Free Fall

CHAPTER 33

Eric Dees said, "Floyd. Pink. Get on them." Riggens drew his gun and Pinkworth worked the slide on his pump gun. Pete Garcia looked like he was about to pee in his pants. Jennifer Sheridan said, "Oh, shit."

Thurman shouted, "Are you nuts? Have you lost your fuckin' mind?"

I took two steps forward, putting myself closer to Riggens and Pinkworth. "You can't live it out, Dees. We come up dead, they're going to know. They'll backtrack the case and put it in bed with you."

Dees nodded, but he nodded the way you nod when you're not really thinking about it. "We'll see."

Thurman said, " Dees."

Eric Dees went outside and walked toward the Monte Carlo. The front passenger door opened and two black guys slid out with sawed-off Mossberg shotguns. They said something to Dees and the three of them came toward the concession stand.

Thurman yelled, "Jesus Christ, Riggens. Pete."

Pete Garcia said, "Shut up. Just shut up."

Pike moved across the cloudy glass at the back side of the concession stand. Everyone was looking toward the front, at Eric Dees with the hitters, so nobody saw him but me.

Eric Dees and the two Eight-Deuce hitters came in through the double doors, Dees squinting from the bright desert sun and the hitters stone-faced behind heavy-framed Wayfarer sunglasses. The hitters held their shotguns loosely, right hands on the pistol grips, left hands cradling the slides. Nothing like being comfortable with your work.

I said, 'Think it through, Dees. It's falling apart around you."

Dees made a little gesture at Pinkworth and Riggens. "Pink, you and Riggens take off." He glanced at Garcia. "Come on, Pete. We're outta here."

Thurman shook his head, giving incredulous, still not believing that this could be happening. "You're just giving us to these guys?"

Riggens said, "Yeah."

Riggens and Pinkworth holstered their guns and went to the door. Garcia wiped his hands on his thighs and hopped around some more, but he didn't move to leave. "I can't believe we're doing this, Eric. We can't go along with this."

Riggens stopped. Pinkworth was already outside, but he stopped, too, when he realized that Riggens wasn't with him.

Garcia looked at Dees, then Riggens. "We can't do this. This is fuckin' nuts."

Riggens went red in the face. "What'd you say?"

Pinkworth came back and stood in the door.

Riggens screamed, "You losing your fuckin' nut? We got a lot at stake here."

Garcia screamed back at him. "We know these people. This is fuckin' conspiracy. Fuckin' cold-blooded murder."

The taller of the two hitters said, "Shit." He racked the slide on his shotgun.

Dees said, "It's too late to back out, Pete. This is the only chance we have. You know that. Come on. All you have to do is let it happen."

Pete Garcia said, "No, Eric," and reached under his shirt for his gun. When he did, the tall hitter lifted his shotgun and the shotgun went off with a sound that was as sharp and loud as a seismic shock. Pete Garcia was kicked back into the counter and then Joe Pike stepped into the glass doors at the back of the shack and fired his shotgun twice. The milky glass erupted inward and the tall hitter flipped backwards. Dees and Riggens came out with their pieces and fired at Pike, but Pike wasn't there anymore. The short hitter ran under their fire toward the broken doors, boomed his shotgun into the remaining glass, then looked out. "Muthuhfuckuh gone."

Something scuffed on the roof, and the short hitter let off another volley through the ceiling.

Warren Pinkworth ran for the blue sedan. Beyond him, the Monte Carlo kicked up a cloud of rocks and sand and fishtailed across the berms. Eric Dees dove out through the double doors and shot at something on the roof, but whatever he shot at he didn't hit. He said, "Shit."

I pushed Jennifer Sheridan down, and when I did, Mark Thurman went for Floyd Riggens. I yelled, "No," and Floyd Riggens shot him. Thurman spun to the left and sat down and Jennifer Sheridan screamed. She clawed past me, baring her teeth as if she'd like to tear out Riggens's throat.

I pushed her down again, then came up with the tall hitter's shotgun just as the short hitter turned and fired two times. Both of his shots went wide to the right. I shot him in the face, and then I fired out through the double doors at the Monte Carlo and hit it, but then it was behind the fence and away and Floyd Riggens was shooting at me. I dove behind the little wall that shielded the entrance to the bathrooms.

