slammed into the hangman, and as we fell to the ground I smashed his nose with a head butt, but the noose around my neck pulled me away from the fight and to my feet. As I tottered around, I swung the poles attached to my wrists like a drunken Edward Scissorhands.
Desperately, I tried to find a way out of my hangman’s noose, seeking out the release knob of the control device that was choking me. During my time with K-9 we had worked with control poles, but never while being choked and shaken. Even as the fog grayed my mind, I recognized that my thumb was resting on a protrusion. I pulled the knob outward, my noose loosened, and I began sucking in air.
Sirius had sensed my desperation and raced to my side. He stood in front of me, hackles raised and teeth bared, ready to attack any threat that came my way. I tried to speak, tried to tell him to attack the tattooed man, but it was all I could do to breathe.
“Call him off or I’ll shoot you.” My own gun was aimed at me.
“
Without lowering his gun, my assailant said, “We’re out of here.”
The hangman that Sirius had chewed on was slow to get to his feet. He was bleeding all over and wasn’t able to move one of his arms.
My partner and I weren’t part of the marching orders. Because I couldn’t chance speaking to Sirius, I surreptitiously signaled him. Instead of immediately obeying, he looked at me, hoping for a reprieve, but I signaled once more and this time he raced off.
The tattooed man raised his gun and tried to track my partner, but he was too late. We watched as Sirius squeezed through shrubbery and was lost to sight.
“The rat leaving the ship?” he asked, not realizing I had sent Sirius off.
“He’s watching you now in the darkness,” I whispered. “He’s waiting for his opportunity.”
The gun was directed my way. “Throw us the poles.”
I freed myself from the restraints. With each toss of a pole I took a step back and managed to put space between me and my assailants. The meditation garden wasn’t large, but I did manage about fifteen yards of separation.
From the distance came the sound of sirens. I wasn’t sure if they were coming for me, but the Klaxon calls had their desired effect. The tattooed man knew there was no time to linger. He either had to shoot me or let me get away. Even though it was dark and he had a mask on, I could still read his eyes. Bullets from a Glock travel around nine hundred feet per second. I wasn’t going to out-quick a bullet. If he was going to shoot at me, I would have to make my move before he did.
I watched his eyes and waited a long moment, and then another. And then I saw his eyes signal their intent. His mind was made up, and I knew what he was going to do.
I threw myself at the only shelter that was available: the concrete foundation upon which the statuary of Saint Dominic and Mary rested. An instant later, Saint Dominic took two bullets for me, and the plaster shattered everywhere. Dominic bought me just enough time. The call of the sirens made the shooter decide they had to leave.
“Hurry!” he called to the others.
From behind Mary’s fissured robes I watched the pack disappear into the darkness.
In the immediate aftermath of the attack, the impact of my near-death experience didn’t feel like mine but someone else’s. I felt disembodied, or at least I did until Sirius crawled up next to me and I threw my arms around him. From the ground I looked around and saw pieces of plaster all around me and made a vow to replace the statue of Saint Dominic and Mary. I took deep breaths of the suddenly sweet night air; short minutes later my brothers in blue arrived on the scene.
Cops don’t like it when one of their own is attacked, and they had lots of questions for me. My injuries saved me from having to provide too many answers. Although I tried to demur, I was given no choice but to go and seek medical help. I refused the ambulance ride, though, and instead got an officer to agree to drive me in my vehicle to the nearest emergency room.
My partner also rode with me. We were going to drop him off at an animal clinic not far from the hospital. Sirius had suffered some cuts during his skirmish. Or maybe he’d incurred the wounds another way. Some escape artists have been known to dislocate their shoulders in order to get out of a straightjacket. It was possible he’d gotten hurt making his escape from the car.
“So, how did you do it?” I asked him.
The four doors of my car had been locked, and the windows had only been opened a few inches. But like any good magician, my furry escape artist wasn’t explaining how he performed his trick.
Maybe Sirius’s rescuing me was another miracle. Of course it was possible that he’d managed to push the glass from one of the open windows out far enough for him to wiggle out. But all of that didn’t explain how Sirius had known something was wrong before we reached the monastery, and before the attack on me. Maybe my shaman was right and Sirius was my guardian spirit.
A few hours after being admitted to the hospital, I started feeling like myself again. During my stay I had been visited by Anna Nguyen, a detective assigned to my case. I told her everything I remembered about my attackers. Nguyen used her youth and good looks to draw out almost everything I knew. She was a good artist and was able to draw my attacker’s tattoos almost exactly as I remembered them. The only thing I didn’t give Nguyen was my suspicions: I had a pretty good idea who the “Prophet” was.
After Nguyen left, I was ready to take off myself. Among health workers it’s universally acknowledged that doctors make the worst patients. Cops probably rank second on the pain-in-the-ass scale. I buttonholed my doctor as he came in to check on me.
“When can I leave?” I asked.
“You’ll need to stay overnight,” Dr. Fish said. My physician’s name was matched only by his personality.
“I suppose that decision was made after you did a wallet biopsy and discovered the state of my health insurance?”
Dr. Fish decided to take a moment to point out the errors of my ways. Even with managed health care, doctors can still find the time to do that.
“When you arrived at this hospital,” he said, “you were experiencing dizziness, had lingering issues from the compression of your air passages, showed trauma to your neck, had problems with your balance, had two cracked ribs, and you told me there was a ringing in your ears. It was clear you were suffering from a mild concussion, as well as physical trauma from being beaten.”
“That was a few hours ago,” I said. “Now I’m more worried about boredom doing me in.”
Dr. Fish decided to study my charts rather than listen to me. He made a few notes on my paperwork. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he was writing DNR in big letters. After finishing with his scribbling, Fish swam off.
I punched the call button with my finger, and it wasn’t long before a nurse appeared. “I’d be grateful if you could get me some writing paper.”
The nurse, a petite Asian woman, happily nodded at my request. In heavily accented English she asked, “Do you want it for a letter?”
I shook my head and said, “Last will and testament.”
The nurse managed to keep a frozen smile as she beat a quick retreat. A short time later, paper and pen were delivered to me; maybe my condition was more serious than I thought. Nguyen might have been assigned to my case, but I had more than a passing interest in it myself. When I cleared my own books, I was going to find these three. I began making my own notes from the attack. I was halfway through my memoirs when I heard a whispered conversation out in the hallway and a familiar voice saying, “I’d appreciate it if you gave this to the detective.”
Maybe it was the hushed words that had made me take notice; maybe I became aware of what was being said just because the speaker’s voice was one I really wanted to hear.
I called out, “I would much rather that you gave it to the detective in person.”
There was a little more whispering, and then I heard a throat clearing and Lisbet Keane appeared at the doorway. Blushing red, she gave me a half-wave and then took a few halting steps into the room. She didn’t meet
