Drop the gun, Pam. Pam, please. Just drop the gun.
“But I called you,” Pam insists, still waving the gun around. “She’s the one who threatened me!”
The next thing I know, another shot’s been fired. I have no idea whose gun it’s come from, or whether or not it strikes home, because I’ve hit the floor, clutching Garfield to me and curling into as small a ball as I possibly can, with the thought of trying to make myself into the tiniest target possible. The cat, for his part, has stopped trying to bite me, and is now clinging to me as tightly as I’m clinging to him. If his ears are ringing anywhere near as loud as mine are, I figure he has as little idea what’s going on as I do.
All I know is, it’s just me and Garfield, all alone in this world. Just me and him. All we have is each other. I’m never letting go of him. And I’m pretty sure he’s never letting go of me.
It isn’t until someone lays a hand on my shoulder and shouts, “Miss! It’s all right to get up now!” (apparently, he had to shout in order for me to hear him, since my hearing was so blown on account of the gunfire) that I uncurl myself and look around to see that Pam’s gun has been wrestled away from her—primarily because some excellent marksman has shot it out from her fingers. She’s cradling her now useless and bloody fingers in her uninjured hand, and blubbering out a confession to my old friend, Detective Canavan, who looks at me tiredly above the semi-hysterical woman’s head.
Wedding china?he mouths.
I am in so much shock, I can’t even shrug. The truth is, I don’t get it, either. But then again, there’s a lot I don’t seem to get. Like why, even though the police officers and EMTs keep offering to take Garfield from me, I still can’t let him go. In my defense,he won’t let go of me, either. It’s like we’re the only two stable beings in a world turned suddenly topsy-turvy.
I’m still holding on to him—and he to me—half an hour later when Detective Canavan finally escorts me into the elevator and then out into the lobby. Flashing red lights from all the cop cars parked outside Owen’s building reflect against the marble and brass—but that isn’t the only difference between now and when I’d gone upstairs a few hours earlier. Something else has changed as well. It takes me a minute to register what it is, and that’s because my hearing still hasn’t quite recovered from the gunfire.
Then it hits me.
There’s screaming from the park.
Not chanting. Not cheering.Screaming.
I freeze with Detective Canavan’s hand on my back just as he’s about to escort me outside. My statement done—I’d given it upstairs—he’d been about to walk me home.
But now I’m reluctant to step out the door. Not into that. No way.
“It’s okay, Heather,” he says encouragingly. “It’s just those kids who were rallying earlier. They’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating,” I echo. “Celebrating what?”
“The president’s office apparently sent over a memo a little while ago. They settled their differences.”
I blink. “They… settled?”
“That’s right,” Detective Canavan says. “The kids won. The president’s office conceded on all points. Decided he’d had enough bad press lately. Either that, or he didn’t like having a big rat sitting outside his office door. He’s never been over to the West Side, obviously.”
I blink with astonishment. “President Allington settled? The GSC won?”
“That’s what I hear,” Detective Canavan says. “We’ve got the whole precinct on hats and bats, dealing with crowd control. We expect ’em to start tipping cars over any minute. Helluva night you picked to get shot at. Ah, there’s the boyfriend. Right on time.”
And with that, Detective Canavan steers me out the door…
… and into the waiting arms of Cooper Cartwright.
22
There’s no matching
My face’s shade of red
The truth is out:
Without you, I’m dead.
“Seeing Red”
Written by Heather Wells
“So,” Cooper says, as the two of us sit in his kitchen, looking at Owen’s cat as he washes himself on the mat beneath the sink, pointedly ignoring Lucy, who is regarding him worriedly from beneath the kitchen table. “We have a cat now.”
“We don’t have to keep him,” I say. “I can see if Tom wants him. He seems like the kind of cat Tom and Steve would like.”
“Ornery?” Cooper asks. “Mean?”
“Exactly,” I say. It’s nice of Cooper not to comment on the fact that I’ve already made him go to CVS to buy a cat box, litter, and canned food. I’d even spent ten minutes in Owen’s apartment before agreeing to leave hunting for Garfield’s pills, which Pam had packed away in her overnight bag. It turned out, of course, she’d intended to take the cat with her when she’d made her getaway.
The china wasn’t the only thing she’d loved that Owen had gotten in the divorce settlement, it turned out.
“Let’s see how it goes,” Cooper says. “Though I really don’t think I can live with a cat called Garfield.”
“I know,” I say miserably. “It’s kind of like having a dog named Fido or Spot, right? But what could we call him instead?”
“I’m not sure,” Cooper says. “Pol Pot? Idi Amin?”
We’re sitting at the kitchen table with glasses of scotch on the rocks in front of us. Considering what we’ve each been through, it seemed the only logical way to end the evening.
“I guess the real question is, how long is he staying,” Cooper goes on. “I don’t want to give him a name and get all attached to him—assuming one could get attached to something like him—just to have him ripped away right when I’m starting to like having him around.”
“I’ll talk to Tom in the morning,” I say. I’m really tired. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long week.
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Cooper says.
Something in his tone causes me to look up. In the glow from the overhead kitchen light, I notice that Cooper looks a lot better than I feel… and he’s been thrown down a flight of stairs, whereas I’ve just been shot at.
It’s not fair. How come guys can go through so much more than us girls and come out looking better for it?
“Did I tell you what the EMTs said, back at the sports center?” he asks, almost as if he’d been reading my mind.
“No,” I say.
“My blood pressure’s a hundred and sixty-five over ninety-four,” he says.
“Well,” I say, taking a restorative sip of my scotch. I have to. Looking into his eyes has caused my pulse to skitter unsteadily. It’s not fair. “You did suffer a debilitating fall.”
“I’m supposed to consult with my primary physician,” Cooper says. “High blood pressure runs in my family, you know.”
I nod. “You can never be too careful. Hypertension is the silent killer.”
“You know what this means, though. No more Chips Ahoy! Nutella and Macadamia Brittle sandwiches for me.”
