Ghost Hand (#Wattys2016)

Chapter 22, Unlocking the Bullet

It was strange how things seemed to happen out of order.

Marcus, who was only a few feet away from me, suddenly jerked backwards and crumpled to the ground.

The weapon in Mike Palmer's hand gave a tooth-jarring crack.

Nose let out a guttural yell, and leapt over Marcus, still charging Mike.

Mike took aim at Nose.

Yale fell to his knees beside Marcus.

I saw it all. Saw Marcus lying still and silent where he'd fallen, Yale bending over him. Saw Mike's finger pulling back on the trigger again. Saw Nose coming, relentless, fearless, running straight toward the man who was going to kill him. I saw everything that shouldn't happen. That couldn't happen. That was happening. Everything that would be my fault and destroy what little was left to me.

I saw all this in the blink of an eye, and I threw myself at Mike Palmer, clipping him in the shoulder and knocking him off balance even as his gun discharged a second time. Mike tried to right himself, to swing the gun toward me, but he was too slow. I jumped on his back, arms locked around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist; clinging to him, I covered his face with my hands so he couldn't see to shoot again.

He reached up with a meaty arm, knocking my hands away, but I clung to him with my legs.

I knew what to do.

I tugged at the edge of my glove, stripping it from my ghost hand and tossing it away. I grasped at Mike Palmer's nose, his lips, his eyebrows, wherever my ghost fingers could find purchase.

He roared and tried to shake me off, bucking and spinning in a circle like a deranged bull. I could feel his entire body spasm in fear. He was afraid now. Afraid of my PSS touching his face. So afraid that he dropped his gun and reached up with both hands, trying to pry me off.

"Don't move," Nose barked from in front of us, pointing the gun at the Fire Chief's chest.

But Mike Palmer was beyond reason. He charged backwards, ramming me into the chimney, pinning me between unrelenting brick and the hardness of his back. The air whooshed from my lungs. A cascade of cold, crumbling mortar trickled down the inside of my shirt. I was losing my grip on him.

But if I let go, he wasn't going to stop. Nose was going to have to shoot him. That was the only way we were going to get out of here, and it was all because I hadn't let go of my dad's painting. A painting that was now inexplicably gone. If only Mike Palmer had disappeared with it.

And then he did.

One second he was there, as solid as the chimney he was grinding me into, and the next he was gone.

I dropped to the ground like a stone, my butt banging painfully as I landed at the base of the chimney.

"Holy shit!" Nose said, waving the gun back and forth wildly. "Where did he go?"

I just sat, curled in a ball of pain, trying to breathe again.

Nose scrambled over to me. "What the hell did you do?" he asked, awe in his voice.

"Don't know," I managed, sitting up a little and leaning back against the chimney. Police sirens howled in the distance. Someone had called in the gunshots already.

"We have to get out of here," Nose said, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. He still had Mike's gun in his other hand. Together we stumbled away, racing back toward Yale and Marcus. Yale rose up ahead of us, falling to one knee for a minute, then regaining his balance. He had something big slung over his shoulder, and it took me a moment to realize it was Marcus.