Under a Raging Moon

NINE

Wednesday, August 24th

Graveyard Shift

2120 hours

Katie MacLeod drove slowly down the side street, gazing at the houses she passed. She imagined the people who might live inside. Their stories. Their problems.

She smiled bitterly about that last thought. What did most of them know about problems? Oh sure, they had romantic problems, some of them. Things like her current situation. Getting dumped. Sleeping with someone you shouldn’t. Nothing unique about that.

But she was willing to bet no one in the houses she cruised past ever had to decide whether to shoot someone or not. They just trundled along in their little lives, working, watching TV and going to the mall and left those questions for the police to answer.

Katie sighed. She was starting to sound cynical, and after just three years on the job. Maybe she needed a vacation.

Yeah, a vacation from my life.

The radio squawked. “Adam-116, Adam-114.”

Katie keyed her mike and listened as Matt Westboard did the same.

“A domestic at 5117 N. Celtic Avenue. Caller can hear yelling and banging. Nothing further. No listing on occupants of the house.”

Katie copied and gave her location, about two minutes away from the address. Westboard copied from nearly downtown. Radio repeated their locations. Katie cursed at the dispatcher. Wasn’t there someone closer than Westboard to back her? No one answered up, though.

Light traffic allowed her to make good time, and she arrived on scene in less than a minute and a half. She checked out, parked a half a block away and walked in. The yards in this neighborhood seemed well tended and all the houses looked nice. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. DV’s happened in mansions and shacks alike.

She approached the house carefully. Except for the muffled sound of a television, no sound came from inside. The shades were drawn. Katie kept her radio covered with her hand as she crept along the side of the house. Still nothing.

The open porch had steps on both sides. She stepped up slowly, listening.

Then came the screaming, muffled through the closed windows and door. At least one male and one female. She could hear slaps and the sound of furniture being struck. It went on for about five seconds, then subsided for a moment.

Katie eased the screen door open and locked it out, her heart pounding. Clear as day, she heard another roar of human voices and sounds of struggle. Then a female voice cried, “Oh, no!” followed by a booming male voice, “Get up you, worthless piece of shit!” More sounds of strikes and furniture.

Katie keyed her mike and spoke in a subdued voice. “-16, how far off is -14?”

“Division and Buckeye.”

Damn. Katie’s breathing was shallow and rapid. She forced herself to inhale and then exhale more deeply.

More screaming. Loud pounding.

Another deep breath. Sweat collected on her upper lip and trickled from her armpits. Her vest seemed extra heavy.

She had to go in.

Damn!

She depressed the transmit button. “Adam-116, it sounds violent. Have -14 step it up.” She swallowed thickly and licked her lips. “I’m going in.”

Radio copied. The dispatcher relayed her message and restricted the channel, her voice tense. Katie didn’t notice. She wiped her damp palms on her uniform pants and drew her pistol. Just in case, she checked the doorknob.

Locked.

Another female screamed, “Oh, no, not again!”

Immediately after, a male yelled, “Get out of there!”

Katie stepped back and booted the door, putting her weight forward and striking just to the side of the knob, as she had been taught. The result was a loud crack and the door swung partially open. A small jagged piece of wood held it weakly to the doorjamb. Katie put her shoulder into the door and came crashing into the house.

As soon as she made entry, she swept her gun across all open spaces. She saw the threat immediately. A white male stood in the center of the living room off to her right with a fireplace poker in his right hand. He held it raised as if to strike. On the couch in front of him cringed a white female. Both stared at her in surprise.

She pointed the gun at him. “Police! Drop that poker now!”

The man just stood there, staring.

“Do it!” Katie’s finger slipped into the trigger guard. She began to squeeze.

The man did not move.

“If you don’t drop that poker right now, I will shoot you,” she told him in a low, intense voice.

The man shook his head as if just waking up. He let go of the poker. It clattered to the floor while he raised his hands.

“Now turn away from me,” Katie directed.

The man complied.

“Down on your knees.”

The man dropped to his knees. “What’s going on?”

Katie ignored his question and kept her gun trained on the center of his back. “Clasp you hands behind your head. Cross your ankles.”

The man did both without hesitation. She saw him trembling even from across the room.

Katie eased around the couch, not taking her eyes off the suspect. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“W-what?”

“Do you need medical treatment?”

“No. W-what’s all this about?”

