Fuzzy Navel

10:00 P.M.
HERB

SQUATTING IS NOT A POSITION that Sergeant Herb Benedict enjoys, and he enjoys being shot at even less. He doesn’t even have a gun to return fire, thanks to Internal Affairs. Not that it would do much good. The sniper is at least two hundred yards away, well out of range for a handgun. Herb can’t even pinpoint his location. The darkness, and the woods, make him invisible.

Though he realizes how dire this situation is, years of experience prevent Herb from panicking. Though his heart rate is up – more from surprise than fear – he keeps a clear head and is able to focus on survival.

He’s hiding behind the front wheel, on the passenger side, opposite of the shooter. Hubcaps and axles offer more protection than aluminum and upholstery, but he doesn’t know how much more. He needs to find better cover.

Herb tugs out his cell, can’t get a signal. He plays the hold up the phone and wave it around game without success, then tucks it back into his jacket pocket and fingers the plastic zipper bag full of high-fiber sugar-free weight loss shake – his allotted mid-afternoon snack and what he should have consumed earlier instead of all those power bars. He briefly considers cracking it open – he’s suddenly very thirsty – but he holds off. Being a career cop, Herb has contemplated his own death many times. He’s watched his own funeral in his mind’s eye, and doesn’t want the mourners’ chatter to revolve around: “Did you hear he died with a diet drink in his hand?”

Plus, the sugar-free weight loss shake tastes a lot like mud, with grit in it. His wife mixes one for him every morning, adding extra fiber per the doctor’s orders.

If she added something better, like grated cheese, then he’d drink the damn things.

Herb squints. There’s no light anywhere around. Jack’s house is roughly forty feet away, completely dark. Though hefty, and getting up there in years, Herb can move fast when he has to. But if the door happens to be locked, he’ll be stuck out in the open. And he knows he isn’t a terribly difficult target to hit.

He shifts his attention to Jack’s large bay window. If he got up enough speed, perhaps he could crash through it, though the possibility of being cut to hamburger doesn’t please Herb, even though he really likes hamburger. Besides, it’s likely Jack is just as pinned down inside as he is outside.

Herb is operating under the assumption that his partner is still alive, still okay. Why else would a sniper still be in the area?

He considers his options. The car is trashed, as is the radio. Jack’s car is ahead of his in the driveway, along with two others – a Corvette and a sedan – but he doesn’t have keys for them. There are no neighbors in sight, though Herb passed a house maybe a quarter mile up the road. Plus, there’s always the run away screaming possibility.

Herb guesses the sniper has night vision, and also guesses, from the previous angle of fire, that he will change positions to get a better shot. There’s also a good possibility that more than one sniper is on the premises. They could have followed Jack home from the Ravenswood crime scene. They may be lining up their shots right now, as he squats here, knees aching, wondering what to do next.

Running away screaming is holding more and more appeal. Unfortunately, there’s no place to run. It’s thirty yards to the nearest tree, and it’s a sapling that won’t provide any cover. He’ll be picked off before he gets halfway there.

A shot impacts the driver’s door. Then another. Only three payments left, he thinks, ducking down even lower. He touches his pants. His stitches have ripped, and blood has soaked through. When the Novocain wears off, that’s probably going to hurt.

The tire he’s squatting beside explodes. He jerks in surprise, rocking backward onto his ass. Another shot plows into the side of his Chrysler, where he was only a second ago.

He’s in a crossfire. No place to run. Nowhere to hide.

Herb’s a practical guy, and he understands his chances of survival aren’t good. But he’s not ready to die quite yet. He and his wife were planning on visiting Italy for the holidays. He’s never been, and has heard the food is spectacular.

Thinking fast, he stands up, filling his lungs, and makes a mad dash up the driveway.

After four steps the shot comes. His whole body jerks to the left, bouncing hard into the rear fender of Jack’s car. Herb staggers, takes two zombie-like steps forward, a short step backward, and then drops to his knees.

He moans, just once, a moan of pain and surprise, and his hands seek out the sudden dampness soaking his right side.

Sergeant Herb Benedict thinks of his wife, pictures her kind smile. Then he stops breathing and falls onto his face, his eyes wide open and staring blankly into the dark night.