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“Miss,” Pete called out. “Could you hang on a minute?”
Wilma shouted over her shoulder, “Stay away from me. Stay away.”
Wilma had made him, but there was nowhere for her to go, handicapped as she was by her kiddo.
“Lady, you’ve got it wrong. My cell phone died. Look.”
Her back was up against her VW Passat, one hand on the stroller’s handlebars, mouth hanging open as she looked everywhere for help. The kiddo let out a scream, and Wilma reached into the stroller, and when she straightened up, Pete saw a .22 pointing at him.
He pulled his gun, but it snagged on his shirt. The muzzle was coming up when he heard the shot and felt the punch to his right shoulder. His gun jumped out of his hand and clattered to the concrete floor.
He yelled, “Stupid bitch!” and dove for the weapon. A slug pinged into the floor an inch from his nose. He rolled onto his back with his gun in his left hand.
“Don’t move, Wilma,” he said, taking aim. But his vision was blurring and lights swooped around him. He squeezed off a few rounds, but he didn’t drop her. Wilma was firing again.
She kept firing.
Chapter 113
I WAS RUNNING up Sutter, Jacobi shouting into the cell phone at my ear, “It’s not one of ours!”
“Say again.”
“None of our people are involved. We got a nine one one call. Shots fired in the Sutter–Stockton Garage. Third floor.”
I called ahead to Conklin over the shrill wail of sirens. We were yards from the garage and then we were inside, our feet striking metal treads as we bounded up the stairs with weapons drawn.
We cleared the doorway to the third floor, and I heard a baby screaming. I ran toward that sound. A woman in her twenties was frozen in place, standing only yards from a man lying spread-eagled, faceup on the floor. She was holding a gun.
I approached the woman slowly, leading with my badge, and said, “I’m Sergeant Boxer. It’s okay now. Please hand me your gun.”
“It’s him, isn’t it?” she said, still transfixed, her baby screaming behind her. “The coroner said to carry a gun, and I did it. It’s him, isn’t it? It’s the killer, isn’t it?”
I had to holster my weapon, shake the shooter’s wrist, and pry up her fingers until I’d secured her .22. Yards away, Conklin kicked a gun out of the limp hand of the man on the floor.
I joined Conklin and put my fingers on the downed man’s carotid artery.
“Rich, I’ve got a pulse.”
Conklin called for an ambulance, and cruisers screamed up the ramp. I couldn’t look away from Peter Gordon’s face.
This was the monster who’d executed nine people, five of them children, a killer who’d tormented his family and held an entire city hostage.
His blood was pumping onto the concrete floor.
I didn’t want to lose him. I wanted to see him in an orange jumpsuit, shackled to the defense table. I wanted to hear his fucked-up view of the world. I wanted him to pay with nine consecutive life sentences, one for each of the people he’d killed. I wanted him to pay.
I pressed my hand to the well of blood pumping from his femoral artery. I nearly jumped when Gordon opened sleepy eyes and turned them on me, saying, “Sweet… meat. I think… I’m shot.”
I leaned so close to his face, I could almost feel a breeze as he opened and closed his eyes.
I said, “Why’d you kill them, you son of a bitch?”
He smiled and said, “Why not?” Then he exhaled a ragged breath and died.
Epilogue
911
