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But Neil kept coming. “I saw your girl come in with a Dunkin’s box.” Neil, for the first time, focused on Isabel and me. “Some kind of meetin’ going on?”
Greg raised the saw as if it were an actual weapon, using his other hand to steady it. He gave the trigger a quick squeeze. The sound it made was as intimidating as the blade that jutted back and forth at high speed.
“Fuck, fine!” Neil said, backing away.
Greg squeezed the trigger again, holding it this time, and lunged toward me. That high-speed blade, designed to cut through just about anything, would do some serious damage if it reached me. I quickly sidestepped, reaching for the gun at my back at the same time.
But I fumbled it.
The gun clattered to the floor.
“Shit!” said Neil.
Greg wasn’t sure whether to go after the gun or keep coming after me with the saw. He settled on the latter, squeezing the trigger in short, menacing bursts.
There was the sound of a shot, like a cannon going off in the mall’s cavernous concourse, the echo bouncing off the walls and the shattered glass ceiling.
Isabel had grabbed the gun and fired it wildly, effectively getting Greg’s attention, but missing him by a mile.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Put it down!”
She pulled the trigger again, the recoil throwing her arms upward. Greg tossed the saw and started running in the direction of the closest deactivated escalator.
He wasn’t the only one running for his life. Neil, who clearly had no idea who the good guys and the bad guys were here, had figured the only thing to do was get the fuck out of there.
Isabel looked like she wanted to get off another shot, but Greg and Neil were on intersecting flight paths, and she clearly didn’t want to take out the homeless guy, although with her aim I had a sense we were all safe except maybe for some pigeons roosting up near the overhead windows.
Greg was still headed for the dead escalator, but Neil had some other destination in mind, and ended up sideswiping Greg, who lost his balance and began to stagger toward the railing. He reached out for it to stop his fall, but instantly realized his mistake.
The bolts that held the railing to the floor were either shot or not there at all, and the railing gave way like it was made of nothing stronger than toothpicks.
Greg went over the edge and disappeared, his lungs bellowing out a loud, “Fuuuck!” as he went down.
Isabel screamed.
I was running.
I reached the escalator and descended the steps two at a time, careful to navigate the gaps where steps had been removed, and hit the lower level, my heart pounding. I had to backtrack past a few empty storefronts until I reached Greg, on his back, one leg twisted around so impossibly that it was almost up to his ear.
“Greg,” I said, getting down on my knees.
He turned his head a fraction of an inch to look at me, tried to move his lips.
Isabel made it halfway down the escalator, then stopped and watched.
“Greg,” I said again. “Hang in there. Just for another minute. We’re not done. I’ve got one more thing to ask you about, and it’s really, really fucking important.”
I asked him my question and put an ear close to his lips to hear what he had to say.
Tuesday
Sixty-Two
Statement of Isabel McBain, April 5, 2022, 1:10 p.m., interviewed by Detective Marissa Hardy.
Isabel: Am I going to be charged with murder? Because I didn’t kill him. I admit I shot at him, I admit that. But I didn’t hit him. I didn’t get anywhere close to him. I’m a terrible shot, evidently. It was the homeless guy. He bumped into him.
Detective Hardy: You’re correct, you didn’t shoot Mr. Raymus.
