Russ broke cover and ran for the house. Lyle was shouting something at him, but he couldn't hear it over the thudding of his feet, the rasp of his breath, the crying and yelling inside.
He took the porch steps in two strides and slammed through the door with the side of his body, leaving him face-to-face with the open double doors and the wild-eyed shooter, tattooed fingers, just like Knox had said, backing away with a squirming, squalling teen and her baby as a shield.
"Police! Drop your weapon," Russ roared: habit, not hope.
"Drop your weapon!" The Punta Diablo guy had a monster.357 Taurus pointed at the girl. Russ kept his Glock lined and sighted for a head shot. The gangbanger started to look scared. It was damn hard to keep your gun pointed away from a man when you could see his bore drilling you between the eyes.
Then the girl lunged to the side, yanking her captor off balance. His instinct took over; he swung his.357 toward Russ, arms wide, chest unguarded. Russ dropped his Glock three inches and squeezed twice. He dove right as the Magnum went off, but the young man was already crumpling, the gun falling from his tattooed fingers.
The girl and her baby ran screaming into the dining room. Russ hit a brown corduroy chair, the weight of his body skidding it across the floor. He stumbled upright, swung toward where the shooter's body had fallen, saw Isabel Christie sagging, unconscious, against the couch. And then a baseball bat smashed into his chest.
Russ turned, not understanding, and another bat struck his upper thigh, white-hot pain streaking along his hip, and he slipped, his leg useless, and saw him in the doorway to the front hall, the second man. Russ saw the gun pointed at him, tried to raise his Glock, too slow, too slow. Russ squeezed off a round but the next shot punched him in the chest and blew him over.
He heard more shots, three, four, like a movie playing in a different room. His awareness burrowed inward, as if all the universe were six feet three inches long and contained within his skin. Labored breathing. Sluggish heart. Burning hip. Throbbing chest.
Lyle's face dropped into view for a moment. He didn't bother Russ with a lot of talking, just turned and started ripping his uniform blouse open. Lyle. His friend. Why hadn't he forgiven him? Instead of carrying his grudge around like an old set of keys. He closed his eyes.
"Call nine-one-one," Lyle said to someone. Russ's skin was clammy. He shivered convulsively. The wooden floor beneath him was winter-cold.
"Get me something I can use for compresses," Lyle said.
He tried to breathe in, but there was a bubble blocking his throat, like swallowing inside out. He gurgled and hacked.
"Hurry, Knox!" Lyle's hands were cradling his skull, turning his head so he could spit. Liquid gushed out of his mouth. He could breathe again. Lyle's hands went away.
"Oh, Jesus," Knox said. She didn't sound so good.
"Shut up," Lyle said. "Get these civilians out of here."
There were noises, children, but they seemed increasingly far away. The pain was everything. The only thing. He didn't want that. He didn't want that to be the last thing. He opened his eyes. Lyle was on his knees, stripping his belt out of his pants. "Didn't know… you felt that way," Russ managed.
Lyle's hands stuttered for a second. "You should be so lucky," he said. He finished pulling his belt free. "I'm gonna tourniquet your thigh, slow down this bleeding. It's gonna hurt like a ring-tailed bitch." He bent over, out of Russ's line of sight, and then a five-thousand-volt electrical shock went through his leg.
"Je… fu… Chr…" Russ gasped. The pain curled him forward, as if he could rise and escape it. He caught sight of his own chest.
"Lay back," Lyle said. He did. Lyle laid something over his chest. "I'm gonna compress you until the EMTs arrive. Won't be long."
He lifted his hand, stopping Lyle with a strengthless motion. "Lyle." He could feel another bubble rising in his throat. He wanted to say this before it choked him off. "I'm sorry." He opened his hand. "Friend."
Lyle took his hand and squeezed too hard. His face pinched. "I don't wanna hear any goddamn last words or deathbed apologies from you, you hear?"
He tried to say something, but the rushing liquid filled his throat, his mouth, his nose. He turned his head and retched, coughed, spluttered.
As soon as his mouth was clear, Lyle leaned on him, crushing him, hurting him. Russ tried to bat him away but he didn't have anything left. It was heavy, so heavy, like cold concrete burying him. He heaved for air. Lyle was going to suffocate him trying to save him. "Can't… breathe…" he got out.
"I think you've punctured a lung," Lyle said. "The EMTs will set you to rights. Listen." He heard his breath, his heart, his blood taking its last few trips around the system. "They're almost here."
It wasn't Lyle. It was him. He was dying. He thought of Clare. Oh, love. I wish we had had more time. He was going to die, and she would be left with hateful, angry words as their last good-bye. Already forgotten, he wanted to say. I always knew what was in your heart. Now, right now, the slate was wiped clean.
"Lyle… tell Clare…" He struggled to get enough air to push out the words. "Tell her…"
"You can tell her yourself when you see her," Lyle said.
He inhaled again, but it wasn't enough. His lungs burned. His head buzzed. She would know. She would have to know.
"Russ?" Lyle's voice receded into the distance, with the children and the gunshots. "Don't you die on me, Russ!"
So, how do you pray? he'd asked her once.
She'd thought about it a long moment. She always listened, always took his questions seriously. Say what you believe, she said. Say what you're thankful for. Say what you love.
He'd never been one for prayer. But there was a last time for everything. "Clare," he said. Then everything stopped.
XV
No official church involvement, that was the dictat. Volunteers, on their own, could work with the migrant farmhands. That's what they had agreed on. Well, it was her day off. She could do what she wanted on her day off. And if she wanted to drive to the Rehabilitation Center and pick up Lucia Pirone for a sedate drive around the countryside, that was her own business. If they happened to stop in at a few farms and check in with the Spanish-speaking workers, that was her own damn business, too.
"You're sure this isn't going to get you in trouble with your bishop?" Sister Lucia shifted in the passenger seat. The pin in her hip was healed enough for the center to release her for the afternoon, but it was plain it hadn't healed enough to be comfortable.