4th of July

Chapter 8

THERE WAS A TERRIBLE hushed silence on Larkin Street. Then sounds kicked in. A radio played rap in the middle distance. I heard the soft moans of the boy. I heard police sirens coming closer.

Jacobi wasn’t moving at all. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer. I unhooked my Nextel from my belt and, to the best of my ability, I called in.

“Two officers down. Two civilians down. Need medical assistance. Send two ambulances. Now.”

The dispatcher was asking me questions: location, badge number, location again. “Lieutenant, are you okay? Lindsay. Answer me.”

The sounds were fading in and out. I dropped the telephone and put my head down on the soft, soft pavement. I’d shot children. Children! I had seen their shocked faces as they went down. Oh, my God, what had I done?

I felt hot blood pooling under my neck and around my leg. I played the whole thing over in my mind, this time throwing the kids against the car. Cuffing them. Frisking them. Being smart. Being competent!

We’d been inexcusably stupid, and now we were all going to die. Mercifully, darkness closed over me and I shut my eyes.