Scattered Graves

with.’’

    Diane had the coffeepot filled right hand. It had weight to it. One good hit and she with water in her could knock the gun from his hand just as she had with the rock and Harve Delamore’s gun.
    ‘‘Don’t go thinking about trying anything with that pot,’’ said Shipman. ‘‘You’d just make me mad.’’ He laughed and for a moment Diane wondered how she telegraphed her intentions.
    ‘‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’’ she said. ‘‘If we all stay calm, we can all get what we want.’’
‘‘What we want. You know what I’m wanting right now?’’ Shipman caressed her cheek with the knuckle of his index finger.
Diane handed the pot to Mrs. Wilson, who slipped a knife in her hand at the same time. It startled Diane, and she almost jumped. It was small and it was for peeling potatoes—not one that would cut. She wasn’t sure what help it would be, but it was obviously the only one that Mrs. Wilson could get her hands on. Diane held the knife to her side, trying to come up with a plan.
‘‘Mrs. Wilson,’’ said Shipman, ‘‘would you like to watch as I bend Diane here over your kitchen table?’’
Mrs. Wilson sucked in her breath. ‘‘Don’t do that. Why would you do that?’’
‘‘To fucking get even!’’ he shouted and slapped Diane at the same time.
Diane hadn’t seen it coming. She fell to the floor, hitting her elbow. Electric pain coursed through her arm where the hard surface of the floor hit a nerve bundle. She bit her lip to keep from yelling out and causing Frank to take some action before he was ready. She heard Mrs. Wilson suck in her breath and let out a whimper. Diane held on to the knife as Shipman reached down and jerked her up by her other arm.
‘‘Mrs. Wilson,’’ said Shipman, ‘‘while the coffee’s making you can go sit by your husband. Diane and I want to be alone.’’
‘‘Don’t do this, young man,’’ said Mrs. Wilson.
‘‘You want to be next? Fucking do what I tell you,’’ he said through his clenched teeth.
‘‘It’s all right, Mrs. Wilson,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Why don’t you go back in with the others?’’
‘‘See, she wants it too,’’ said Shipman grinning.
Diane watched Mrs. Wilson slowly walk out of the kitchen. She was softly crying.
‘‘Now, bitch . . .’’ Shipman laid the barrel of his gun beside her head. ‘‘Bend over.’’

Chapter 51
    ‘‘No,’’ said Diane. She stood up straight and looked him in the eyes. ‘‘That isn’t going to happen.’’
    ‘‘It isn’t, huh?’’ He put the barrel of the gun to her temple. ‘‘You rather I blow your brains out instead?’’ He put his face close to her ear, still gripping her arm tight with his right hand. ‘‘That might just be more fun—watching your brains splatter all over the old lady’s refrigerator.’’
    He laughed and Diane smelled the odor of alcohol. ‘‘Except it would be over too fast,’’ he said. ‘‘One squeeze . . .’’ He pushed the gun until the end of the barrel hurt against her skin. ‘‘Bang, it’s all over.’’
    ‘‘Instead of bang, bang, and it’s all over?’’ said Diane.
She wanted to make him mad, make him let go of her even if it was to hit her. She needed an opening. She needed him to be distracted—just for a second.
It took him a moment to understand he had been insulted. He just looked at her, processing her words in his alcohol-fogged brain.
Suddenly he got it. His face twisted in anger.
‘‘Is that what you think? You damn fucking bitch.’’
He glared at her and lay the gun down on the counter, and in one angry move pulled his arm back, his hand balled into a powerful fist.
It was now or never.
Diane rammed the knife with all her strength into the hollow of Shipman’s throat just above the sternum. He would have yelled, but she had pierced his trachea and cut off the air flow to his larynx.
In sudden panic he grabbed at his throat and pulled at the knife. The dull serrated edges made it stick fast. Diane grabbed the gun as he struggled to breathe and hit him across the temple. He went down like a fallen tree.
She was almost to the living room when she saw headlights reflect against the wall. Caleb was home.
‘‘Gage, here he comes. Get in here,’’ yelled Crab tree.
Diane quickly and quietly retraced her steps and headed for the kitchen door. Her hand was on the knob when the loud report of two shots filled the house.
‘‘No, please,’’ she whispered.
She ran to the