Katie allowed herself to take a quick glance at the woman, who sat on the couch, a bottle of beer still clutched in her hand. She had no visible injuries. Katie noticed that her makeup wasn’t even smeared.

“You aren’t injured?”

“No. Why would I be?”

A terrible feeling seeped into Katie. “Where did he hit you?”

Her question was met with a confused look. “Hit me? Fred? No.”

“But I heard yelling and-”

“Boom-Boom,” Fred said, turning back to look over his shoulder.

“What?”

“We…we were watching Boom-Boom. The middle-weight boxer from River City?”

Katie glanced at the television and noticed the small ESPN logo in the lower left corner. Two men were boxing.

“You never heard of Boom-Boom Bassen? He’s number fourteen in the world.”

“No,” Katie whispered.

“He got knocked down,” the woman explained. “The black guy knocked him down.”

“Can I sit down now?” the man asked.

“What about the poker? Why’d he have that?” Katie asked the woman.

“Someone was breaking in,” she answered, gesturing toward the door.

Katie motioned to Fred. “Go sit down.”

Grateful, he rose and sat beside his wife on the couch. Katie moved the poker and holstered her gun, shaking her head.

Boxing fans. The only thing worse were football fans.

Remembering other units were headed her way, Katie keyed her mike. “Adam-116, code four.”

“Copy, code four. Adam-114 and all other units may disregard.”

Katie turned back to the couple who still stared at her, a shocked look on their faces. “We received a 911 call,” she explained. “Someone reported a disturbance.”

Outside, a car approached and then a door slammed.

Fred raised his hand tentatively, as if he were in school. Katie nodded at him. “Uh, who’s gonna fix our door?”

“The city will pay for it,” Katie assured him. “Would you like to speak to a supervisor, sir?”

Matt Westboard appeared in the doorway. His eyes surveyed the scene, then came to rest on Katie. He raised a single eyebrow questioningly.

“Boom-Boom Bassen,” she told him.

“Number fourteen in the world,” Fred added.

2130 hours

Lt. Hart stood in front of the lectern. He’d completed his briefing for the robbery special detail, repeating himself several times to ensure his instructions were clear. Plainclothes observers were not to engage the robber alone. He didn’t want anyone hot-dogging this operation.

“Any questions?”

No response. He looked at the seven participants. Were they here to catch the robber or just to suck up overtime? Probably some of both, he decided, but for the first time since he made lieutenant, he didn’t care what the OT costs were. He wanted Scarface.

That was his ticket to Captain’s bars.

2134 hours

Gio sat across the table from Marilyn. The dinner had been delicious. He didn’t care for seafood, but Marilyn loved it. He ordered a steak, though, so it all worked out.

He stared at her, watching her eat daintily, dab her lips with a napkin, sip her wine.

Just tell her.

She caught his gaze and smiled slowly. “What?”

God, she’s beautiful.

“Marilyn?”

“Gio?” she said, slightly teasing.

He swallowed. He’d said these words before, long ago, as a tool to get what he wanted. Later, he learned not to resort to such desperate tactics. But now, when he might mean them, the words stuck in his throat.

“Gio? What?” She seemed amused at his shyness.

Maybe she knew.

He took a deep breath. “I…” he paused and looked directly into her eyes. “I…”

Marilyn looked at him, confused. Then realization flooded her eyes.

She does know.

His heart quickened.

And then her face fell.

A terrible wrenching tore through his stomach, but Gio struggled not to show it. Instead, he changed tactics, even the damage had already been done. “I…really thought the steak was good here,” he finished lamely. “How was your shrimp?”

A long pause spun out while she set her fork down and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. Only a few moments ago, he’d found that act beautiful. Now it seemed ominous.

“Gio, I…” she stopped. He looked for tears but saw none. He felt even greater dread creep in. “I like you. I like you a lot. We’ve had fun, some good times …” she gave him a small smile. “…great sex. But I’m not really interested in anything serious. I mean, were you?”

Gio looked away. He couldn’t answer, couldn’t look at her.

“I asked the bartender about you and he said. .” she trailed off. “Oh, God. Were you looking for something serious, Gio?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t dated anyone else since we met.”

She didn’t answer. He looked up, and her silence told him that the same was not true for her.

He’d made a terrible mistake.

“Oh, Gio.” Marilyn said quietly. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other.”

He stared at her as if he didn’t understand. But he did. He knew the dance of the breaking hearts. He just usually led.

“And maybe I should go,” she added with quiet finality.

