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“I swear Garth’s all right, Mr. Four Wheels,” she said when she was next to him, standing beside the shotgun instead of in front of it. “I think he’s probably in the truck. He’s helping Doyle paint the house and do odd jobs for me. He can leave whenever he wants to.” She leaned a little closer, in spite of the alcohol fumes, seeing Shane moving closer out of the corner of her eye. “I think he likes the food.”
The old man’s eyes were bleary. “Food?”
She turned in the direction of the Defender. “Garth? You in there?”
Garth’s head came up slowly from the backseat, and he waved cautiously.
“Your grandpa’s worried about you,” Agnes called. “You want to come tell him you’re all right?” But don’t tell him about the food because I don’t want him to stay.
Garth nodded and opened the door of the truck, and Four Wheels began to put the shotgun down.
And Brenda gunned the Caddy and drove straight for them.
Agnes froze, but Shane yanked her toward the bridge, where they both fell into the cut, landing hard in the mud, Shane cushioning the fall for her as the Caddy hit Four Wheels square on, the old man screaming as the car smashed into the inlet, crushing him into the mud on the other side of the bridge.
“Don’t look,” Shane said, pulling her head to his chest, but Agnes said, “Doyle,” and she heard the handyman say from under the bridge, “Fucking bitch!” which sounded about damn right. Shane held her tight while she shook, and she said, “She killed that old man, Brenda killed that old man, why did she do that?” and he said, “She wasn’t aiming for him, Agnes,” and held her tighter while the truth sank in.
Then Brenda opened the door of her wrecked Caddy that was nose down in the cut, hanging suspended in the seat by her safety belt, and Agnes turned in time to see her say, “My God, that man almost killed our Agnes!” her blue eyes wide with innocence.
Doyle picked himself up out of the mud under the bridge and looked at Brenda with so much loathing that it was a miracle she didn’t melt from the corrosion. “Burn in hell, you miserable hag of witch,” he said, and began to climb out of the cut.
Agnes met Brenda’s eyes and saw them narrow.
“She tried to kill me?” she said to Shane, her voice a whisper. “With her car?”
“Can you make it out?” Carpenter said from above them, and Shane nodded and sat up, bringing Agnes with him.
Agnes stood up slowly, holding on to Shane as he stood, too. “She tried to kill me with her car?”
“Climb out of the ditch, babe,” Shane said, his voice telegraphing steady, steady.
“She killed that old man!” Agnes looked up the embankment, and saw Garth standing beside Carpenter, looking sheet white. “Oh, God, Garth, did you see?—”
“Weren’t no call to do that,” Garth said soberly. “He was puttin’ the gun down.”
“I know,” Agnes said, and held out her hand to him.
Garth took it and pulled her up the embankment. “Is she goin’ to jail?”
“If she doesn’t,” Agnes said, looking soberly into his eyes, “we’ll make her pay. I swear to you, we will.” Garth nodded. “All right, then.”
“Shane?” Brenda called. “Could you give me a hand, please?”
“No,” Shane said without looking at her, and followed Agnes up the embankment. He put his hand on Garth’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
Garth nodded. “Miss Agnes is gonna make her pay if the law don’t.”
“I beg your pardon!” Brenda said from her car. “But I am injured.”
“Shut your ugly mouth, you bitch-faced yap, you tried to kill our Agnes,” Doyle yelled at her as he reached the top of the bank.
“We’ll all make her pay,” Shane said to Garth.
“The team,” Garth said. “Like you said in the swamp.”
Agnes looked at Shane, who winced and then said, “Yeah. The team.”
“You are neglecting a wounded woman,” Brenda shrieked from her car, practically strangling herself on her seat belt. “God knows, there’s not one gentleman among you!”
