Gauthier’s left arm a millisecond before he heard the crack of the shot. Expecting a second shot, he pushed Sophie down onto the seat and started the Bird’s engine. He slammed the gear lever into first, spun the wheel hard left, and floored the accelerator, making the Bird’s ancient innards howl with pain. It occurred to him Sophie was alive only because she’d leaned to the right to flick a cigarette out the window just as the shooter pulled the trigger. Chain-smoking, for once, saved a life.
McCabe pushed the big Ford V8 for all it was worth, and the Bird shot forward. On a straightaway, nothing less than a Corvette was likely to catch them. On a winding road in the dark, escape was less certain. In the rearview, McCabe saw headlights flick on several hundred yards behind, then start moving fast in their direction. The shooter was following. He must’ve seen that he missed and wanted to finish the kill. Still, it’d been a hell of a shot, even with a night-vision scope. McCabe glanced at Sophie. The bullet had struck an artery, and blood was spurting out of her upper arm in a pulsing arc.
Without saying a word, Sophie pressed her right thumb against a pressure point above the wound. The blood that had been coming out in spurts now flowed more slowly, but not slowly enough. She was lying down on the seat. She’d slipped her head onto his lap. She held her arm across her body. She was shivering, probably with shock, perhaps with cold. He leaned over and switched on the heater. He needed to get her to a hospital. He could drive her there. The bullet had punched a hole in the windshield and there was some spidering of the glass, but he could see through it well enough. The problem was that if he was driving he couldn’t apply pressure to the wound, and she’d soon be too weak to do it herself. If he couldn’t help, she’d bleed to death.
Option two was to lose the shooter, pull over, and call for help. He had no way to communicate from the Bird other than his cell. Steering with one hand, he punched in 911 with the other. ‘Officer needs backup. This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD. I’m being chased and shot at by a sniper with wheels,’ he shouted. ‘I need an ambulance. I have a wounded civilian in my car. Gunshot wound. Arterial bleeding.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Taylorville Road heading toward Bucks Mill. Meet me there. I’m going to try to lose the bad guy.’
For the moment at least, they were on their own. ‘Try to focus,’ he said. ‘I figure our friend’s about twenty seconds behind us, maybe less. If I can lose him, I’ll be able to help you. In a minute I’ll be turning fast into a side road. I’m killing the lights before we turn. We’ll be moving fast, so brace yourself as best you can. When we make the turn, I’ll pull up on the shoulder to the left. I’ll get out of the car. When I do, stay low. Keep applying pressure to the wound. I’ll help as soon as I can. Do you understand what we’re doing?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was a guttural whisper. She looked pale. Precious seconds passed. The turn was coming up fast. There were some trees that would provide cover. He glanced in the rearview. The shooter was still following, maybe two hundred yards behind. ‘We’re turning now,’ he said.
McCabe killed the lights, braked, downshifted, and turned hard, almost blind, to the left. The Bird skidded into a ninety-degree-plus turn. McCabe adjusted, hit the accelerator, narrowly missed a tree to his left, and shot forward onto the side road. He pulled onto the left shoulder and killed the engine.
As he jumped from the Bird, he saw the blackened silhouette of an SUV roar past the turnoff. The car’s lights disappeared for a moment. If they kept going, McCabe could help Sophie. If not, he had to be ready for the worst. He opened the Bird’s trunk and pulled out the Mossberg. Through the trees he saw the lights of the SUV stopping and then reversing. The shooter was coming back. Sophie was losing strength, blood oozing out. The SUV backed past the crossroads, turned left, and surged forward.
McCabe shouldered the powerful Mossberg and stepped onto the road. The SUV’s headlights were closing fast, aiming right for him. He pumped and fired, pumped and fired again. Four shots filled with 12-gauge buckshot slammed straight into the SUV’s front end, splintering the windshield, shredding both front tires and shattering the headlights. He leapt out of the way. The crippled SUV swerved first left, then right, finally crashing head-on into a big maple on the opposite side of the road. The air bag deployed. Coolant poured from a hundred holes in its radiator.
McCabe rushed the vehicle. ‘Out. No weapon. Now.’
