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rt?”
He frowns and looks over his shoulder. “Sheila! He’s bleeding! Bring a towel.”
I’m bleeding? “Not my blood,” I manage and push past him, my eyes sweeping the area. “Get back in your car.” I climb to the road, and continue to search for the station wagon.
It’s in the ditch on the other side of the road, on its side, the driver’s side up. And, it too, is smoking.
The sirens are louder, now, but I’m ignoring them, my body running hot as I circle the wagon.
The front windshield is destroyed and even from here I see that the passenger, the shooter, now crumpled half-out of the broken glass, isn’t going to stand trial.
His driver is in rough shape, too, crumpled on top of his body.
I bend over, grab my knees, and lose it. And not because of the gruesome sight.
But, maybe, because this time, I won. That fact leaves me shaken, undone and, to be honest, terrified.
Because I know time is a sore loser.
I glance at Art and Shelia who just stare at me. Sheila is holding a towel.
The sirens have stopped at the crash, and I’m wiping my mouth as an officer runs down to me. “Sir—are you okay?”
He’s a big man and looks vaguely familiar and it’s then I notice his name. Williams.
Big Jimmy Williams, now working for the Excelsior department. I have the desperate urge to tell him not to change precincts. Or better, retire now.
“Detective Rembrandt Stone. These men are shooters in a nearby drive-by.”
“Over at the Mulligan’s place?”
I am nearly weak with relief. So, they already know. “How’s Bets?”
He speaks into his radio, asking for an update. “They’re on their way to the HCMC Trauma Center.”
I climb up the bank, back onto the road.
The Camaro has died, not a hint of life, the body destroyed, but I don’t have time to mourn.
I need a ride.
I’m searching, and my gaze lands on a red Toyota Camry, still parked in the middle of the road, blocking traffic on both sides.
Art has returned to his car, and is sitting at the wheel, his door open, one leg out as if he’s not sure what to do.
I have a job for him.
It doesn’t take much for Art and Sheila to agree to take me downtown to the Hennepin County Medical Center. They take one look at the blood on my hands, on my bare chest—yes, I took off my Journey shirt to staunch Bets’ wounds—and tell me to climb in.
I don’t wait to give a report. I have no doubt Burke, or Booker, or even Williams will track me down.
“You’re hurt,” Sheila says, and it’s now I realize I’m a little scuffed up, as well as half-naked.
“Here.” Art shucks off his suit jacket. “Take this.”
I want to argue but I did save their lives. “Thanks.”
“What happened back there, son?” Art says, and glances at me through the rear-view mirror.
