I said, “I'm not going to kill you,” but the words slid all around my mouth and I chewed on them as the pain throbbed deep in me like a long piston needle going up and down in my guts.
I sent a bullet through his knee cap to anchor him. There wasn't any thunder this time, merely a sharp clear bark and a flash of orange, both swallowed by the darkness of the store, never heard outside.
Wren was on his back, out cold, fainted. I took a deep breath that seemed to smother the pointed burning within me; I pulled his gun out of his pocket, crawled over him. The crawling put my blood on fire and when I reached the archway that opened on the store, I had to let go, sink into the pain.
When I came to, the pain was still throbbing steadily in my stomach, stabbing at my heart and brain now and then. Everything about me seemed wet with blood. There was a dull sound behind me. I had to listen for many seconds before I realized it was Wren moaning, calling for help. I got up on my knees, it was easier to move on my knees than to crawl. I made the left wall of the store, the fire within me soaring higher each time I moved. Resting my shoulder against the wall I tried to see the store-front window. I couldn't focus, things were blurred. I figured I was ten feet away. It didn't matter, I couldn't move another inch. I'd had it.
Holding my gun in my left hand, I took out Wren's. I tried a deep breath: it didn't work, the air came rushing down my throat hot and dry. I had to rest for a few seconds, then pivoting on my left shoulder I heaved Wren's gun in the direction of the window. I heard myself scream this time all right, heard it over the crash of glass. I don't know, but it was me and I was screaming, “Dad! Dad!”
I slumped against the wall and waited, each breath tearing my lungs apart with strain and fire. The broken window was a foggy square and for a long long time nothing happened. I had to let go again, fall into the fire inside me.
Opening my eyes was a big job. The window was still foggy... with the pale blur of a face looking in.
Aiming at the ceiling I fired my gun fast as I could. On the third shot it jumped out of my hand. I'd lost my gun again but I had to let go. I had to let go of everything. No flames this time, nothing... I was falling over and over into nothing.
Saturday Afternoon
There was a vase with red roses on the metal table in one corner of the hospital room. The roses were very-red. Not many and the cheapest kind—a few dumpy roses with petals open in a big grin. I knew who'd sent them.
The hospital room was small and efficient and crummy, like all hospitals. I shut my eyes again. I'd never felt so pooped. Of course I knew where I was. I'd been semiconscious when the beat cop had knelt beside me, took his gun off me when he found my badge. I'd passed out in the ambulance but came to when a nurse was cutting my clothes off, ruining my suit, just before they gave me a shot that put me to sleep. I awoke for a few seconds when I was getting a transfusion, then dropped off for a long sleep. I vaguely recalled talking to Lieutenant Reed and some hatchet-faced inspector from downtown, the two of them hovering over my bed like a couple of ugly birds. I gave them the dope on Wren and Wales.
I opened my eyes and moved my head. The shade was down but it was bright outside. Looking made me tired and I kept staring straight ahead at the roses—roses from Rose and as red as her mouth. I was probably all over the papers and Rose had come soon as she read about it.
A nurse came in, a long gawky babe who had to look better when out of the white dress, the horrible stockings and white shoes. Over a standard smile she asked, “How do you feel, Mr. Wintino?”
“Okay.” Her fingers were firm and cool as she took my pulse. “When did the flowers come?”
“Must have come this morning, before I came on. Shall I find out who they're from?”
“Do that and see if there was any message.” The nurse slipped me what was supposed to be a wise smile. “Your wife is waiting. Feel up to seeing her, for a little while?”
“Sure. Got a mirror and comb?”
“Not yet. You mustn't attempt to sit up or move about.”
“Am I going to be stuck in bed long?”
“You ask the doctor about that. I'll send Mrs. Wintino in.
The moment you feel tired, stop talking, tell your wife to leave. Sleep is the best medicine you can get at the moment.”
The nurse left and my eyelids weighed a ton. I don't know, I thought I opened them a second later but it must have been longer. Mary was sitting beside my bed, looked as if she'd been sitting there a long time. She looked pretty bad, blond hair uncombed, eyes red, face strained, a tired stoop to her shoulders. And the roses on the table behind her seemed to frame her head.
I'd never seen her look so bad. I stared at her face, and the red of the roses, and thought how silly it was for us to keep knocking each other out. This was the right time to settle things. I said, “Hello, Babes.”
She must have been daydreaming, she jumped a little. “Dave, Dave, how are you feeling?” She began to cry gently.
“A bit tired. Why the tears? I'm okay. Understand they had to stitch up my guts and I know there's a drain sticking in me someplace.... But in a few days I'll be up and around, out of here.”
“Of course you will. I'll try to get a week off at the office, and well go someplace in the country and rest.”
“You need a rest. Sure, we'll have a whole week to rest and talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
“Come on, honey, I know you too well, it's all over your face: you can't wait to talk.”
“Dave, all I want is for you to get well.”
“And then we'll talk?”
“Dave, you're in a hospital, just take it easy and—''
“No, honey, let's talk this out now. I feel like it.”
“Dave, you're getting excited, tired. You need sleep and—”
“Babes, I'll be more excited if we don't talk, get things straight. Go ahead, spill it.”
“Really, Dave, I don't know what you mean. You go back to sleep and I'll—”
“Mary, let's get this settled. Go ahead, I'll let you know when I'm tired.”
“What do you want me to say?” Her voice was a whine.
“All the words you've been saving up for me. Let them go, be the best thing for both of us.”
“Well...” She hesitated, her red eyes staring at me. “All right, we'll talk, if you wish.”
“That's what I wish.”
“Dave, you sound so... I don't know.” Her voice became high and thin. “Dave, Dave, listen to me: I can't take this any longer. I can't stand waiting around for my husband to come home, worry myself crazy till the middle of the morning when I'm informed you're in a hospital, nearly dead. That's no way for us to live.... Oh, Dave! this isn't the time or place, I can't talk about it now.”
“Yes, you can, say it.” The roses seemed to be laughing at her.
“Dave...” The tears really rolled. “Well, Dave, you either have to give up being a cop or we're done. Dave, I can't take it. I can't!”
“Don't cry, Mary. You want me to be a glorified goon for Uncle Frank at forty a week?”
“Please, Dave, we don't have to talk about this now? We—”
“Yes, we do have to talk about it! Is working for Uncle Frank what you want?”
“All I want is to have you work normal hours, where there's no chance of you ever being shot or beaten up. Is that unreasonable? I don't care what you do, as long as you're not a cop.”