The Accident

FIFTY-TWO

Darren Slocum, sitting out on the street in the Chrysler, heard the shot.

“Oh shit,” he said aloud.

He reached over for the keys, which were still in the ignition, got out of the car, and stood with the passenger door open, wondering what he should do. Much depended on who’d been shot. If anyone had been at all. It could have been some kind of warning shot. A gun might have gone off by accident. Someone might have fired at someone else and missed.

What Slocum did know was who’d gone into that house. He’d watched Rona Wedmore get out of her car, cross the street, and bang on the door. From his position, he thought he’d heard some commotion in the house, but wasn’t sure. He’d seen Wedmore get out her phone and make the briefest of calls before unholstering her weapon and entering the premises.

Not good.

If Wedmore had shot Sommer, the smartest thing he could do was disappear. And not in Sommer’s car. Best to toss the keys back in, leave the Chrysler on the street, let everyone believe Sommer came to the Morton house alone. If Slocum left in the car, and police couldn’t find one outside the house, they’d know Sommer had an accomplice.

Darren didn’t want anyone looking for an accomplice.

Of course, it was also possible Belinda or George had been shot in whatever mayhem had taken place inside that house. And the absolute worst-case scenario, Slocum concluded, would be if Milford police detective Rona Wedmore had been shot.

By Sommer.

Which would mean Slocum was waiting out here for a cop killer.

Again, not good.

Slocum thought, Let it be Sommer. It’d be for the best, really. If Sommer was dead, he wouldn’t be doing much talking. He wouldn’t be able to tell about his involvement with Darren and his wife. Sommer was, even to Darren, who’d dealt with some pretty scummy people in his time as a cop, scarier than hell. Darren knew he’d sleep better at night knowing the guy was dead.

He stood there by the car, thinking all these things, debating with himself. Stay with the car? Go up to the house? Just take off? He could make it from Cloverdale Avenue to his place on Harborside Drive in ten minutes on foot.

And then? What if his fellow cops put it all together? When they showed up at his door, would they slap the cuffs on him, even if Sommer was dead and hadn’t said a word?

When he got home, should he pack up Emily and make a run for it? And how far could he expect to get, realistically? He wasn’t prepared for anything like this. He didn’t have another identity set up. The only credit cards he had were in his own name. How long would it take the authorities to track him down? A man on the run with a little girl in tow?

A day? If that?

He couldn’t decide what to do. He needed to know what had happened in that house before-

Someone came out the front door.

It was Sommer. Holding a gun.

The man ran down the walk toward the car. Slocum started running toward him. “What the hell happened in there?” he shouted.

“Get in the car,” Sommer said, not quite shouting, but firm. “I got the money.”

Slocum stood his ground. “What was that shot? What happened?”

Sommer was nose to nose with him now. “Get in the damn car.”

“I saw Rona Wedmore go in there. A cop! And you coming out, alone. What went down in there?” Slocum grabbed hold of the lapels of Sommer’s jacket. “Goddamn it, what did you do?”

“I shot her. Get in the car.”

In the distance, the sound of approaching sirens.

Slocum gently released his grip on Sommer’s jacket, let his arms settle by his sides. He stood there, shook his head a couple of times, as though some kind of peace had come over him.

“Now,” Sommer said.

But Slocum didn’t move. “It’s over. All of this. It’s over.” He looked to the house. “Is she dead?”

“Who cares?”

Slocum surprised himself when he said, “I do. She’s a fellow cop. A lot more cop than I am. There’s an officer down, and I have to help.”

Sommer pointed his gun at Slocum. “No,” he said, “you’re not.” And pulled the trigger.

Slocum clutched his left side, just above his belt, and looked down. Blood appeared between his fingers. He dropped to his knees first, then fell onto his side, still holding himself.

Sommer went over to the car, closed the passenger door, then went around and got in behind the wheel. He went to turn on the engine.

“What the-”

The keys he’d left in the ignition were no longer there. He opened the door to activate the overhead light to see if they had fallen down onto the floor mats.

More sirens.

“Goddamn!” he said. He got back out of the car and strode over to Slocum, who was still clutching his stomach, as if he could somehow hold himself together.

“The keys. Give me the keys.”

“Fuck you,” Slocum said.

Sommer knelt down, started feeling around in Slocum’s pockets. His hands became smeared with blood. “Where are they, damn it? Where are they?”

He happened to glance up at that point, at the Morton house.

Staggering out the front door, one hand holding a gun, the other pressed up against her shoulder, was Rona Wedmore. She glanced back into the house and shouted, “Stay in there!”

Sommer was thinking things couldn’t get any worse.

Then a pickup truck turned the corner and started driving up the street.