It was the far side door that burst open. Using the vehicle and the tree to shield him, a man leapt from the passenger side. He was clutching a scoped rifle. He vaulted a low stone wall and ran into the field. Holding his rifle high, he followed a zigzag pattern. Even in the dark, from the rear McCabe could tell it wasn’t Philip Spencer. This man was a couple of inches shorter, with a shaved head and weight lifter’s shoulders. He was moving fast. By the time McCabe could reach the wall and aim, the man was beyond the fifty or so yards that marked the effective range of the Mossberg. McCabe fired off a couple of rounds anyway. The man ignored them and kept running, disappearing into the darkness.
McCabe rushed back to the Bird, laid the Mossberg on the ground by the driver’s door, and climbed in. Raising Sophie’s head, he slipped under it and lowered it into his lap. He pushed the fingers of his right hand against her inner arm above the wound, replacing her fingers, allowing her other arm to rest, applying direct pressure, compressing the brachial artery against the humerus. This effectively stopped the bleeding. Sophie was conscious but pale even in the faint light of a moon-filled night. Her skin felt cool and clammy. He hit redial on his cell and told them to hurry.
Following the sniper across the field wasn’t an option. Armed with a shotgun and a pistol, he’d be up against a skilled shooter with a sniper rifle and night-vision scope. More important, Sophie would bleed to death. All he could do was wait for help and hope the shooter didn’t double back to finish them off.
McCabe leaned down and slipped his. 45 out of the seat holster. He laid it on Sophie’s chest, where he could reach it in a hurry. He flicked off the safety. Not that it would do them any good. It just made him feel better.
Sophie was still shivering. Without releasing pressure to the wound, he managed to slip off his light summer jacket and drape it over her. They sat there like that for a while covered in drying blood, Sophie drifting in and out of consciousness. He remembered reading it was important to keep a wound victim conscious. So he started singing an old bar song loudly, over and over, his unmusical voice booming out into the night: She’s got freckles on her butt, She is nice, she is nice. And when she’s in my arms, it’s paradise. All the sailors give her chase ’Cause they love her naval base. She’s got freckles on her butt, She is nice.
He sang the words over and over. All the while his mind was on the sniper. A shaved head with broad shoulders. Was he doubling back to finish his night’s work? McCabe imagined himself lit in the green of the man’s night-vison scope, crosshairs steady on his skinny Irish face, an easy target, even distorted by the fractured windshield. He imagined the man squeezing the trigger. The bullet traversing the distance between them. His head exploding. McCabe scrunched down lower and rolled up the driver’s side window.
The rational side of his brain knew the man was more likely running away. He’d have to know his bullet hadn’t killed Sophie immediately. Have to know McCabe would call for help. He probably saw Sophie move as he fired, and saw the bullet strike her arm, not her head. Yet he couldn’t know how badly hurt she was. She might have died from loss of blood. Or he might have simply nicked her and she was lying low to stay out of sight. McCabe kept singing. She’s got freckles on her butt, She is nice.
He heard sirens. First in the distance, then closing fast. Less than a minute later, two state police cars and an ambulance screamed onto the quiet road. The ambulance and one of the cars pulled up next to the Bird. A young trooper sporting a Marine Corps-style buzz cut swaggered over, picked up the Mossberg, and signaled McCabe to roll down the window. He did.
An EMT pushed past the trooper and opened the door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’
‘I’m fine. She’s shot in the upper arm. Arterial bleeding. A lot of it.’
‘If you can slip out of the car without letting go of her arm, I’ll lean in and we’ll trade places.’
McCabe did as he was told. The EMT slid by McCabe in the opposite direction, reaching into the car until his hands could join McCabe’s on the wound. McCabe slipped out. The EMT and his partner slid Sophie onto a stretcher and hurried her toward the ambulance.
McCabe turned. The trooper had his service weapon out and pointed at McCabe. ‘All right, sir. Please turn around slowly and place both hands on the car.’
McCabe did as he was told. ‘I’m a cop,’ he said to the trooper. ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’
Pause. ‘Where’s your shield and ID?’
‘Back pocket. Left.’
McCabe felt the trooper’s hand enter his pocket and extract the wallet. The man opened it and looked it over.
