The kneeling man was Sommer. I couldn’t tell who the injured man was, but Sommer was searching through his pockets for something.
I threw the transmission into park and opened the door.
Rona Wedmore was looking my way and the moment my feet touched the pavement she shouted, “No! Get back!”
“What’s happened?” I said, still shielded by the truck door.
I had a better look now at Wedmore, standing under the porch light of the Morton house, and could see red oozing between the fingers of the hand she was pressing to her shoulder. She leaned up against a post, briefly, then started coming down the steps, taking her hand from her wound to use the railing.
I could hear a chorus of sirens.
Wedmore, now at the bottom of the steps, waved her weapon in the direction of Sommer and shouted at me. “Get out of here! He’s got a gun!”
At that moment, Sommer raised his and pointed it at Wedmore. I barely heard the shot, but the wooden railing she’d been holding a second earlier splintered.
Sommer went back to searching the man, grabbed something, and ran to the open door of the Chrysler.
I glanced back into my truck. There, just sticking out from under the seat, was the paper bag. I hadn’t yet gotten rid of the gun the boys had given me.
The smart thing to do at that moment would have been to throw myself into the truck and lie low until Sommer had driven off. But like that time I’d tried to put out the fire in the basement of the Wilson house and became lost in the smoke, I didn’t always do the smart thing.
I grabbed the bag, ripped it open, and grabbed the weapon.
I didn’t know a lot about this gun. I had no idea what make it was. I couldn’t have hazarded a guess when or where it was made.
And I certainly had no idea whether it was loaded.
Would Corey Wilkinson and his friend Rick have been dumb enough to bring a loaded gun to my house? They’d been dumb enough to take a shot at it, so I thought there was a chance the answer was yes.
I firmed my grip on the handle as Sommer got into the car. I heard the engine turn over. The headlights came on like fiery eyes. Rona Wedmore was running, somewhat haltingly, across the Mortons’ lawn, heading for the street. Her footing was off, like maybe she was going to lose her balance. She was raising her gun hand, pointing it down the street at Sommer’s car.
The Chrysler’s tires squealed as it started barreling up the street.
As Wedmore came off the curb and her right foot hit the pavement, it gave out under her. She stumbled and went down on her side into the street. Sommer steered the car toward her.
I came around my pickup’s open door and started running to where Wedmore had fallen. The black car was still approaching. I stopped, steadied myself, put both hands on the gun and raised it to shoulder level.
Rona Wedmore shouted something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.
I squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened.
The car continued toward us.
I squeezed the trigger a second time.
The recoil forced my arms up into the air and I felt myself stumble back half a step. The windshield on the Chrysler spiderwebbed out from the passenger side. Sommer turned the wheel hard left, missing me by no more than ten feet as he screeched past. I threw myself out of the way, hitting the pavement and rolling to within a few inches of Wedmore.
There was a loud thunk, the screech of scraping metal, and then a crash.
By the time I’d turned around to see what had happened, the Chrysler had already bounced over the curb, driven into the middle of a yard, and slammed into a tree.
“Stay down!” Wedmore screamed at me.
But I was already on my feet, gun still in hand. My heart was pumping so hard, the adrenaline rushing through me with such speed, that I was immune to reason or common sense.
I ran over to the Chrysler, coming around it cautiously from behind, the way I’d seen cops do it on TV. I noticed a length of angled gray metal sticking out from under the car, and surmised that before Sommer hit the tree, he’d mowed down a street sign. Steam billowed out from beneath the buckled hood as the engine continued to run, but instead of the usual growl, it sounded more like nails in a blender.
As I got closer, I spotted a deployed airbag, and coming up alongside, I saw Sommer.
There wasn’t much need to train the gun on him.
The edge of a white metal sign reading SPEED LIMIT 25 had caught Sommer on the forehead and just about taken the top of his head clean off.
FIFTY-FOUR
Two ambulances were dispatched to the scene. Darren Slocum, whose condition was deemed more serious than Rona Wedmore’s, was taken away first to Milford Hospital. The bullet had gone right through him, on his far left side, and while no one was able to say anything with certainty at the scene, it looked as though it had missed any vital organs. Wedmore’s shoulder had been grazed, and while she’d lost some blood, she was standing on her own before the paramedics forced her to lie down on the stretcher.
The Mortons were more or less unharmed, although George’s head had been cut open when it was slammed into the television. For sure, they were both traumatized. Belinda told me what had happened inside the house. Wedmore had burst into the study, then dived for cover as Sommer took a shot. Sommer had grabbed the money- stuffed envelope and fled. He must have figured the detective had already called for backup and he didn’t have much time to get away.
For the longest time, I could not stop shaking. I wasn’t actually hurt, but the paramedics wrapped me in blankets and sat me down to make sure I was okay.
The police had plenty of questions for me. Fortunately, before she was taken away, Wedmore put in a good word for me.
“That stupid bastard just got a guy who tried to kill two cops,” she told them as they loaded her into the ambulance.
They wanted to know about my gun.
“Is it yours?” they asked.
“More or less,” I told them.
“Is it registered?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I said.
I had a feeling I was going to get some sort of slap on the wrist for this, but nothing more. I didn’t think the police would like the optics-hassling someone who’d saved one of their own from getting run down in the middle of the street.
But even though they took a conciliatory tone with me, the questioning at police headquarters went on until dawn. Around seven they drove me back to my truck, and I found my way home.
And went to bed.
I woke up around three. The phone was ringing.
“Mr. Garber?”
“Hmm?”
“Mr. Garber, Rona Wedmore here.”
I blinked a couple of times, glanced at the clock, totally discombobulated. “Hey,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. Still at the hospital. They’re going to let me go home in a few minutes. I just called to tell you that what you did was one of the stupidest, dumbest, most moronic things I’ve ever seen anyone do. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What have you heard about Darren Slocum?”
