with an overhead light bar had pulled off the Valley Parkway and crossed the bridge, heading toward the wrecked cars. I got a glimpse of the side of the car as it passed and saw the MetroParks Ranger logo on the door. MetroParks rangers weren’t naturalists or park security—they were cops. They went through the state academy just like the city police, worked assaults and drug cases and the occasional murder like any other cops, but their jurisdiction was limited to the thousands of acres of parks in the system. He’d have a gun, and a radio.
Coming out from under the bridge was a gamble, but this was the time to take it. I braced my hand against the rough edges of the stone wall that bordered the bank, then pulled my body upright. I slid my right hand under Joe’s arm and pulled him toward me, clearing him from the water and dropping him on the muddy bank.
Now I had a good vantage point to see across the river, but the gunmen were gone. A crackling, rushing noise from the trees told me someone was on the move. I squinted and peered through the rain. One of them was running away from the bridge, stumbling through the trees. I couldn’t see the other. Maybe they’d both fled.
The ranger was out of his vehicle now, trudging across the bridge toward us. His head was down, his full- brimmed hat shedding rain. Water splashed with each step he took. I looked away from him and scanned the opposite bank again, searching for the shooter who hadn’t been running away. I didn’t see him. The rain fell harder, stinging my face, rivulets of water running into my mouth as I took gasping breaths. Fighting the current and Joe’s clumsy bulk had taken a toll.
The ranger was close now, halfway across the bridge. He was searching the water and talking into a radio. By now he’d seen the wrecked cars and found them empty. But had he heard the gunfire before he’d arrived? It had been so loud, I couldn’t imagine him
Closer still he came, and now I could see that he held a gun in his right hand, down against his leg. He’d heard the shots, all right. And he was no fool, either, just brave. He hadn’t waited for backup, because he’d known someone might be in the river. Maybe close to dying.
I waited until he came to our end of the bridge before I stood up and shouted.
“Hey! We need help down here!”
I waved my hands, but even so it took him a few seconds to locate the source of the shouting. All my back muscles were tight, braced for a shot that might come from the opposite bank. When the ranger saw us, he moved forward at a jog, around the edge of the bridge and down to the stone wall that shored up the bank. I left Joe and struggled around the wall and up the muddy slope, trying to get high enough to talk to the ranger. That was when I saw the gunman who hadn’t fled through the trees.
He’d taken off his ski mask and climbed back onto the bridge. He was running up it now, closing fast. His footsteps slapped loudly off the wet concrete. The ranger turned at the sound of his approach and raised his gun.
“Stop! Put your hands in the air and get on the ground!”
The man kept coming, but he lifted one arm. Something glistened in his hand, and then I saw that it was a badge.
“Cleveland Police Department!” he shouted in response. “Relax, I’m a cop. Now stand down.”
It was Jack Padgett, and in the hand that didn’t have the badge was a gun.
The ranger lowered his weapon slightly, his shoulders relaxing.
“Don’t listen to him!” I shouted. The ranger turned his head a fraction to the left, looked at my face. “He shot my partner,” I said. “He’s going to kill us.”
The ranger’s eyes snapped back to Padgett, who was still running toward him.
“Get on the ground!” the ranger yelled. “Now!”
“Cleveland Police!” Padgett said again, still running.
“I don’t give a shit. Get . . . on . . . the . . . ground!”
Padgett kept running. The ranger’s eyes slipped back to us, took in Joe’s ashen face, my desperation. I dropped back down from the bank, knelt over Joe, and reached around for my gun. My fingers found the holster, empty. I’d lost the Glock in the river.
Padgett was ten yards away. The gun was still in his hand.
“Shoot him!” I screamed at the ranger.
“Cleveland Police!” Padgett yelled for the third time. The hand with the gun was coming up, the barrel moving toward the ranger.
I reached inside Joe’s jacket, hoping his gun was still in the shoulder holster, but even as I did it, I knew it was too late. We were dead. The ranger wouldn’t shoot a cop, and Padgett was going to kill us all.
The ranger shot Padgett.
He fired once and caught him in the thigh. Padgett’s right leg spun away from his body, and he hit the pavement in a whirling tumble, banging against one of the iron bridge supports. For a moment he stayed down. Then he rolled over onto his shoulder and lifted his gun, aiming at the ranger. The ranger fired again. Padgett dropped and stayed down.
The ranger keyed his radio microphone and shouted into it, “Shots fired on the bridge at Rocky River. Repeat, shots fired, need backup immediately, and paramedics.” Then he turned to us. He dropped to his knees and stretched out his arms. Rain cascaded off the brim of his wide hat.
“Let’s get him up here,” he said.
It wasn’t easy. A sheer wall of at least ten feet was in front of me, and I couldn’t shove Joe up to the ranger against that. Instead we had to move upstream, into the thickets and small trees that lined the riverbank. The ranger fought down through the brush until he reached me, then hooked his hands under Joe’s arms and lifted him clear, dragged him back up the hill and set him on the grass. I clambered up the bank after them, using small trees for handholds, thorns tearing at my skin. My entire body was shaking. Sirens were wailing somewhere up above the valley, playing sorrow’s anthem, this time for my partner.
The ranger left us there, walked back to the bridge, and crossed to Padgett. He knelt beside him and stayed there for a while. Then he returned to stand in front of me. His wet face was drawn and grave.
“Mister,” he said, “I hope you’re an honest man. Because I believe I just killed a police officer.”
CHAPTER 27
The hospital room was cool and dark. I sat on the tile floor with my back against the door. I’d been here for a while now. At least ten minutes had passed since I’d told the cops I needed to go to the bathroom, when all I’d really needed was to get away from them, from the lights, from the world. I’d needed to close my eyes. It was a small thing, closing your eyes. But I needed it badly.
I’d made a few random turns through corridors that smelled of pungent cleansers until I found an empty room. Joe was in the building, somewhere. I couldn’t see him, though. He was still in surgery. Eight hours of it now.
I wondered how long they could keep him in surgery. At what point did they just give up? Eight hours seemed like a lot of it. I wondered who the surgeon was, how steady his hands were, how much experience he had with gunshot wounds. I wondered if Joe was already dead.
If I’d gotten him killed.
I slid my heels back so my knees were raised, crossed my arms over my knees, and rested my forehead on my arms. Kept my eyes closed. He hadn’t wanted to get involved. Not even at the beginning. I’d gone out to his house in the middle of the night, sat in his living room, and pressured him into helping me. He’d hesitated, and not because he was worried about his own safety, or about lost money on the paying cases, or about the media attention surrounding Ed’s death. He’d hesitated because he knew that I was on a fool’s mission. Because in the end, what could I accomplish? I could alter a dead friend’s legacy. But was that enough? The answer wasn’t as resounding in my mind tonight as it had been all week.
Eight hours Joe had been on the table. They would have parts of him opened up, blood running down his skin, tubes inserted into his nose, wires fastened to his flesh, computers monitoring his life, if indeed he still had
