Robert B. Parker’s Fallout

Forty-Nine

The thought flashed across his brain, there and gone, that he should call 911; his phone was in his back pocket. But even that would cost him seconds.

He didn’t have the Glock pressed against his chest, the way you were taught. It was in his right hand as he came through the front door of the building now, at full speed.

When he was on the cobblestone front walk he took in the whole scene at once, like he was taking a picture of it.

The van, no back license plate, disappearing up the street, once again at too high a speed for a residential neighborhood like this.

Nellie sitting on the sidewalk, maybe fifty yards ahead of him, right where she’d been hit.

A man crouched over her, his back to Jesse.

“Police!” Jesse yelled. “Stay right the fuck where you are.”

When the man straightened and turned, Jesse clearly saw who it was in the light of one of the old-fashioned streetlamps you could still find in some Paradise neighborhoods.

“No need for that kind of language in front of a lady,” Crow said.