"LET HER GO!" Frank commanded. Johnston's face was in her sights. He stared at her, still grappling with Kennedy, and Frank squeezed softly on the trigger. Like a girder in an earthquake, the tall man buckled and swayed as the right side of his brain flew into the ceiling.
Kennedy made a startled, incoherent sound and started to go down.
"Get an ambulance, get an ambulance!" Frank screamed to whoever was kicking on the door. Noah and Johnnie tumbled inside, drenched, hair plastered on their faces. They paused involuntarily, taking in Tunnel and Kennedy on the floor.
Frank had whipped off her jacket and was pressing it against Kennedy's neck. Kennedy looked at her, eyes wide and dark against the sudden paleness of her skin. She tried to say something, but Frank hushed her. "You're gonna be alright. Just be still, okay?"
Kennedy barely nodded, and Frank said quietly, "Atta girl."
Noah knelt next to Frank. He took Kennedy's hand. "You're supposed to stay outta the way, idiot."
Kennedy grinned weakly. She tried to shrug.
"Hang in there," he crooned, "You're doin' fine, just fine."
Kennedy glanced at Frank, as if for verification, and Frank smiled reassuringly, telling her to stay still. "It's just a nick. Don't worry. Ambo's on the way."
"What happened?" Noah asked. Their eyes locked over Kennedy, sharing a flicker of dread.
"They were scuffling. He cut her. I shot him. Where was he?"
Noah looked sick. "Behind the door," he said pointing his head toward the hall.
Frank looked perplexed. She glanced at Tunnel, realizing he was skinny enough to have gone undetected on the other side of the hall door. For a second she thought she was going to puke, but she took control and said softly to Kennedy, "How you doing, sport?"
The young cop blinked a few times and shivered. Frank barked, "Get me blankets!"
A uniform covered Kennedy with a ratty bedspread, while Johnnie yelled on the radio for a fucking ambulance. Jill burst through the crowd, completely soaked, and gasped, "Oh, my God."
Frank looked up to see her propped against the stove, almost as white as Kennedy. Too much blood was soaking through Frank's wadded jacket, warm and slippery on her fingers. It was too familiar, and Frank felt the dark panic flapping toward her again. She was ready to bolt from the room, but Kennedy was staring at her. Not cocky anymore, but bewildered and pale.
"You're doing great," Frank assured, wondering where the goddamn ambulance was. With her free hand she smoothed Kennedy's forehead, smearing even more blood on her. A siren grew closer and Frank silently exhorted, Hurry, hurry, hurry, fucking hurry.
Cops had gathered like flies on shit around the apartment.
"Get everyone out of here," she said to Jill who seemed grateful for an order. Two EMTs rushed past her, and Frank and Noah scrambled out of their way. The techs wedged a foam block around Kennedy's head and slid her onto a backboard, rising together on the count of two.
Frank and Noah followed them to the ambulance.
"I'm going to ride with her," Frank shouted over the rain. "Get back to the office, find out who her next of kin is, brief Foubarelle."
To the ambulance driver she shouted, "Where are you taking her?"
"King/Drew," he yelled.
"No, tell Foubarelle where we are," Frank said, as she jumped into the back. An EMT banged the doors together. She left Noah standing in the rain and swearing.
20
Everyday, in milliseconds, people make decisions that put them on specific paths with destiny. Some are good decisions, like taking the stairs instead of the elevator only to find later that the power went out just as you walked out of the building, or choosing tuna salad at lunch and watching all your co-workers who ate the egg salad get salmonella poisoning. Some decisions don't have such good outcomes, like taking the freeway instead of the interstate and hitting gridlock that makes you miss an important meeting. Or doing something seemingly trivial that creates a fatal domino effect, like Frank did when she spitefully ignored the half-and-half on the grocery list.
Mag and Frank had been lucky enough to work the same shift that day. They'd gotten off late, as usual, but Mag had been done earlier than Frank. On the drive home she'd asked Frank to run into the liquor store for a pint of half-and-half for Angie.
Angie was Mag's best friend from high school. A pilot with American Airlines, sometimes Angie stayed with them for a night or two on a layover. She and Mag would be up till the early morning, laughing and catching up on news from home while Frank fumed in bed. Despite the fact that Mag clearly adored Frank, and that Angie was happily married with two kids, Frank always felt second best when the two friends were together.
Angie was so much like Mag—outgoing, vibrant, adventuresome —all the things Frank wasn't, and she had convinced herself that sooner or later Mag and Angie would end up together. Frank would sulk jealously throughout Angie's visits. If Mag couldn't tease Frank out of her sullenness, she'd just ignore her. She'd explained often enough that Angie was like caviar and champagne, but Frank was pot roast and mashed potatoes. Her friend was extravagant and funny; Frank was daily life with all its stable, reliable comforts and pleasures.
Smacking Frank's thigh, Mag had double-parked in front of the liquor store. Trying to humor Frank out of her funk, she'd teased, "Come on, old pot roast."
But Frank had whined, "Why can't she just use milk in her coffee?" and slouched further in her seat.
"Because she likes half-and-half. And I had it on the list yesterday, so don't give me any crap."
Frank had retorted, "She's not even here yet and you're already fawning all over her."
Sighing patiently, Maggie pointed out, "One, I'm not fawning. Two, if you could read a simple grocery list, this wouldn't be a problem. Come on, honey, I'm double-parked here."
"She's your friend," Frank muttered sullenly. "You go get it."
Seeing Frank was serious, Maggie had grabbed her purse, swearing, "Goddammit, Frank! When are you going to grow up?"
She'd slammed out of the car leaving Frank churlish but unrepentant. She was still hunkered in her seat, building an even bigger case against Angie, when she'd heard a boom and saw a kid running out of the liquor store. He'd run right by the car, toting a sawed-off. Frank had bolted after him and caught him almost immediately. He couldn't have been more than fifteen. He was terrified. As she'd cuffed him to a stop sign he'd stammered, "I didn't mean it."
She'd glanced behind her, expecting Mag to be running up, but there was only a crowd growing at the liquor store and a man shouting. Frank had raced back, feeling like her feet were glued to the sidewalk. Shoving people out of the store's entrance, she'd seen Maggie on the floor, surrounded by bright, colorful candy bars. A hole foamed pink air just above her left breast. A man had scurried around her, ranting in a language she didn't recognize. He'd tried to blot Maggie's blood with paper towels. Frank had stepped toward her, wanting to touch her and afraid to, sure if she just let this play out she'd wake up to find it was only another nightmare.
She'd heard someone yell, "Call 911!" and realized she'd said it. She'd tried staunching the wound as she knelt next to Maggie, but it was too big and the blood flowed freely around her fingers. Frank gently and uselessly wiped the froth off Maggie's lips. Her lover's face blurred and shimmied as Frank viciously cuffed tears from her eyes. She'd whispered, "Hold on, baby. Stay with me, stay with me."