father had taught me once a very long time ago. “Two armed men. 1611 Pine Crest. Send multiple
units and an ambulance. Suspects in the house. ”
She scrambled out of my grasp. I grabbed the cuff of her shorts and pulled her back down. “Are
you crazy? They will kill you if you go in there.”
“I don’t care if they kill me. I have to help him.” There was no way I was letting her go in there.
I put my body on top of hers, trying to keep her still, but she was thrashing and squirming so hard I
had a tough time of it despite being so much bigger than her.
“Stop moving.”
“Let me go. I told you I don’t care. Go home.”
I rested my full weight on her. I knew I was hurting her, but I’d rather she was hurt than dead. I
said the only thing I could think of to get her to stop fighting me. “Do you care if they kill me?” She
blinked her eyes rapidly, confusion spreading across her face. “Do you? Because if you go in there,
I’m going with you and we’ll both die.”
“Go home,” she cried.
“If you want to go in, then we both go. It’s your choice—we both die tonight or neither of us
does. Which is it?”
She was hyperventilating so I moved off her, but still kept my arm around her waist. “Neither,”
she choked. I moved off her, but kept my arms secured around her waist in case she tried to run again.
“We have to get to my house.”
She shook her head. I started dragging her, but she was so much stronger than I’d ever given her
credit for.
That was when we heard the shot. It wasn’t loud, just a pop really, followed by the dull thud of
something—or more likely someone—hitting the floor.
This time she did scream, and I couldn’t stop her. I picked her up, slinging her over my shoulder
like a sack of potatoes, trying to run toward the safety of the street. This was Texas and the majority
of my neighbors had guns. Even eighty-year-old Mrs Pershall had a Remington in her front closet. All
I had to do was yell and they’d all come to our rescue.
We never made it that far. As I rounded the corner, my head connected with a sharp object and I
fell with her in my arms. The crunch of footsteps on the dried leaves was the only sound my aching
head could decipher. I shook my head, trying to clear the confusion as I saw the shadows of two
looming figures above us. “Look at you, little girl grown up,” I heard one of the men say through the
ringing in my ears. Then a foot connected with my head and warm blood covered my face.
“Is this your boyfriend? See this, Eddie? Your girlfriend’s fooling around on you.”
“You killed him.” I was shocked by how calm she sounded.
They were both surrounding her. I stood up shakily and swung my arm at one of them. I was
incoherent, though, and he easily blocked my punch. A sudden, searing, sharp pain attacked my right
leg, causing me to fall back. I tried to get up again, but my body wasn’t cooperating. Sylvie let out a
blood-curdling scream. It didn’t sound fearful, though. It was strong like a battle cry.
“I won’t let you hurt him,” she was saying. I opened my eyes in time to see her clawing at one of
them. I told her to stop. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the distant sounds of police sirens. We
were safe. We would be fine. She would be fine. I fought against the pounding pain in my head and
lifted it.
Sylvie’s small frame looked almost possessed, slapping and hitting one of them while the other
one tried to push her off. The small pop and her sudden silence in mid-speech caused my heart to
stagger with such anguish that I forgot all about the bump on my head or my injured leg. The litany of
her shrieks followed by the abrupt quiet would haunt me forever. I watched helplessly as she fell to
the ground.
“No!” I screamed over and over again. “No, no, no!”
“Why did you do that? We were supposed to take her,” one of them said to the other, shoving
him.
“It’s better this way. She’s dead,” the older one said. It was a cold, clinical statement.
“No, she’s not,” the younger replied. A surge of hope sprang through me. The shorter man stared
at Sylvie then fell to his knees in front of her. I heard her whimper in pain and it brought me
momentary relief to know she wasn’t dead. He lifted her head and bent down to her, whispering in
her ear.
“Put her out of her misery,” the older one said, holding his gun out.
“Don’t do it,” I screamed, but it was the shorter man who stopped him by seizing his arm.