“Maybe,” Gio whispered.

She paused for a moment, her mouth open as if to speak. He knew the words that hesitated behind her lips. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, too, he thought.

She didn’t say anything, though. Instead, she stood and walked away from the table without a word.

2158 hours

Katie leaned against her car, wishing that she smoked. A cigarette would have been a nice distraction. Westboard stood next to her, hands in his back pockets, rocking on his heels. Both were waiting for Sergeant Shen to finish inside the house. The homeowners hadn’t demanded to see a supervisor, but Katie thought it prudent to call one just the same.

“Maybe I should join the fire department,” Katie muttered.

“Eat until you’re tired, sleep until you’re hungry,” Westboard quoted the long-standing joke about firemen.

“I was thinking more along the lines of how when firefighters show up and break things, everyone thanks them for it.”

Westboard grinned and shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Katie.”

“I blew the call,” she replied.

“Depends on how you look at it.”

Katie turned to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Westboard continued to rock lightly on his heels. “Well, it depends on if you want to take the long or the short view.”

“The what?” Katie shook her head. “You’ve lost me.”

Westboard removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together. “It’s simple. If you take the short view, then the outlook is that you misjudged a call and broke down a door you didn’t need to. What’s the downside of that? The city pays for a door and maybe a citizen is a little pissed off. Or not, depending on how well Shen is doing in there.” He thumbed at the house.

“The short view sounds like exactly what happened,” Katie said.

“It is,” Westboard answered, “but in the greater scheme of your career, how big a deal is it? Not much of one. That’s where the long view comes in. The long view says you were faced with a dangerous situation. You were alone. You had to decide whether your personal safety was more important than that woman’s safety inside the house.”

“She wasn’t in any danger,” Katie argued quietly.

“You didn’t know that. In fact, you had every reason to believe she was in very real danger. You were faced with a choice and made a decision, which tells you a bit about who you are, doesn’t it? Maybe answers a question or two about yourself?”

Katie didn’t answer.

“You went in and did what was necessary,” Westboard continued. “I’d say the long view is that you’ll always do what it takes.”

Slowly, Katie nodded. He made sense. “When did you get so wise?”

Westboard shrugged. “Everyone has their demons, Katie. You faced yours.”

“And what are yours?” Katie asked playfully.

Westboard blanched and looked away.

Before she could apologize, the screen door squeaked open and Sgt. Shen appeared in the doorway. The lithe supervisor gave a wave to Fred as he walked down the walkway toward Katie and Westboard.

“Well,” he said when he reached them, “that’s taken care of.”

“Are they filing a complaint?” Katie asked.

“Complaint? No.” Shen smiled. “I assured them the City would pay for a new door and cover the cost of any dry cleaning for soiled undergarments.”

Katie gave a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, Sarge. I-”

Shen raised a hand. “You already explained. Your actions were reasonable. Actually, they were brave and a little risky. But you did what you had to do. Just write an informational report for me, okay?”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

Shen smiled and headed back to his own car.

“Hey, Sarge?” Katie called after him.

Shen turned.

“Who won the fight?”

Shen smiled. “I believe the hometown hero went down in the ninth. Left hook.” He pantomimed a sharp punch to the head, then turned and continued to his car.

Katie looked at Westboard and shrugged. “Guess he’s not number fourteen anymore.”

2217 hours

Winter pulled into the alley and shut off the engine, now centrally located for three of the five stores. The other rover would be responsible for the remaining two. Hart wanted them to drive between the stores constantly, which Winter thought was ridiculous and refused to do. The surveillance vehicle’s job was to watch the store. He’d respond and watch for the getaway.

Besides, the odds that Scarface would hit tonight were not great, and the odds of hitting one of the targeted stores even slimmer. Karl Winter settled in for a long night.

He opened his lunch cooler. On top of the neatly packed sandwich, crackers and orange juice, Mary had placed a small note and his favorite candy bar.

Be safe and save some energy. Love, M.

He read the note with a smile, then absently placed it in his breast pocket. He closed the lunch cooler and opted for the thermos of coffee.

An hour flew by. Winter turned the ignition key to start and listened to the stereo on low volume. Like Chisolm, he had served in Vietnam, though his tour was considerably less glamorous. Just your run of the mill blood and guts every “11-Bush” saw. None of that Special Operations stuff.

