest protector,” he pointed out.
Pulling her jersey up over her chest, he swore again. His fingers carefully wiped the crimson glop from the flesh over her heart—where, despite her brilliant plan to one-up his character of “Frank Frett, the evil lilac killer,” he’d managed to get her with a big red splat of paint. The spot where the paintball had hit was badly inflamed. Ben stroked it gently. “Abby, this is final. If you don’t start wearing protective gear, I’m not—” He sighed.
“Not what?”
“Playing anymore.” The tone of his voice told her he knew the words sounded ridiculous, but his eyes were dead serious.
She pulled him down on the bed beside her and nuzzled his neck, while at the same time pressing herself seductively against him. “You’re not playing anymore? You sure about that?”
“I’m serious,” he said sternly. “This game is getting out of hand.”
She planted her lips against his ear. “And whose idea was it in the first place?” she murmured. “Who left me that scenario about some crazy gardener named Frank Frett killing off somebody’s lilacs? And where the hell did you get that scenario, anyway?”
He rubbed noses with her. “From watching you with your rose garden, of course. You almost leveled poor Sister Binny that day you caught her with a spray gun.”
She touched his lips with hers. “Only because I didn’t know she was using organic spray. And I made it up to her by letting her have all the lavender she wanted.”
“How kind of you. To be nice to a nun, of all people.”
“Not as kind as you, leaving that barn door open for me so I’d walk right into your snare, Frank Frett. I can’t believe you thought I’d fall for that.”
“Ah, but you did believe my fake death.”
“Okay, so I’m easy to fool where you’re concerned.”
Ben turned serious. “Easy to fool? What exactly does that mean?”
The way he said it made her think there was something she was missing. But she already regretted her choice of words. If there was something she was being a fool about, and lately her instincts had been telling her there was, she honestly didn’t want to know it. Not yet. Life was complicated enough, as her mother would say, without looking for dust balls under the bed.
“I didn’t mean a thing,” she said. “And by the way, don’t forget you promised to help us finish the remodel on the old friar’s chapel out back.”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Abby. Dammit, this is it. It’s the second time you’ve been hurt during one of our paintball capers, and that wasn’t what the game started out to be.”
She grinned. “I know. But don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it. It’s our best sexual fantasy. If you hadn’t knocked me off my feet tonight, just imagine what might have happened.”
“I don’t even want to think about what could have happened to you.” He frowned. “Abby, ever since—Never mind. The point is, you’re way too reckless. What if you’d lost an eye?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ben. People play paintball all the time.”
“They get hurt all the time, too. There are thousands of cases every year of people being blinded by a paint-ball—and worse.” He swore. “I never should have taken you to survivor camp with me last fall. You’ve got to let this go, Abby.”
“But you agreed I needed to get my self-confidence back. And my experience there made a great article for Action Pursuit Games.”
“An article that barely paid you anything, and you already have more money than you know what to do with.”
“Not true. There’s the little chapel, and the Women’s Center for Learning needs expanding, and the old horse barn could use a ton of work—”
He groaned.