34
“Dude. That’s Supercop’s truck.”
“Bullshit.”
Curtis Modell pointed. “That’s his license plate, man.”
His brother said nothing. LaTonya Wells shook her head and said, “This ain’t even good.”
All around them, shoppers and other employees continued filing out into the lot, everybody craning to see what on earth had rattled the store to its rafters two minutes ago.
Worth’s maroon Ford Ranger had rammed head-on into the southeast corner of the building. The front end had crumpled halfway to the cab, creasing the hood into a sharp peak. Steam hissed; engine fluid splattered the ground. Nuggets of windshield scattered the sidewalk.
Two squad cars had already arrived: one behind the truck, one parked at an angle in the exit of the lot. Both held spotlights on the truck, illuminating the scene in bright light.
Sirens filled the air. More cop cars arrived. Suddenly, they seemed to come from everywhere, descending on the parking lot of the SaveMore like black-and-white bugs. Whirlpools of red and blue swirled against the side of the building.
Somebody said, “Is that thing going to blow up?”
Before anybody could speculate, a brace of uniformed police officers came toward the crowd. They all made pushing gestures with their hands.
“Everybody back.”
“We need you folks back.”
“Back inside the building now. Here we go.”
Sorensen, the night manager, walked out toward one of the cops. The cop nodded his head, steered Sorensen around by the arm, and herded him back with everybody else.
Behind them, a bullhorn sounded, loud and electric over the chatter of the crowd: Step out of the vehicle. Hands first.
The driver’s door wrenched open.
LaTonya said, “That ain’t Supercop.”
They all saw the guy stumble out, blood streaming down his face. He staggered a few feet into the spotlight, doubled over a moment, then straightened again. He looked around like he couldn’t get his bearings.
All at once, he seemed to shake off the cobwebs. He turned and started hobbling toward the crowd.
“Stop,” the bullhorn said. “Stop right now.”
Somebody said, “Is that a gun?”
The officers working the crowd drew their weapons, shouted warnings. Some woman screamed. The bloody stranger held his ribs with one hand, raising his other.
He did have a gun.
So they shot him.
It sounded like firecrackers. Pop pop pop. The guy fell down like he’d tripped on something, writhed on the ground a moment or two. Then he coughed and stopped moving. Right there in front of everybody.
Curtis Modell said, “Holy shit.”
He turned to his brother, but Ricky was gone. Everything went nuts. Standing on his tiptoes, looking over the crowd, Curtis glimpsed Ricky in the distance, heading back into the store.
“Dude,” he called out. “Where the hell are you going?”
If Ricky heard him, he didn’t respond.
Curtis tried to break away, but he never quite managed. Somehow, he found himself stuck in the parking lot, helping the cops move people back from the scene, working to keep the gawkers at bay.
35
“Your face is looking much better.”
“Think so?”
“No question about it.”
As Dr. Jerry Grail moved his hand toward the middle desk drawer, Worth closed his eyes. Jesus. Couldn’t he see it coming by now?
“Have a look for yourself.”
“I swear, Doc. You and that mirror.”
Grail smiled. “Humor me.”
Worth gave in, picked up the mirror, held it in front of his face. Two black eyes, fading. Assorted cuts and scrapes, all gone to scab.
“I see a man on the mend,” Dr. Grail said. “What do you see?”
Worth slid the mirror back across the desk. His ribs still hurt when he leaned forward. “I see a guy who didn’t take a knife in the stomach.”
“You say that like you wish otherwise.”
“I wish a lot of things.”
Grail nodded along. “Let me ask you. Do you hold yourself personally responsible for the actions of every officer in the department?”
“Of course not,” Worth said.
“I see. Only in the case of Officer Briggs, then.”
Worth sighed. “I hold myself responsible for putting people in dangerous situations. For my own actions.”
“Do you believe your actions could have prevented those situations?”
It was physically painful, sitting here, but not because of his few straggling injuries. All in all, he would have rather been back on the floor of the Homey Inn, getting stomped by the mob.
“You mean, do I think that if I’d behaved differently, there might not be a crew from Dateline outside your office building right now?”
Grail smiled. “If you’d like to put it that way.”
In the past two weeks, most of the major news outlets had been to town. Everybody seemed to love the story: a disgraced officer, a battered checkout girl. Crooked cops and organized crime. A bloodbath in the frozen heartland. Worth assumed it must have been a slow month.
“Yes,” he said. “I think that if I’d acted differently, none of this would have happened.”
“If Officer Briggs and Officer Salcedo hadn’t been doing what they were doing.” Grail counted the ifs on his fingers. “If Mr. Tice hadn’t been doing what he was doing. If Russell James hadn’t been violent and abusive. If Miss Mullen had come to you sooner.”
“If she hadn’t come to me at all.”
Grail stopped pursuing that avenue. “How is Gwen?”
She’d almost died twice in the hospital. Once from the damage caused by her stabbing, once from the septic infection that started at the wound site and spread through her blood like fire.
At the moment, she was hooked up to a ventilator and a dialysis machine, still suspended in a drug-induced state of unconsciousness while the machines and the medicine did their work. But they said she was recovering.
Worth said, “The doctors seem happy.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It’s lucky,” he said. “But yeah.”
Grail tapped his notepad with his pen. After a long minute of silence, he said: “Would you mind if we changed gears for a minute?”
“Sure,” Worth said.
Grail took a sheet of paper from the case folder. He handed the sheet across the desk and leaned back in his chair. “I received that several days ago.”
It was the letter from the department’s public information office, announcing that the Fallen Brothers memorial, previously scheduled for last week, would be postponed until an undetermined date in the future.
“Right.” He handed the letter back. “I got one, too.”
“I’d hoped to discuss it during our session last week,” Grail said. “But our conversation never quite seemed to turn in that direction.”
“Was there something to discuss?”
“I don’t know,” Grail said. “Your brother is among the officers to be honored. Do you have any feelings about the postponement?”
“I think the department has a national media story on its hands, funerals to figure out for two dirty badges, and a grand jury investigation in progress.” Worth shrugged. “I don’t know how else they could have handled it.”
“Forgive me,” Dr. Grail said. “How was Kelly killed, again?”
“Doc, come on.”
“I’m sorry. Just refresh my memory.”
The guy knew exactly how Kelly had been killed. They’d been over it before. Several times, in fact. A fifteen-year-old kid, playing dead in the street, earning his colors on the first cop who stopped to render aid. Worth could see one of the newspaper clippings in Grail’s case folder from where he was sitting.