He still liked the music from that era. Whenever he heard those songs, he remembered the good times he had. The partying he did on leave. The card games in the barracks. The bad times, the scary times, remained buried. He wondered if the same were true for Chisolm. The thought made him realize that they’d never talked about it.

Ah, well. Some things didn’t need to be discussed. They were better left alone.

Winter thought about the note in his pocket and pulled it out, re-reading it. Except maybe for Reiser, he was the only guy in the platoon with a successful relationship with a woman. Ridgeway’s situation amounted to an ongoing soap opera. Gio flitted from woman to woman without remorse. Jack Stone was a confirmed bachelor, probably too acerbic to ever hang on to a woman. Even the Sarge had woman trouble. Poole seemed to be growing more bitter and despondent every day.

And then there was Mary and him.

Some guys have all the luck, Winter mused, putting the note away.

A large white Chrysler drove by. He didn’t notice anything remarkable about it. An anxious white female drove and as she darted past the alley, she was looking into the back seat. Winter sipped his coffee and reached for his notebook and scowled. That was a little suspicious. He decided to write down the plate, just in case.

The alarm tone startled him and he spilled his coffee all over his notebook.

2331 hours

Stefan Kopriva accepted the license from the driver’s hand and scrutinized it. The robbery alarm tone blared over his portable. He tossed the license back to the teenager. “Slow it down,” he ordered and hustled back to his car. Once inside, he flipped his siren on and squealed his tires as he left.

Hart picked up the phone halfway through the first ring. He’d heard the alarm tone.

“Is it Scarface?” he asked Carrie Anne, the radio supervisor.

“The description matches.”

“I didn’t hear the codeword.”

“There was no ‘Red Dog’ given. This location was not under surveillance.”

Hart hung up the phone, silently cursing his luck.

Winter whipped out of the alley and caught up to the white Chrysler. He activated his overhead lights and put out his location to radio. The car pulled to the side of the road at Jackson and Cincinnati. Winter turned on every light the patrol car was equipped with, unfamiliar with their operation after so long on day shift.

Once he had showered the Chrysler in artificial light, he exited the car and approached cautiously, his right hand resting on his pistol. He considered waiting for a back-up, but didn’t want to waste too much time if this were not the vehicle. His theory could be wrong, after all.

He reached the rear bumper and shined his mag light into the back seat.

Probationary Officer Maurice Payne drove westbound on Foothills from Crestline. He wondered how angry he’d made Bates when his unexpected quick turn caused the FTO to spill his drink on his leg. That concern faded as he struggled to place Charlie-251’s location in relation to his own.

Jackson and Cincinnati.

Jackson, Jackson.

He drew a blank.

Cincinnati, then. Cincinnati was just west of Hamilton. Well, one or two west, anyway, but Hamilton curved around into Nevada just north of the street he was on. So if he made a turn onto that arterial and headed along it, he would cross Jackson. Then Cincinnati would only be a block or two off.

But which way? Was Jackson north or south of this street?

Payne gripped the steering wheel, white knuckled, deathly afraid to reach for his street locator and reveal to his FTO that he didn’t know the answer.

Back on the telephone with dispatch, Hart barked orders at Carrie Anne. “Set up a perimeter on that store, three blocks in each direction.” He squeezed the phone receiver tightly in his hands. He could not afford for Scarface to get away during his task force detail. “Does Winter have a backup on the way?”

“Yes,” Carrie Anne said. He heard her typing at her keyboard. “It’s Baker-133, Bates and Payne.”

“Where are they coming from?”

More tapping. “Crestline and Foothills as of thirty seconds ago,” she answered.

“All right. Get a status check on Winter.”

Winter shined his light throughout the interior of the car. It was dirty, but empty. No blankets, no room for anyone to hide. He checked the front seat as well. A few empty beer cans, but otherwise empty. The female driver sat with her hands firmly on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

“Charlie-251, status check.”

Winter keyed his mike. “Code four.”

“Code four.”

Kopriva heard that and automatically diverted to the store to take a perimeter position. He wondered how long the delay was on this one.

Thirty seconds from the store, Thomas Chisolm wondered the same thing. He heard Shane Gomez, one of the K-9 officers, switch from the south-side channel and respond to the store. The victim store was short north, so Gomez should get a fresh track.

Not that it would matter, Chisolm figured. They’d gotten fresh tracks before.

Payne clenched his jaw as he approached Hamilton. Right or left? North or south?

He tried to remember a call or a stop he’d had on Jackson but couldn’t.

Where the hell is Jackson?

