Better Off Dead (28 page)

"Get lost," I hissed, pushing one
particularly ballsy specimen aside. The duck turned, quacked its
outrage and re-approached.

Ouch. One of them nipped my cheek with a
beak. Visions of Alfred Hitchcock movies flashed through my mind.
Jesus, this was a nightmare.

The ducks surrounded me, quacking even
louder when I failed to come across with the goods.

"Over there!" one of the men on shore
shouted. "Follow the ducks."

It was time to bail.

I slid beneath the surface again, swimming
quickly, holding my breath in the brackish water. I moved away from
the figures on shore, back toward where I had hidden my gun.

The ducks moved with me. Like a squadron of
tattletales, they quacked their way behind me, their sharp cries
cutting through the stillness of the night, as effective as an air
raid siren.

When this was over, I was visiting a Chinese
restaurant and gorging on Peking duck until I dropped. If I ever
got the chance.

At least the two men had been lured to the
far shore. That bought me some time. I reached the shoreline near
the docks and retrieved my gun, then felt my way through a thick
patch of cattails that gave way to daylilies scattered among round
stones. My clothes were soaked, slowing me down. The smooth ovals
of rock that looked so serene in the daylight only caused me to
slip and repeatedly bang my ankles. I'd never make it to safety in
time.

Then I heard my name.

"Casey!" a voice called out.*"Where are
you?"

It was Luke. Was he one of the men? Was he
with the men? Was he trying to help me?

"Don't come near me," I commanded him. "I
have a gun.”

"It's me," he answered. "Why are you hiding?
Listen you're in danger. I know who it is—"

A blast rocked the air. Dirt and stone
exploded in my face. Another shot boomed and a shower of pebbles
rained into the pond. Someone was firing straight at me. I dropped
to my knees on the rocks, ignoring the pain, steadied my gun and
fired right at where the blasts were coming from.

The sound of my Colt was more like a pop
compared to what they had. I was outarmed for sure. But the men had
not expected to be fired back on. I heard cursing and wild
scrambling sounds among the rocks. Then shouting and the sounds of
running. My ears rang from the two earlier blasts. Who was it? I
couldn't tell. Their voices sounded muffled as the two men argued;
they were running away at the same time. "Why did you fire?" one
shouted. "Are you insane? She's got a gun."

"Let's go," a second voice commanded. "It's
too late now."

More pushing and scrambling. Figures
scurried up the slope toward the path that led out of the
Gardens.

One of them was tall and lanky. Maybe Luke?
And who else?

Should I shoot? How could I explain shooting
a man in the back to the cops?

How could I even explain the gun in my hand?
It was illegal. Worse, how long until the cops arrived in response
to the noise? Detective Ferrar would be on my ass like a cat on
cream. I needed to get the hell out of there.

I peered through the darkness. The figures
had disappeared. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they ran up
the path toward the parking lot. On the run.

I tripped and fell over a patch of ragged
roots, banging my elbow. The gun flew from my hand and splashed
into the pond. As I grabbed for it, my hand brushed against a leg.
I scrambled backward over the rocks. No one approached me. I moved
forward and touched the leg again. It did not move. As my eyes
adjusted to the dark shadows, I began to make out a body splayed
face up across a carved boulder, the head lolling off the opposite
side. All I could see was the lower half of the torso and two legs
dangling off the stone like inanimate objects. I froze. Two people
running away toward the road? Then who was here with me?

I rose to my knees. My palms were bleeding.
The figure lay still, unmoving.

I'd hit someone. Who was it?

I scrambled to my feet and approached
cautiously. Still, the figure did not move. I leaned over it,
poking an arm. It flopped to one side. Was he dead? As I worked my
way around to the other side of the boulder, the moon broke through
the racing cloud cover. For a few brief seconds, a sliver of light
fell across the pond and the surface sparkled, then the light moved
toward the boulder and illuminated the body for a single instant
before darkness once again shrouded the scene.

But I had seen his face. I had hit Luke.

He lay sprawled across the huge rock, face
up, his head dangling over the edge. I cradled his head in my hands
and eased it back up on the boulder, then scrambled up the incline
until I was crouched beside him. His leather jacket was flung open
to each side, the T-shirt beneath it exposed to the night air. A
dark stain spread across his chest like spilled red wine. I looked
down at my hands. They were soaked with his blood. The rock was
soaked with his blood. The night seemed soaked with his blood.

Oh my god. What if I had killed him?

I began to scream for help at the top of my
lungs. I screamed and shouted bloody murder, almost wrenching the
tissue from my throat. I knew I could not leave him, but I had to
get help. Someone would hear me, someone had to.

