Inch by inch, mud up under my hands and on my .357 carried in my right hand, I made it close to the wall. And then I ran like hell.
Three shots echoed through the woods. I saw stone chip a few feet away to my right and another chip off the far wall as I dove to the ground and crawled behind the wall. The bear cages were more than ample cover, reaching up fifty feet, built of sturdy stone and concrete. The gun went silent. I ran behind the curvature of the old cages, well protected, and hoped to make it back into the woods before the shooter was gone. My clothes were soaked, jeans drenched in water and mud, bomber jacket coated and heavy. I dropped the jacket at the far corner of the cages, looking into the depths of the Long Crouch Woods. The thick trees, leaf-covered ground, and the stillness of the rain in the woods made it difficult to believe I was still in Roxbury.
I called 911 and reported a shooting and the need for an ambulance. I quickly reloaded my .357 and checked the load on the .38 from my jacket pocket. I listened and waited. I hoped I’d see a movement, a glint off a scope. But in the rain, I couldn’t have spotted a rhino tap-dancing to “Stormy Weather.” I just needed to make it far enough behind the shooter and come back on him before he spotted or heard me. I would walk with stealth. The wilderness preservation of my world.
I again took up the old tactic of running like hell. I sprinted far into the woods, following the stone fence around the park until I was confident I was beyond the shooter. I cut back into the woods, water dappling muddy holes and tapping hard off the yellowing leaves. I ducked low branches and jumped over fallen logs until I was far within the park. I breathed quietly and tried to listen, but again heard only the rain. If Pearl was with me, perhaps she might point to the shooter. But if Pearl had been with me, I’d have been worried about her safety. I kept moving, kept walking, far into the woods, heading back to the stone steps where I’d left Hawk tending to DeVeiga. I could see the steps raising up from the walking path and leading up into the old bear cages. I turned from left to right and saw nothing. I had my .357 held tight and at the ready. At another fallen log, I stopped and scouted the woods before me.
I felt one with the earth and with the woods until I heard a voice behind me. “Don’t move a muscle, motherfucker.”
Although the slight was not appreciated, I did not move a muscle. And soon hands were on me, pulling the gun from my hand and the .38 from my waist. Someone yanked my arm and I turned to see Victor Lima staring right at me. He cocked me in the temple with my own gun. The feeling was not pleasant, but I kept to my feet.
“Stupid,” he said. “Stupid.”
“Where’s Akira?”
“Why’d you keep fucking with this?” he said. “Heywood had to be the man. Had to lay down a price on our heads.”
I touched my temple. It was bleeding badly. I felt sick and spit on the ground.
“Fucking dumb,” he said. “Now I got to kill you, too.”
“Like you killed Lela?”
“Lela?” he said, wiping water off his face with his free hand. “They killed Lela to get to me.”
“Who?”
“DeVeiga.”
“DeVeiga says this is all on you.”
“Five mil levels things a bit,” he said. “Now keep walking. Keep walking to that ditch and then lay down. I’ll make it quick and easy for you.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Fuck you,” Victor Lima said.
We walked for another twenty feet to a wide ditch brimming with running water. He told me to get into the ditch and place my hands on my head. I could reach for him and take the chance of being shot in a good way. Or I could go into the ditch and keep talking. As talking was my strong suit, I thought I could keep it going.
“Where’s Akira?” I said. When you got a good thing, stay with it.
Lima didn’t answer. He leveled my .357 at me.
“Did you kill him?” I said.
“Everything would have been cool if Heywood had been a man.”
“Is he alive?”
Something flashed in his eyes, a moment of hesitation. But then he gritted his teeth and slowly pulled the trigger. His teeth were clenched tight, jaw tight as the hammer pulled back and cylinder gently started to roll.
And then a large shot as I ducked. As if ducking would do much good.
Lima was down, bleeding and hurt, shot in the back. Another pistol shot rang out as Lima got to his feet and ran fast but ragged and ugly toward the far wall circling the park.
I crawled out of the ditch and ran after him, but he had disappeared. As I reached the park wall, Z came up on me, jogging and out of breath.
“You hurt?” Z said.
“Nope,” I said, wiping the blood off my temple. “But Hawk’s with a guy who’s bad.”
Z nodded. Sirens screamed in the distance.
“You did good,” I said.
Z looked at me with his black eyes and nodded. “I know.”
61
DeVeiga went to the hospital. His pal got a ride with the ME’s office and his other pal had disappeared. Z drove Hawk back to the Harbor Health Club and I went to Susan’s.
It was Saturday, and she was not in session. Pearl the Wonder Dog greeted me at the front door, paws extended onto my chest, and a giant lick on the chin.
“Why can’t you ever greet me like that?” I said.
“Because you’re covered head to toe in mud?” Susan said. “Ick.”
“Can I borrow your hose?”
“Around back, cowboy.”
I walked around to Susan’s deck, took off my shoes and socks, and hosed myself off. I tossed my shirt but left on my jeans, knowing Susan’s neighbors might object to a large man in his underwear frolicking in the water. But probably nothing new for the Cambridge cops.
I wrung out my shirt and socks. I hosed the mud from my boots and set them on the steps to dry. At the second-floor patio, I handed Susan my jeans and stepped inside. She pointed to the bathroom, and I stood in the shower for a good twenty minutes, stepped into the kitchen in my towel, and searched for a cold beer. I found a six-pack sampler from the Avery Brewing Company I’d left there for emergencies.
“Things getting rough in the Back Bay?” she said.
“Franklin Park,” I said. “Hawk and I took a stroll.”
“And jumped into the lake?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you okay?” she said.
I nodded and walked back into her bedroom, where I kept some spare clothes. I changed into fresh Levi’s and a black T-shirt and walked back into the living room. She was perched on the couch with Pearl.
“Two men were shot,” I said. “But not by us.”
“Who were the men?”
“Upstanding members of the Outlaws street gang.”
“And who shot them?” Susan said.
I lifted my beer and took a sip. “Victor Lima.”
I told her more about Lela Lopes and the connection through Jesus DeVeiga. I drank some more beer and told her about my adventures through the Long Crouch Woods and my salvation by a young Native American.
“Thank God for Z.”
“Yep.”
“Lima stole your guns?” she said.
“There is that.”
Susan had not been expecting me or anyone on her Saturday off. She wore an oversized gray Harvard sweatshirt and black yoga pants with no shoes. Her hair was twisted up into a bun. Pearl rested her head in Susan’s lap and stared up at me with her soulful yellow eyes as if to say, “You wish, buster.”