He had a fifty-fifty chance. Besides, he’d been on five perimeters before and they never caught the guy. They’d never been there soon enough.

Kopriva pulled up to a stop at Mission and Standard with his overheads on, blocking traffic. He notified radio of his perimeter location. He saw another car doing the same at Hamilton and Mission and heard Thomas Chisolm check out there. Another patrol car slipped by Chisolm’s location, it’s lights on.

Probably the K-9, on his way to another fruitless track.

Kopriva wondered if Gomez and the other K-9 guys were getting frustrated yet.

Winter held the driver’s license in his hand, about to go back to his car and check her name, when he paused. The driver stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel. She looked thin.

Too thin.

And very nervous.

Winter glanced at her driver’s license. The picture was almost three years old and a much fuller faced smiled out from the photo.

She looked like a junkie to him. Actually, more like a crack-head. Junkies were usually tight and wouldn’t talk, but crack-heads weren’t so loyal.

Winter decided to interview her.

The throaty idle of the engine made it hard to hear the muffled voices, but he could make out most of it. He wondered why Carla stopped so soon after they left the store, but then he’d heard the tinny crackle of a police radio outside her door. There was no mistaking the calm authority in the voice he heard.

“Step out of the car, miss.”

James Mace made his decision in an instant.

Carla sat stock-still in the front seat of the white Chrysler, just like she had been told to. Do not get out of the car, he had drilled into her. Just sit there, no matter what they say. If they want you to get out of the car, we are fucked. So sit still and don’t worry.

Carla sat still, but she couldn’t stop from worrying.

Winter waited a few moments when the driver did not immediately obey his command. Sometimes nervous people were slow to respond. Maybe she had a warrant, too. He probably should have run her name first.

“Miss, step out of the vehicle,” he ordered again.

In the next instant, he saw a flash of movement in the back seat. Winter’s mind struggled to process the information. He’d looked in the back seat. It had been empty.

Winter turned, ripping his gun from his holster, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough.

From inside the trunk, Mace pushed the back seat forward. The cushion slid across the seat and struck the back of the front seat. Carla gave a small yelp. He ignored her as he slid out of the trunk and into the back seat. Mace trained his weapon on the fat cop standing at the window. He wished for an M-16 like when he had been a Ranger, but the thirty-eight bucked slightly in his hands as he squeezed off three quick rounds. The roar of the gun filled the car.

The rear driver’s side window shattered on the first shot. The bullets bit into the cop and shock registered on his jowly face. Mace saw a squirt of blood leap out of the cop’s left eye as his first shot went high. The other two slapped into his chest, disappearing into the dark uniform shirt.

Nice tight group.

The cop fell, disappearing from view.

Carla screamed.

“Drive, you stupid bitch!” Mace screamed at her, “or I’ll fucking shoot you next.”

Winter felt himself go thunk on the asphalt. For a second, he couldn’t see. He felt wetness on his face, the left side, but the greater pain was lower. In the chest.

He’d been hit.

He heard the squeal of tires and the thick odor of exhaust assaulted his senses.

His left hand fumbled at his belt, searching for his portable radio. He located it and slid his thumb awkwardly into the small notch at the back where he hit the tiny red panic button.

Now wait for the sirens. They’re coming.

He willed himself to stay calm. To breath. Focus. Listen for the sirens.

But instead, he remembered a time years when he waited in the midst of sing-song Vietnamese screams and the splatting sound of AK-47’s, listening for the sweet sound of helicopter rotors.

Another alarm tone, wondered Kopriva. What the hell?

“Signal-98, panic button,” the dispatcher intoned. “Charlie-251, Officer Winter. Jackson and Cincinnati. Repeat, Signal-98.”

“Holy shit!” Kopriva yelled, dropping his car into gear. He punched the accelerator and flew up Standard toward Jackson. On the way, he blew past a white Chrysler, which dutifully pulled to the side to let him pass even though it was driving southbound.

The alarm tone surprised Payne as well. He reached Hamilton.

North or south?

He decided on north, since more of the sector lay to the north of his location.

Good choice, good reason, he told himself as he swung the police car north on Hamilton.

“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Bates.

Payne winced. Fifty-fifty shot and he lost. He turned the car around as soon as they passed the concrete island.

“Sorry,” he told Bates.

“Drive faster or I will stop this car and drive myself,” Bates told him, his voice steeped in cold anger.

