Neeley shoved back, gathering himself. He was enraged, and as strong as an ox. Brock threw himself into the fray, adding his strength to Webb's as they both forced Neeley's arm back, pinning it to the wall, but still the man pushed back against them. Webb drove his knee upward, slamming it into Neeley's groin. A choked, guttural sound exploded from him, then he gasped soundlessly, his mouth working. He began sliding down the wall, taking them with him, and the movement wrenched his arm free of their grasp.
Webb grabbed for the gun as the three of them sprawled on the floor in a tangle. Neeley got his breath back with a high-pitched shriek of laughter, and only then did Webb realize that the shriek of the alarm had stopped, that Roanna had silenced it as quickly as she had set it off.
Neeley was scrabbling around, turning his body, still laughing in that shrill, maniacal tone that made the hair stand up on Webb's neck. He was staring at something, and laughing as he struggled, squirming on the floor, trying to bring the pistol around one more time to Roanna. She was kneeling beside Lucinda, tears running down her face as she looked from her grandmother to where Webb was struggling with Neeley, obviously torn between the two of them.
Roanna. She was a perfect target, a little isolated from everyone else because Lanette, Gloria, and Harlan had rushed to Greg and Corliss. Her nightgown was a pristine white, perfect, impossible to miss at this range.
The gray metal of the barrel inched around, despite his and Brock's best efforts to hold Neeley's arm still, to wrestle the gun away from him.
Webb roared with fury, a great rush of it that surged through his muscles, his brain, obscuring everything in a red tide. He lunged forward that extra inch, his hand clamping down on Neeley's, slowly forcing the gun back, back, until he literally broke it free as the bones in Neeley's thick fingers popped under the pressure.
He screamed, writhing on the floor, his eyes going blank with pain.
Webb staggered to his feet, still holding the gun.
"Brock," he said in a low, harsh voice.
"Move. 91 Brock scrambled away from Neeley.
Webb's face was cold, and Neeley must have read his death there. He tried to surge upward, reaching for the gun, and Webb pulled the trigger.
At almost point blank range, one shot was all he needed. The reverberation faded away, and in the distance he could hear the faint wail of sirens.
Lucinda was trying feebly to sit up. Roanna helped her, bracing the old woman with her own body. Lucinda was gasping for breath, her color absolutely gray as she pressed her hand to her chest.
"He-he was her father," she gasped desperately, reaching out to Webb, trying to make him understand.
"I couldn't-I couldn't let her h-have that baby." She choked and grimaced, pressing harder on her chest with her other hand. She collapsed back against Roanna, her body going limp and sagging to the floor.
Webb looked around at his family, at the blood and destruction and grief. Over the groans of pain, the sobs, he said in a steely voice, "This stays in the family, do you understand? I'll do the talking. Neeley was Jessie's father. He thought I killed her, and he was out for revenge. That's it, do you understand? All of you, do you understand? No one knows who really killed Jessie."
They looked back at him, the survivors, and they understood. Lucinda's terrible secret remained just that, a secret.
Three days later, Roanna sat by Lucinda's bed in the cardiac intensive care unit, holding the old lady's hand and gently stroking it as she talked to her. Her grandmother had suffered a massive heart attack, and her body was already so frail that the doctors hadn't expected her to live through the night.
Roanna had been by her bedside all that night, whispering to her, telling her of the great-grandchild that was on its way, and despite all logic and medical knowledge, Lucinda had rallied. Roanna stayed until Webb had forced her to go home and rest, but was back as soon as he would, allow it.
They all marched to Webb's orders, the family closing ranks behind him. There was so much to get through that they were all numb. They had buried Corliss the day before. Greg was in intensive care in Birmingham. The bullet had clipped his spine and the doctors expected him to have some paralysis, but they thought he would be able to walk with the aid of a cane. Only time would tell.
Lanette was like a zombie, moving silently between her daughter's funeral and her husband's hospital bed. Gloria and Harlan were in almost the same state, shocked and bewildered. Brock handled the funeral arrangements and took care of the others, his good-looking face lined with grief and fatigue, but his fianc�e was at his side the entire time, and he took comfort from her.
Roanna looked up when Webb came into the small cubicle. Lucinda's eyes brightened when she saw him, then filmed with tears. It was the first time she had been awake when he'd been to visit. She groped for his hand, and he reached out to gently take her fingers in his.
"So sorry," she whispered, gasping for breath.
"I should have ... said something. I never meant for you ... to take the blame."
"I know," he murmured.
"I was so scared," she continued, determined to get it said now after all the years of silence.
"I went to your rooms ... after you left ... try to talk some sense into her. She was ... wild. Wouldn't listen. Said she was ... going to teach you ... a lesson." The confession came hard. She had to gasp for breath between every few words, and the effort was making perspiration shine on her face, but she focused her gaze on Webb's face and refused to rest.
"She said she would ... have Harper Neeley's baby ... and pass it off ... as yours. I couldn't ... let her do it. Knew who he was ... her own father ... abomination."