The rear driver’s side window shattered on the first shot. The bullets bit into the cop and shock registered on his jowly face. Mace saw a squirt of blood leap out of the cop’s left eye as his first shot went high. The other two slapped into his chest, disappearing into the dark uniform shirt.
Nice tight group.
The cop fell, disappearing from view.
Carla screamed.
“Drive, you stupid bitch!” Mace screamed at her, “or I’ll fucking shoot you next.”
Winter felt himself go thunk on the asphalt. For a second, he couldn’t see. He felt wetness on his face, the left side, but the greater pain was lower. In the chest.
He’d been hit.
He heard the squeal of tires and the thick odor of exhaust assaulted his senses.
His left hand fumbled at his belt, searching for his portable radio. He located it and slid his thumb awkwardly into the small notch at the back where he hit the tiny red panic button.
Now wait for the sirens. They’re coming.
He willed himself to stay calm. To breath. Focus. Listen for the sirens.
But instead, he remembered a time years when he waited in the midst of sing-song Vietnamese screams and the splatting sound of AK-47’s, listening for the sweet sound of helicopter rotors.
Another alarm tone, wondered Kopriva. What the hell?
“Signal-98, panic button,” the dispatcher intoned. “Charlie-251, Officer Winter. Jackson and Cincinnati. Repeat, Signal-98.”
“Holy shit!” Kopriva yelled, dropping his car into gear. He punched the accelerator and flew up Standard toward Jackson. On the way, he blew past a white Chrysler, which dutifully pulled to the side to let him pass even though it was driving southbound.
The alarm tone surprised Payne as well. He reached Hamilton.
North or south?
He decided on north, since more of the sector lay to the north of his location.
Good choice, good reason, he told himself as he swung the police car north on Hamilton.
“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Bates.
Payne winced. Fifty-fifty shot and he lost. He turned the car around as soon as they passed the concrete island.
“Sorry,” he told Bates.
“Drive faster or I will stop this car and drive myself,” Bates told him, his voice steeped in cold anger.
As soon as he heard the garage door close, Mace pushed the cushion forward and slid out of the trunk into the back seat. He replaced the cushion again. Carla cried hard, bordering on hysterical. He slapped her without thinking twice about it.
“Shut up. Let’s get upstairs.” He put his jacket, the wig, gun and money into an empty gym bag. They left the small garage and made their way up the stairs to his apartment.
Carla sniffled and hitched, but otherwise maintained herself all the way up the stairs. As soon as the door closed behind her, she started to cry hysterically again. “You shot a cop!” she screamed. “Oh my God, you shot a cop.”
Andrea and Leslie sat on the couch, watching her dispassionately. She turned to them both. “He shot a cop! We’re all going to hang! They hang people in this state, you know.”
“It’ll be all right,” Mace said. “No one saw us. No one knows but him, and he’s as good as dead.”
He wondered if that were true. Mace narrowed his eyes. He needed to turn on the TV and see what the news reported.
“Oh, God,” Carla sobbed. “He shot a cop.”
“Fuck that cop!” Mace snarled. “That’s what he had coming.”
Carla whimpered.
“The cop was the enemy,” Mace said, his voice low and intense. His body felt electric. “He would have killed us if he had the chance. I did what I had to do.”
Silence filled the room, except for Carla’s sobbing and muttering. Mace put his gym bag on the kitchen table and turned to look at Andrea and Leslie. Andrea remained silent.
Leslie finally spoke. “Did you score any smack, baby?”
Karl Winter clutched at his wounds. His chest seemed constricted and pain pulsed where the bullets had hit.
Thoughts flitted through his mind.
One bullet there or two?
Jesus, that was close to his heart, wasn’t it?
He should’ve worn his protective vest.
He couldn’t see out of one eye.
Winter chuckled, a wet raspy sound. His theory had been right about Scarface, hadn’t it? Almost right.
Then the pain hit again, followed by a coldness.
Mary. Mary. Had he kissed her goodbye tonight? He’d kissed her goodbye every day for twenty-four years, but he could not remember if he’d kissed her tonight.
Mary. He could hear her sweet laugh as he struggled to play the guitar. The music rang in his ears.
“The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves.”
Winter’s bloody hand twitched as his fingers struggled to form the chords. He tried to sing, but only a wheeze escaped his mouth.
Mary. Her soft touch on his shoulder.
Had he kissed her goodbye?
His feet were so cold.
A siren broke through his thoughts, followed by the screech of tires.
Kopriva leapt from the car and ran to the fallen officer. He recognized Winter more by his belly than his bloody face.
“Baker-123, officer down! Start medics, now!”
“Copy. Injuries?”
“Multiple gunshot wounds,” Kopriva said, guessing.
He knelt beside Winter. Blood, coming from his left eye, covered the left side of the officer’s face. That wound appeared to be only a trickle, perhaps from a grazing shot. Kopriva saw the bullet holes in his chest and heard the raspy rattle of a sucking chest wound. He applied pressure, noticing that Winter didn’t have on a vest. Frantically, he struggled to recall the proper first aid.
Winter tried to mouth something to him. He leaned forward but no sound came from the veteran’s lips. Winter spoke the same silent few words over and over, but Kopriva couldn’t make them out. He lifted his head again. Winter continued to mouth the phrase, looking like a fish gasping for water in the bottom of a fishing boat.
Then Kopriva noticed the puddle of blood that emerged from both sides of Winter, spreading slowly outward like a pair of black wings.
He took Winter’s hand and held it tightly in his own.
Karl Winter saw the shadowy shape of a man above him but not well enough to recognize who it was. He saw the silver badge on the man’s chest, though. That was what mattered. He’d been able to give his message to the man, who would give it to Mary. He didn’t want her to worry at his bedside while he recovered.
The light shining from the streetlight had dimmed. He was cold, so cold.
He could barely feel the officer’s grip on his hand and wished he could hold it tighter.
Had he kissed Mary goodbye?
“You’re going to be okay, man. Just hold on.” Kopriva squeezed Winter’s hand tightly. He didn’t know if the wounded officer could hear him or not. “Just hold on.”
Hurry up with the goddamn medics!
He looked around frantically, willing them to appear. He saw fresh rubber marks beside Winter in the flashing red and blue lights. They led westbound. He realized that he’d probably passed the suspect car on his way and cursed silently.
When he looked down again, Karl Winter’s eyes had frozen into a fixed stare.
TEN