As soon as he heard the garage door close, Mace pushed the cushion forward and slid out of the trunk into the back seat. He replaced the cushion again. Carla cried hard, bordering on hysterical. He slapped her without thinking twice about it.

“Shut up. Let’s get upstairs.” He put his jacket, the wig, gun and money into an empty gym bag. They left the small garage and made their way up the stairs to his apartment.

Carla sniffled and hitched, but otherwise maintained herself all the way up the stairs. As soon as the door closed behind her, she started to cry hysterically again. “You shot a cop!” she screamed. “Oh my God, you shot a cop.”

Andrea and Leslie sat on the couch, watching her dispassionately. She turned to them both. “He shot a cop! We’re all going to hang! They hang people in this state, you know.”

“It’ll be all right,” Mace said. “No one saw us. No one knows but him, and he’s as good as dead.”

He wondered if that were true. Mace narrowed his eyes. He needed to turn on the TV and see what the news reported.

“Oh, God,” Carla sobbed. “He shot a cop.”

“Fuck that cop!” Mace snarled. “That’s what he had coming.”

Carla whimpered.

“The cop was the enemy,” Mace said, his voice low and intense. His body felt electric. “He would have killed us if he had the chance. I did what I had to do.”

Silence filled the room, except for Carla’s sobbing and muttering. Mace put his gym bag on the kitchen table and turned to look at Andrea and Leslie. Andrea remained silent.

Leslie finally spoke. “Did you score any smack, baby?”

Karl Winter clutched at his wounds. His chest seemed constricted and pain pulsed where the bullets had hit.

Thoughts flitted through his mind.

One bullet there or two?

Jesus, that was close to his heart, wasn’t it?

He should’ve worn his protective vest.

He couldn’t see out of one eye.

Winter chuckled, a wet raspy sound. His theory had been right about Scarface, hadn’t it? Almost right.

Then the pain hit again, followed by a coldness.

Mary. Mary. Had he kissed her goodbye tonight? He’d kissed her goodbye every day for twenty-four years, but he could not remember if he’d kissed her tonight.

Mary. He could hear her sweet laugh as he struggled to play the guitar. The music rang in his ears.

“The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves.”

Winter’s bloody hand twitched as his fingers struggled to form the chords. He tried to sing, but only a wheeze escaped his mouth.

Mary. Her soft touch on his shoulder.

Had he kissed her goodbye?

His feet were so cold.

A siren broke through his thoughts, followed by the screech of tires.

Kopriva leapt from the car and ran to the fallen officer. He recognized Winter more by his belly than his bloody face.

“Baker-123, officer down! Start medics, now!”

“Copy. Injuries?”

“Multiple gunshot wounds,” Kopriva said, guessing.

He knelt beside Winter. Blood, coming from his left eye, covered the left side of the officer’s face. That wound appeared to be only a trickle, perhaps from a grazing shot. Kopriva saw the bullet holes in his chest and heard the raspy rattle of a sucking chest wound. He applied pressure, noticing that Winter didn’t have on a vest. Frantically, he struggled to recall the proper first aid.

Winter tried to mouth something to him. He leaned forward but no sound came from the veteran’s lips. Winter spoke the same silent few words over and over, but Kopriva couldn’t make them out. He lifted his head again. Winter continued to mouth the phrase, looking like a fish gasping for water in the bottom of a fishing boat.

Then Kopriva noticed the puddle of blood that emerged from both sides of Winter, spreading slowly outward like a pair of black wings.

He took Winter’s hand and held it tightly in his own.

Karl Winter saw the shadowy shape of a man above him but not well enough to recognize who it was. He saw the silver badge on the man’s chest, though. That was what mattered. He’d been able to give his message to the man, who would give it to Mary. He didn’t want her to worry at his bedside while he recovered.

The light shining from the streetlight had dimmed. He was cold, so cold.

He could barely feel the officer’s grip on his hand and wished he could hold it tighter.

Had he kissed Mary goodbye?

“You’re going to be okay, man. Just hold on.” Kopriva squeezed Winter’s hand tightly. He didn’t know if the wounded officer could hear him or not. “Just hold on.”

Hurry up with the goddamn medics!

He looked around frantically, willing them to appear. He saw fresh rubber marks beside Winter in the flashing red and blue lights. They led westbound. He realized that he’d probably passed the suspect car on his way and cursed silently.

When he looked down again, Karl Winter’s eyes had frozen into a fixed stare.