Page 93 of Two Kinds of Stranger

‘There’s an all-night diner two blocks away. You can drive. Get us out of this rain,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t mind the cold. It’s the rain that really beats me all to. . .’

The sound of Joe’s voice drifted off for a second as Lake’s attention snapped away to something else. He noticed a dark sedan coming through the traffic lights. There was little traffic in this part of the city even at rush hour. Less at this time of night in this weather. The sedan was pointed right at them. It had its full beam headlights on, so it was impossible to see the license plate.

Lake tensed. Already cold and wet, an electric shiver started at the base of his spine and traveled up his back.

As the car turned left, maybe forty feet from them, Lake saw the passenger-side front window roll down.

The rain was unrelenting. The driver wouldn’t be buzzing down the window for fresh air.

Lake’s instincts took over.

He stepped in close to Joe, shoulder tackling him hard just as the driver popped off his first round. Lake could see the muzzle flash illuminating the interior of the car. It was impossible to make out the driver in the dark.

Five more flashes. Five cracks echoing through the air.

Lake landed on his left side, close to Joe’s feet.

The sedan sped away. Engine revving high.

Lake reached for his pistol, but his right arm screamed back at him.

He’d been hit, just below the elbow. He hadn’t even felt the round tear his flesh. Now, he gazed at the cuff of his shirt. It turned red as the blood running down his arm seeped through.

Lake turned and crawled over to Joe Novak, who lay on his left side.

Unmoving.

Lake rolled him over. It was too damn dark to see beneath the overpass.

‘Joe? Joe? Are you hit?’

Joe’s eyes were open. Unblinking.

Lake pulled the scarf away, saw a smear of blood on Joe’s lips.

With his left hand, he took out his pocket flashlight and turned it on Joe. Blood was pooling on his chest and throat. Lake wiped it away, looking for the wound, and found two at the top of his chest.

‘Joe? Joe?’

Blood was still pumping from the wounds. Lake took the scarf and did his best to staunch the bleed with one hand, while his fingers trembled and his own blood ran over the screen on his phone as he dialed 911.

The other man came running over. Knelt down beside Joe as Lake asked for a paramedic and police.

The other man cupped Joe’s face, said, ‘He’s dead. Oh my God, he’s dead.’

Lake took the scarf away, listened for a pulse, checked Joe’s breathing.

Nothing.

He started CPR. Told the man to put pressure on the wounds, but not to get in his way.

With every chest compression, Lake felt another jet of blood pumping from his arm. He felt faint and sick. Like he wanted to vomit. But he pushed through, counting off the compressions, then giving Joe mouth to mouth.

Minutes felt like hours. And there was no sign of the paramedics.

Lake’s vision blurred. He lost count of the chest compressions.

Gave mouth to mouth. Then pumped Joe’s chest again.