“We have to go.” I didn’t know who was speaking. They both turned toward me, anonymous
cloaked figures, meaning only harm… Cowardly bastards. I couldn’t see it, but I sure as hell heard
the click of the cocked pistol, followed by the short popping blasts of gunfire. The stiffness in the air
crackled and whirled, leaving a metallic aftertaste in its path as bullets propelled past me. I thought I
was dead. Maybe it would have been better if I was.
The sirens grew stronger and car doors slammed. Our assassins rushed off into the woods,
scurrying like insects. I stared at my girl, willing my body to move toward her. I couldn’t walk, but I
managed to crawl. I dug my fingers as deep as they would go into the hard-packed earth, breaking a
few nails as I clawed my way to her. The silver glint of the St Michael’s medallion acted as a beacon
against the starless sky. A dark spot clouded over her waist, spilling out like hot lava against her
white shirt. It grew exponentially as I drew nearer to her. It felt like an eternity, but I finally got close
enough to press my palm against the area.
“Sylvie, look at me.” Her face was white, but she was still breathing. It gave me hope. “Please,
open your eyes.”
She blinked them open, looking confused. “Tex?”
I breathed a sigh of relief, stroking her hair with one hand while firmly pressing her side. “Listen
to me. You’re going to be okay. Do you understand? You’ve been shot, but you’re going to make it.”
“It hurts.”
“I know, baby. I know, but you are a brave girl and you’re going to be fine.” I questioned how
my words sounded strong when I was so doubtful. The warm, sticky blood oozing from her wound
seeped through my fingers, no matter how hard I pressed. There was so much of it. I stared at her
face, so frail and haunting. An indentation marred the flesh of her cheek. Oh, my God! That bastard
had bitten her.
“I’m cold.” Her eyes fluttered. I laid my arm across her body in an effort to warm her.
“No, do not close your eyes. Listen to me. You have to fight. You have to survive. Promise me
you will.” I tilted her face toward me.
“Don’t leave.”
My own tears salted the wound on my cheek causing it to burn my skin. The blood from the gash
in my head covered my eyes as if trying to blind me from her. I couldn’t let her see me weak when I
needed her to be strong. “I promise I won’t. Don’t leave me. I need you. I love you, Sylvie Cranston. I
love you so much. You have to fight for me. Fight for us.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, closing her eyes. I knew what it meant. She was saying goodbye.
“No!”
Her eyes fluttered and finally opened. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Listen up, girl. This is not our
ending! Do you understand?” I head the crunch of footsteps. “Here,” I called out. “We’re here.”
“Cal, is that you?” Sheriff Smalley called.
“Yes. Two ran into the woods, but we’re here. She needs medical attention. She’s been shot, but
she’s okay.” I feigned a weak smile. “You’re okay, right? Just tell me you’ll be okay, baby. Say it. I
need to hear it.”
“’K-Kay,” she whispered, as her lips started chattering. I kissed them, softly.
Several officers ran into the woods. Paramedics surrounded us. They pulled me away from her.
“I can’t let go. She’ll bleed out,” I screamed.
“We have her,” one of them replied.
“She’s been shot.”
“So have you.”
Then I couldn’t see her again until we were both on stretchers. I tried to get out, but strong hands
pushed me back onto it. “I need to go with her,” I demanded when they placed me in another
ambulance.
“You can’t, Cal. There’s only one bed in each. You need to calm down and let us do our jobs.”
“No, I have to. I promised I wouldn’t leave her.” I tried getting up again, but the straps belted me
in. I turned my head toward the other stretcher where she lay. “Sylvie, listen to me. I’ll see you soon.
Stay awake. I love you. I need you. Do not die on me. Do you hear me, girl? Do you?”
I felt the pinch of a needle followed by darkness. I still heard the words of my mantra, but I
wasn’t sure if I was saying them aloud anymore.