There were more gunshots outside, and then Eric Dees was in the double doors, yelling, "Floyd, get your ass out here!" Outside, Pinkworth climbed into the blue sedan and ground it to life.

Riggens fired twice more at me, then went for the doors. Riggens's eyes were wide and red and he looked like he was crying, but I wasn't sure why. He stopped over Mark Thurman. Mark Thurman looked up at him, and Riggens said, "This is all your fault." Then he raised his gun to fire. Jennifer Sheridan picked up Pete Garcia's pistol and shot Floyd Riggens in the chest. The bullet kicked him back, but he kept his feet. He opened his mouth and looked down at himself and then he looked at Jennifer Sheridan and fell.

Outside, Warren Pinkworth put the blue sedan in gear and sped away. Eric Dees shouted, "You fuck," fired two times at me, then dove behind the counter. Everything went still and quiet and stayed that way.

Pete Garcia rolled onto his side and moaned.

Jennifer Sheridan dropped Garcia's gun, then grabbed Mark Thurman by the shirt and dragged him toward the rest rooms. He had to outweigh her by a hundred pounds, but she kicked off her shoes for better traction and made a sort of groaning sound and did what she had to do. The floor was gritty with shattered glass, but she seemed not to notice.

Gravel crunched outside the concession stand, and Joe Pike took a position behind the broken double doors.

I said, "That's it, Dees. It fell apart. It's over."

Eric Dees moved behind the counter.

Pike looked in through the broken doors and I pointed at the counter. "Dees."

Eric Dees moved behind the counter again.

Pike said, "Don't be stupid, Eric. Let's go home standing up."

Dees said, "What else have I got, Joe?"

Eric Dees charged around the near end of the counter, firing as he came, and when he did, Joe Pike and I fired back.

Dees went down hard, and I ran forward and kicked his pistol away, and then it was over. Dees was on his back, blinking at the ceiling and clutching at his chest. Most of the pellets had taken him there. A dozen feet away, Pete Garcia said, "Oh, God," but he didn't say it to anyone in the room.

Pike came up beside me and looked down. "Hey, Eric."

Eric Dees said, "Joe."

Pike said, "There a radio in the unit?"

"Yeah."

"I'll try to raise an ambulance."

Pike went out to the green sedan.

Dees opened and closed his mouth and blinked up at the ceiling again. He said, "How's Pete? Is Pete okay?"

I checked Pete Garcia and Floyd Riggens, and then I went to Mark Thurman. Jennifer Sheridan said, "He's bleeding."

The bullet had caught him low on the left side. She had ripped away part of her blouse and was using it to press on the wound. There was plenty of blood. Her hands were covered with it.

"Let me see."

She pulled away the little compress and a steady rhythmic surge of blood pulsed from his abdomen. Artery.

He said, "I gotta stand up."

She said, "You've got to stay down. You're bleeding, Mark. I think it's an artery."

"I want to get up." He pushed her off and flopped around and finally I helped him stand. When he was up he pushed me off and tried to walk. It was more of a sideways lurch, but he did okay.

Jennifer said, "Damn it, Mark, please. We have to wait for the ambulance."

Mark Thurman stumbled sideways. I caught him and helped him stay up. He said, "You gotta help me." He had lost a lot of blood.

Jennifer Sheridan said, "Make him lie down."

"He's okay."

I helped Mark Thurman lurch across the concession stand to Eric Dees. Mark Thurman dug a slim billfold out of his back pocket, opened it, and held it out. It was his LAPD badge. He said, "Do you see this?"

"What in hell are you doing?" Little bubbles of blood came out of Dees's nose when he said it and I wasn't sure if he was seeing the badge or not.

Mark Thurman breathed hard and sort of wobbled to the side but he kept his feet. His shirt and his pants were wet with his own blood. He said, "I'm doing something that I should've done a long time ago, you sonofabitch. I am an LAPD officer, and I am placing you under arrest. You are under arrest for murder, and conspiracy to commit murder, and because you're a lousy goddamned officer." Then Mark Thurman fainted.

Eric Dees was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.