The Book of Lies

68

There was no pain. No burning. She didn’t feel anything. Not at first.

Indeed, as Naomi lay flat on her back, the blood puddle swelling below her, she simply stared up at the bottom of the World War II biplane that was hanging from the ceiling. She was seeing double now. Two. Two biplanes. Lucas . . . her son . . . Lucas would like those.

On her far right, down the hallway, there was screaming and panicking. Then another gunshot.

Naomi didn’t hear it. The world was muffled—her vision narrowed—like sitting in the bottom of a well and looking up, up, up. Wow. Two biplanes. Lucas would like those.

And then . . .

Ow.

On the back of her shoulder. A mosquito bite.

No, not a mosquito bite. It was burning.

“—omi! Nomi, you okay!?” a frantic voice screamed in her ear.

“S-Scotty? Where—? Why’re you yelling at me?”

“I heard a gunshot! You okay!?”

“I’m fine,” she stuttered, trying to raise her head and finally seeing the puddle below her. “I got— Is that my blood?”

“I think you were shot. Don’t move, Nomi! I think Ellis shot you.”

“I broke his nose,” she said as the pain in her shoulder sent an electrical fire down her arm. “He pulled— He had another gun. A real one.”

“Don’t move! Ambulance is on the way.”

“No, that’s not . . . aaahh . . . he shot me!” she said, gripping her shoulder as tears of pain flooded her eyes. The wound was wet and mushy, pulsing with its own beat. “That’s two hospital visits in twelve hours. How cliché,” she added, her voice wilting. “I—I broke his nose.”

“Nomi, don’t pass out on me.”

She shook her head wildly, refusing to fade. “He’s still . . . Ellis is up the hallway . . . and Cal . . . if he heard the gunshot . . . Cal’s going for his car. The LoJack. Check his car.”

“Already did,” Scotty promised. “He’s still there.”

“Look again,” Naomi grunted, lying on her back and using her heel to shove herself across the floor. A wide streak of blood trailed along from the puddle. But at the wall, she fought hard to sit up straight. Straight. Better to get her head up. And to get a look through the glass doors.

Outside, across the street, Cal’s white rental car flew from the mouth of the parking garage, its tires screaming as it fishtailed to the right and disappeared up the block.

“Knew he’d go for his car,” Naomi whispered, gritting her teeth and fighting to keep her head up.

“Nomi, Cal’s moving! They’re definitely moving!”

“G-Good,” she muttered. “Call in state, federal . . . tell ’em you want helicopters, fighter jets . . . bring damn tanks if they have them. Then call my son. Tell him I’ll be okay.”