the back of the car palm down. He’d read once that cops do that so their fingerprints were left on the car in case the driver snatches them, or shoots them.
He could shoot him.
He could shoot the cop.
A rush of adrenaline flowed through him. The cop knocked on the window, made the universal sign for “roll it down.”
Think it through. Wait to see what the deal is. He probably just wants you to leave. If it’s just a ticket, don’t be dumb. You still have a game to win. So much money. Erase the past shitty year with one lump sum payment. And you’re so close. Don’t blow it now.
He pressed the down button for the window. The man was at an angle, nearly behind him. A cold wind whipped in his face.
“Sir? Please step out of the vehicle.”
“Why, Officer? What did I do?”
“Step out of the vehicle with your hands up.”
Oh, this wasn’t good at all. He bit his lip. He’d only have one chance at this. He glanced in the side mirror, the other man had sidled to the passenger side. His gun was drawn.
Bill’s heart sank. Troy was right, he was blown. They’d found out. They knew. God, what should he do? There were only two of them. The gun was fully loaded. He would have to be quick.
The cop wasn’t going to wait while he made his decisions.
“Get out of the car, now, sir. Show me your hands. Show me your hands right now.”
The other voice joined in, slightly lower, more demanding. They were getting twitchy. He heard the decibel level rise. He really didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want to go to jail. Maybe he could talk his way out of it. No, probably not. These guys didn’t look like they were in a talking mood.
He raised his hands up, then slowly used his left to open the door. As he started to step out, he let his right trail behind, like he was using it to boost himself. His fingers brushed the metal of the gun.
“Hands, now!”
Now was right. He whipped the gun out from below the seat and stood, aiming at the cop closest to him. He squeezed the trigger. Saw gray sky. What? He squeezed the trigger again but the shot didn’t go off. Shouting, screaming.
Oh.
He felt the pain now, a searing blaze through his chest. The gravel smelled like gasoline. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking. He smiled. He’d always liked geese. His grandfather had them on his farm, up in Northern California. Thought they were a nuisance. He’d always wondered…
Forty-Six
L incoln righted the small boy that Colleen Keck, scratch that, Emma Brighton, had dropped on the hard, cold cement in front of the CJC. Flynn was crying, so in shock at his ignominious plop that it hadn’t registered that his mother was no longer in front of him.
Lincoln patted the boy on the back a few times, then handed him off to a sheriff’s deputy walking nearby. “Take him to the Homicide offices. Now, please. I’ll be back in a minute. I have to go after his mother.”
The deputy glared at Lincoln but went ahead and took Flynn from his arms.
He ran across the street to the parking lot. He didn’t see Colleen, she’d gotten well ahead of him. He had no idea what floor she’d parked on, so he bounded down the first set of stairs and started through the rows. The concrete walls and floor, backlit by powerful beams, glowed in ghostly silence. It was still very early, so there weren’t a lot of cars. Or people. He didn’t hear any engines running.
Something felt all wrong about this. He drew his weapon, focused his senses. He could smell blood. Fresh blood.
He took three steps toward the scent. From his right, a woman rushed toward him, like a quail flushed by a bird dog. There was no extraneous noise, no shouts of warning, just the quickening of her feet on the concrete, a predator. His mind tried to process the scene: not Colleen; the woman had a knife; she was charging him with the blade extended. He stopped thinking, his training took over. His finger squeezed with the precision of years of practice on the range. Center mass, three shots.
The woman crumpled in a heap at his feet, moaning. The knife clattered to the ground. He shook his head, his ears ringing from the shots. All the sounds were tunneled, like he was underwater. Smeary voices, shouts, clanging echoes.
The shots went a bit lower than he expected, adrenaline making the tip of the Glock drop. Or maybe he hadn’t raised it all the way? He’d have to take a look at that on the range, but the truth of the matter was, he’d never fired his service weapon in the line of duty before. There was going to be a shit storm today, that was for sure. Officers didn’t usually kill patrons in the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center. He felt the sweat break out on the back of his neck.
The woman stopped moaning.
He kicked the knife out of her range and bent to feel for a pulse. Thready, weak. Without medical attention, she was certainly going to die.
He didn’t see Colleen. And he didn’t have his radio, damn it, or his cell phone. He’d rushed out so fast he hadn’t grabbed anything; they were all piled neatly on his desk.
There was an old Honda Civic two rows over, alone, in a spot directly in front of the elevators. A dark trail of oil lead from the driver’s-side door. The door itself was slightly ajar. Colleen.
Shouting now, clanging steps on the hard, cold concrete, people coming in response to his gunshots.
He circumnavigated as he ran, coming at the car from a direction he hoped would preserve any evidence. Colleen was slumped in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t oil; there was blood everywhere, deep and thick, arterial spray. He was afraid she was gone, the wound in her neck was deep. But as he watched, her chest rose fractionally. He drew as close as he could and took her hand, which was still wrapped around the steering wheel, as if she could drive away from death.
“Colleen?” he asked.
“Tommy? Is that you?”
Her voice was raspy. Lincoln reached past her and got her cell phone from the dashboard sticky pad. Flipped it open, called the desk. Made it official. Told them it was an officer involved shooting. Asked for backup, EMTs, everything they could send, Code Three.
Colleen was talking again.
“Tommy, you shouldn’t…shouldn’t have come. Flynn. We need to take care of Flynn.”
Lincoln ripped off his jacket and pressed the fabric to her throat. He shushed her.
“Don’t talk, Colleen. Just hang on for me.”
Sirens began to blare, he could hear them through the haze. People were close by but he ignored them, focused all his energy on Colleen.
Colleen shook her head, her eyes fixed on Lincoln. “Tommy. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you. You made me so happy. So safe.”
She smiled, her face suffused with a glow.
“Colleen…”
She put her finger to his mouth.
“No, no, Colleen, hold on. Flynn’s across the street, he’s waiting for you. Please, Colleen, don’t do this to me. Don’t you dare die. Help is here.”
“Tommy, I love you.”
Her eyes closed gently, and she was gone. He could feel it, the moment when her body lightened as her spirit fled. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the exact taste and shape of the moment, how the voices drew closer, how Colleen’s eyes were slitted at the bottom, as if her soul needed to be able to see its way out of her body, how the blood was soaked into the dark fabric of his jacket, the dusty scent of concrete mixed with dying blood. Lincoln
