Into the Deep - Young Samantha - Страница 38
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I whimpered, every part of me desperate to stop him but knowing anything I did might make it worse.
Jake slid back on the balls of his feet, dodging the cut, and then he moved too fast for a drunk Brett to compute. He tripped to the side away from Jake, shaking his head, and I watched the muscles bunch in his shoulders with anger as he stupidly and devoid of coordination swung around and ran at Jake. Jake sidestepped him again, making sure he was moving away from Damien and Brett’s other idiots.
Brett couldn’t slow his momentum.
He fell over his own feet, crashing awkwardly onto the patio floor, face planting against it.
Everyone was silent as we waited tensely for his next move.
But he didn’t move. Instead he elicited this strange, muffled whine.
I knew the moment we all realized something was wrong. I felt the shift in the air, the breathless waiting.
“Brett,” Damien said, laughing hollowly, “come on, man, get up.” He strode over to him and bent down, gently pushing Brett over.
People cried out behind me and I heard the guys cursing. Brett stared up at Damien, fear in his eyes, and then he dropped his gaze to the knife lodged in his ribs. “Get it out, man,” he cried hoarsely, tears in his voice, his trembling hands reaching for the blade.
“No!” I shouted, rushing toward him. “Don’t let him pull it ou—”
But it was too late.
Brett yanked out the blade and blood soaked his shirt.
I fell to my knees beside him, ripping off my light jacket and bundling it into a ball I pressed against his wound. He gave a pained grunt but I held it there, keeping pressure on it. Shaking, I shot a command at a pale, trembling Damien. “Call 911!”
He didn’t move, frozen with shock.
I glanced back over my shoulder at Alex who stared down at his friend in horrified disbelief. My eyes flicked to Jake whose hands were in his hair, desolation written all over him. “Jake, call 911!”
He looked like he wanted to puke but he pulled himself together enough to take out his cell.
“Char …”
I turned back to look down at Brett, his terrified eyes on mine, tears sliding down his cheeks. Swallowing hard, I forced my voice to stay calm. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”
Warmth touched my fingertips and my attention fell on my jacket. The blood was soaking through it, the bitter tang of copper making me breathless. His body began to shudder hard beneath my touch and he coughed, little flecks of blood spraying out from between his lips.
“No,” I whispered, panicked adrenaline tightening my chest. Not only was he going into shock but I had the dire suspicion that he’d punctured a lung. “Guys, he’s going into shock.” Looking up at his friends I told them fiercely, “We can’t let him. We need to keep him warm. We need blankets. Give me your jackets now.”
His friends fumbled with their clothes as Jake murmured that the ambulance was on its way.
I heard Alex tell me he’d find blankets. I heard crying and gasps and questions and fear and horror settle in behind me. I ignored it, bowing my head toward Brett, feeling helpless as he shuddered and choked, his eyes begging for help.
The guys tucked their jackets around Brett and Jackson pulled off his T-shirt and handed it to me. I balled it up and quickly replaced my soaked jacket.
Although it tore me up inside to meet Brett’s gaze, I had to. He pleaded with me. Pleaded.
“We’ll get you taken care of Brett. Okay, we’ll get you fixed up.” On my peripheral I saw Damien tuck his jacket around Brett’s sides. “Yeah,” I whispered numbly. “Keep him warm.”
Suddenly Brett’s choked sounds drew quieter to a wheeze. Then to a stutter.
“No,” I shook my head, applying more pressure, “Brett, stay with me. The ambulance is almost here, buddy.”
His eyes were wide as they stared into mine and I knew that no matter what I said, he just couldn’t hold on. The shuddering faltered …
His body relaxed.
His breath … stopped.
The panic was gone from his eyes.
In its place was nothing.
“I’ve got the blankets!” Alex shouted, his footsteps smacking against the wood as he hurried toward us.
I fell back on my heels, my blood-soaked hands unsteady. I felt like I was in a nightmare. The darkness pressed down on me as I turned to look up at Alex.
His mouth fell open at my expression, his eyes darting to his friend, before coming back to me, questioning me through a shimmer of tears.
I shook my head, the tears blurring my vision. “He’s gone.”
“Will you tell him I’m asking for him?”
Mrs. C. nodded at me, her expression sympathetic. “I will, Charley.”
Feeling as though I was wading through water thick with mud, I walked back to my car. For a moment I stared up at the Caplin house, hoping that the front door would open and Jake would come out before I pulled away.
The engine of the car purred to life.
No Jake.
My reverse lights came on.
Still no Jake.
The car backed up onto the street.
Not even a twitch of a curtain.
Feeling sick, I pulled away, noting the police car sitting just around the corner. Was that for the Caplins? Worry bit at me the entire drive home, and when I eventually pulled my mom’s car into the drive, I couldn’t remember how I got there.
Two nights ago, on an ordinary Friday night, at an ordinary high school party, Brett Thomas lost his life. My classmate. A sixteen-year-old kid. He bled out under my hands from a self-inflicted knife wound that punctured his lung. He might have survived long enough for the ambulance to make it if his body hadn’t gone into shock.
I wanted to blame someone. I wanted to blame Brett for being a complete moron, or his dad for raising a complete moron and then encouraging him to be the king of morons. But there was too much blame already flying around, and since my boyfriend was a target of that blame, I was kind of sick of the whole verb.
The wee hours of Saturday morning were a blur. We all existed in a fog of unreality as those of us who witnessed the attack were taken to the police station. To my surprise, Amanda Reyes had been there to witness it all. I hadn’t even noticed her. Thank God she was, though. She was one of only a handful of extremely credible witnesses since there were only a handful of sober kids at that party. Good thing too she was on Jake’s side.
Damien and Jackson heaped all fault on Jake, maintaining that Jake hit Brett and he went down on the knife. Alex, Amanda, the seniors, and I told the truth, and when Sheriff Muir asked Damien and Jackson to repeat their witness accounts, they admitted that in the end, Brett tripped over his feet. Still, they irrationally maintained that Jake was responsible.
Jake was detained longer than any of us, but from our witness accounts and those of the students on the porch, along with the results of Brett’s blood alcohol level, word reached me on Sunday that Sheriff Muir wasn’t pressing charges, and that the case was more than likely going to be closed as an accidental death.
Trenton Thomas had been loaded ever since Saturday, telling anyone who would listen that it was all the Caplins’ fault. It didn’t help that Trenton’s own brother-in-law advised the likelihood of prosecution was minimal because of the lack of evidence against Jake. Now that Muir was near to closing the case and no one had been arrested (i.e., Jake), I knew the sheriff and his deputies were on alert for Trenton’s reaction. That’s why they had a car outside Jake’s home.
I looked down at my hands on the steering wheel and an image of them bloody flashed before me. Clenching them around the wheel, I drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
My dad was waiting for me as soon as I walked inside. “How is he?” he asked, his face pinched with concern.
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