* * * *
I woke up in the hospital room. My leg was bandaged, but it didn’t hurt. My face was free of
blood but it did hurt, especially my head, which felt like it was lodged in a vice grip. My mother was
sitting in a chair next to me. She smiled, but the telltale streak of tears and her tired face told me she’d
spent many hours crying.
“Momma?” I said, blinking my eyes open.
“Cal, oh, sweetheart. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you. I was praying so
hard.” I stared down at my leg and back up at her. She cleared her throat. “You’ve been shot in the
leg. They found several stray bullets where you were. Praise the Lord, they missed you. There’s no
paralysis. You can walk. You may not be able to run for a while, but you can walk, son.”
I was only half listening to her. My mind was recalling the events like some horrible nightmare I
wanted to forget. “Sylvie?” I asked.
“You need to worry about getting healthy now.”
“Sylvie?” I said in a louder voice. My hands were trembling.
“Cal, you need to calm down.” She tousled my hair and practically begged me with her eyes not
to ask again.
“Sylvie?” I screamed.
My mother shook her head. “She didn’t make it. I’m sorry, son. She lost too much blood.”
“No!”
“Cal, you have to be calm.”
I sat up, but it felt like my brain fell apart with the movement. I tried to shift my legs off the bed.
“She’s alive. She promised me. Where is she? I need to see her.”
“You can’t,” my mother said.
Two nurses came in. My father had taught me long ago that hitting a woman was at the top of the
deadly sins list, so I tried to punch the male nurse, but I couldn’t even manage to connect my fist. They
laid me back on the bed as if I was a child, fastening cuffs to my wrists. “I know she’s fine. She
wouldn’t leave me.”
“Cal, I’m so sorry,” my mother said. The pinch of a needle pricked my arm and drowsiness set
in.
“Momma, I love her,” I croaked, trying to fight against closing my eyes, but it was too strong for
me. The darkness was coming for me, claiming me for membership.
“I know you did, son.”
* * * *
I spent several days at the hospital like that. I kept insisting she was alive. They kept telling me
she was dead until I became so hysterical they shot me up with another needle.
The police and even the FBI came to talk to me. They asked me a million questions. I couldn’t
tell them much. When it came time for my questions, they refused to answer. I begged so much that
they gave me another damn shot to put me out.
It was when the third psychologist came in to analyze me that I realized my leg was healed, but
they wouldn’t let me go home until I admitted she was dead. That was what I did. After all, I couldn’t
very well start my search for her laid up in the hospital.
Sylvie and her father were cremated. Of course they were. There was no evidence of her death,
no body to view. There was no funeral either. They had no family in Prairie Marsh, and apparently no
family to speak of, except Uncle Joe. My mother said it wasn’t right and insisted on having a
memorial for them at our house. I think she did it as much for me as for Sylvie. She wanted me to have
some kind of closure, but it provided no relief. How could you bury a girl who wasn’t dead?
I hobbled around with a cane like an old man. The physical therapy helped, but I still limped.
My football career was over before it had ever started. People said that was part of the reason I was
acting so crazy. They were fools. I didn’t even care about that.
I preferred to sit in silence. Everyone greeted me with wincing faces or blatant pity. I didn’t
want any of it. What I really wanted was to run into the woods and scream. Instead, I sat in the living
room with my arms crossed, glaring when mourners went on about what a wonderful girl she’d been.
How tragic her death was. What a bunch of hypocrites. They’d never even known her, choosing to
spread malicious gossip instead of embracing the smart, sweet, funny girl I’d grown to love.
Wendy Watson came over and put her arm around me. “I think you need a friend right now.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” I said. She did.
I spotted Sheriff Smalley and limped my way over to him.
“Hi, Cal, how are you?” he asked cautiously.
“Don’t you have a duty to find the truth? Don’t you care that there’s a cover-up in our town?”
“I told you, son. It’s not our investigation.”
“I am not your son,” I spat.