leaving trails as they flew through the heavens. He sensed movement behind him and to his right. As he turned his head, a shoe came out of nowhere and crushed his face.
And then it was over. No more movies playing in his head. No more channels. No more money worries. No more bills.
He’d made it. He could see Betty Kim reaching out for him and pulling him into her arms. He was living the life he’d always dreamed about, the one that always seemed so far away. He was living on Easy Street now.
52
His eyes fucking opened and his body jerked its way up and out of the nosedive. He could feel himself pulling out of the death stall. He batted his eyes and looked around, grunting like an animal. He tried to think, tried to figure out what had just happened and what if anything came next.
He was alone.
Bennett’s house was dark.
He’d been left for dead.
Cobb reached for his gun in panic. It was still there, holstered to his belt. He looked for his cell phone, but it was gone. He looked again, but it was still gone. Turning his body into the streetlight, he gazed at his chest. He had heard three shots, but saw only two exit wounds. He needed help. The closest emergency room was at UCLA in Westwood. But he didn’t want Bennett to find him. He’d have to make sure the doctors talked to Gamble.
His Lincoln was parked around the corner on Highwood Street. Pulling himself to his feet, he concentrated on his balance and started down the hill. He moved slowly, crashing into bushes that seemed to jump out at him from the darkness. Something had happened to his vision. Everything seemed to be glowing. When he reached the street and a car passed, the headlights were so bright that they burned his eyes.
He pulled himself together. He was close now, just passing Bennett’s house on the right. It occurred to him that he needed to leave some kind of trail behind. Something for Gamble to follow-no matter how small-just in case. Drawing his gun, he put two 9-mm rounds in the garage door, then emptied the Sig’s mag into the living room windows until he’d shattered enough glass to light up the house and kick in the silent alarm. He glanced at his shell casings in the street, kicking them toward the curb so that they wouldn’t get run over and could be found easily.
He felt a small burst of energy after that. Reaching the corner, he saw his Lincoln in the shadows and almost tripped as he dug his keys out of his pocket. He got the door open and managed to climb in. But that burst of energy was gone now.
Cobb took a moment to catch his breath.
He thought about Bennett’s trick with the door between the house and garage, and wondered how he could have been beaten by an idiot like that. He wished that Bennett had still been washing his asshole car when he walked by with his gun. He wished that he could have greased the little prick, kicked every tooth out of his head, and hit a home run.
He switched on the interior light, eyeing the wounds in his chest and wrestling with his disbelief and terror. He needed to slow down the bleeding. Opening the glove box, he grabbed the extra napkins he’d collected after ordering fast food and twisted the paper into two tight rolls. Then he pushed them into the exit wounds hoping to plug the holes.
There was no pain. Just weakness.
And Cobb had no idea how long he’d been out. The entrance wounds he couldn’t see and couldn’t reach behind his back were probably far worse. He knew enough about blood loss and shock to see this as the last problem he would probably ever face.
He got the car moving, coasted down to Sunset and made a right. He tried to find the lane. Tried to center the car between the lines. There was a horseshoe curve ahead and it felt like a roller coaster tumbling down and around on a shaky track. Somehow he got through it by just holding onto the wheel. But he couldn’t get past the headlights shooting his way. They seemed to stick to the windshield even as the cars passed. The lights got brighter and brighter and he closed his eyes. Seconds ticked by before he forced himself to open up and look at the twisting road ahead of him.
He was losing it. He wasn’t going to make it.
And when he finally rolled down the last hill and saw the Pacific Coast Highway on the other side of his windshield, he realized that he’d made a wrong turn on Sunset. The emergency room at UCLA had probably been less than five miles east of Bennett’s house.
He started to panic. He saw storefronts. A neon sign.
L.A. DOG AND CAT.
He pulled over and groaned when he noticed that the lights were on and someone was inside. He jacked open the door and got out. His gun was in his hand-his Sig Sauer-and he didn’t know why. And his balance was off- the air was still-yet it felt like he’d walked into a stiff wind.
He reached the door. He was surprised about that. Through the glass he could see the vet doing paperwork behind the front desk.
Cobb knocked on the glass. It was a weak knock-more of a tap, really-but the vet looked up, pointing at the sign in the door and mouthing the words, “We’re closed.”
Cobb groaned like an animal again.
The vet had said it louder this time. Loud enough for Cobb to hear his voice through the glass.
He thought that he might vomit, but fought it off. He tried to get his head straight, but knew with certainty that he had no chance. He looked at the door-the wood frame and the wood panels below the glass. Then he took two steps back and charged forward, driving his shoulder into the lock.
The door burst open and the vet jumped to his feet.
Cobb raised his gun. “If you say ‘We’re closed’ one more time, I’m gonna blow your fuckin’ head off.”
The vet’s mouth dropped open. Cobb could see him staring at the napkins pushed into his chest. The blood wicking through the paper and dripping onto the floor like a couple of leaky pipes.
“I’m a police officer,” he said. “And I need your help.”
The vet tried to speak, but stumbled on his words. He looked young. Thirty-five with light features, wearing jeans and a lab coat. The tag over his pocket read DR. FRANK.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” the vet said.
Cobb shook his head back and forth, almost losing his balance. “I’ll bleed to death before it gets here. You gotta do it. You gotta help me.”
“But I’m a veterinarian,” he said. “I take care of animals.”
“I’ve been an animal most of my life, Doc. And this isn’t exactly a request.”
Cobb realized that he’d emptied the gun’s mag into Bennett’s bullshit dream house, but flicked the muzzle in the vet’s face just the same. When he saw Frank’s eyes widen slightly, he knew that it had worked. The Sig was a good-looking piece. Cobb had always admired it.
“Okay, okay,” Dr. Frank said. “Let’s go. Let’s do it.”
He grabbed Cobb’s arm and helped him into the back room. There was a stainless steel table here and the tiles on the walls were the same color blue as Gamble’s eyes. Cobb took this as a good sign, but had to admit to himself that good signs were selling cheap right now.
Dr. Frank lifted him onto the table, then slipped his hands into a pair of vinyl gloves. He pulled off Cobb’s shirt and started working on the wounds. He worked quickly, like a medic in the field, and Cobb wondered if the guy had ever served.
“You’ve gotta tell me what happened,” the vet was saying. “I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
Cobb looked up at him. He was the right age, and he didn’t look scared anymore.
“Three shots fired behind my back,” he said. “I count two exit wounds. I’m hoping one of the three missed. I lost my cell phone, Doc. If something happens to me-”
