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Suddenly Lindsey stepped back inside the wall, headed back in the direction of home, and saw us.
Strawberry Death paused beside a palm long enough to reach toward her ankle.
A backup gun.
But she didn’t turn on me. Instead, she started running east again. She was thirty feet from the wall.
I shouted, “Lindsey, run! Go back! Run!”
Lindsey froze and stared at me, unsure of what she was seeing.
I tried to get a clean shot but the two women were aligned and now not more than a few steps apart.
“Deputy Sheriff, halt! Drop your weapon! I will fire!”
Hearing this, Lindsey instantly withdrew to the other side.
“What’s going on out there? Are you all right?” A man’s voice from a porch.
“Get inside and call the police,” I yelled.
Then I stopped, dropped to one knee, made my breathing slow down, and lined up the barrel on the back of the woman, the gold and red of her hair shining under the streetlight.
I slowly let out a breath and started the trigger pull.
But then she passed through the cut in the wall.
And three seconds later, I heard the shot.
Chapter Twelve
Lindsey lay face down on the pavement.
The back of her white blouse was red and wet with blood.
I swept the surroundings with my .38 but the woman was gone. Then I knelt beside my wife and gently turned her over.
“Dave…”
“I’m here.”
“Your face is bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bad time for a walk, huh?” Her lips tried to smile.
I looked around again, but the parking lots across the street were empty and the edges of the wall looked clear of any lurking killer. The half-smoked Gauloise was burning five feet away.
“Don’t leave me.” Her voice sounded groggy.
“No. Never.”
“It hurts. Hurts.”
The entry wound was in the middle of her chest.
I needed a trauma kit.