Frantically gathering his leather jacket
around his torso, I pulled it tight, trying to trap the blood
inside. Where had he been hit? A lung? The heart? Blood oozed from
the wound, washing over me.

Oh, Jesus. What if I had killed him?

He was unresponsive. I had to get him to the
hospital quick.

Where was help? I screamed again, begging
for someone to hear.

I could not wait any longer.

I eased him into my arms, took a deep breath
and lifted, almost buckling beneath his weight. I willed myself to
be stronger. I made myself dig in. He lifted. I turned, slipped,
regained my balance, scrambled down the slope that led from the
boulders to the shore below, then plunged along the curving path
that bordered the pond. To the left, the hospital loomed at the top
of the hill, hallway lights glowing dimly through narrow windows.
Someone could help him there.

I did not think I would make it. I screamed
as I ran, cradling him in my arms. I was screaming for help over
and over, begging for someone to hear me. Begging for Luke to hang
in there.

Halfway to the hill that led to the street
above, someone finally heard my cries. "What the hell is going on
down there?" a voice shouted from the pathway above.

A man. God, please make him a friend. God,
please send me an angel.

"He's been hit," I screamed back. "My
friend's been shot. He's hit and he's bleeding and I think he may
be dying."

"Stay there," the voice commanded. "Don't
move him any further."

I sank to my knees. I'd carried Luke out of
the mud and the cattails, halfway across the Gardens. I couldn't
move him anymore.

"Lay him down on the grass gently," the same
strong voice told me as it drew closer. I collapsed under Luke's
weight, sinking to the grass, unable to speak or breathe.

"Let go!" the voice ordered me. I realized I
was still gripping Luke tightly to my chest. Strong arms pried my
hands away. Luke rolled forward, flopping on his back in the
moonlight.

"Jesus Christ," the man said. "He's just a
kid."

I lost it. He was just a kid. What was he
doing involved in all this? Had he been following me? Was he the
one? Was I just paranoid? Had he been trying to help me? What had
he called out just before he was shot?

Oh god, what if I never got the chance to
find out the truth?

"I've got a pulse," the man said. I could
finally see his face. It was plain and narrow. He, too, was
young.

"Pull yourself together," he snapped at me.
"I can't leave him. Stand up."

I scrambled to my feet.

"See that building at the top of the hill?"
His voice was sharp.

"I know it, I know it," I babbled. "It's the
hospital."

"It's not the right building, but they'll
send help. Go in the back door. The one near the Dumpsters. Go
straight up the hill and look for some white vans. Run as fast as
you can. Faster than you can. Understand? Tell them to bring
plasma. Tell them it's a gunshot wound to the back, probable
shotgun from a distance. Exit wound in the front. But off-center.
Damage to the lung area. Can you remember that?" He was shouting in
my face, but I could barely hear him against the roaring that had
started in my ears.

"Yes, yes," I promised. "I can remember
that."

"Go. Now." He bent over Luke as I turned and
ran, the cold wind lifting the moisture from my exposed skin. The
feeling was somehow comforting. I was alive. I could do it. I could
run faster. And what had the man said back there. What did I need
to remember?

As I scrambled up the hill, slipping on
piles of loose pine needles, it came to me: Luke had been hit from
behind. With a shotgun, the man had said.

Not my gun. Not me.

Someone else had shot him.

He had been there to protect me.

It felt as if my lungs would explode. I made
myself keep going.

I reached the winding asphalt road that led
to the medical center, searching frantically for a parking lot
filled with white vans. There. To my left. Like ghosts lined up in
the darkness. I scrambled toward them, banged my shin on a bumper,
fell, got back up and found the back door to the building. It was
open. I burst through it and collided with a woman who was pushing
a trash container on wheels. She screamed and threw herself back
against the wall.

"Emergency," I shouted. "Emergency. There's
a boy shot in Duke Gardens."

They flooded the area within minutes.
Ambulances. Crews of medical technicians with stretchers. Campus
cops. The Durham police would not be far behind.

I stood on the top of the hill, guarded by a
pair of campus cops, watching the medics run to Luke's aid. The man
who had waited beside him rose to his feet and started shouting
orders. God had sent me a doctor on his way home. Or, at least, a
medical student who had stayed late at the library.

A squad car pulled up on the sidewalk
nearby. Doors slammed behind me. Two Durham cops approached. They
looked serious. Thank god. It was Hugh Fitzpatrick, the roly-poly
bachelor cop who was appallingly easy to wrap around my little
finger. I'd need to do some serious wrapping tonight.

"What's going on, Casey?" Fitz asked,
staring at the pool of liquid spreading across the sidewalk from my
feet. His eyes widened. "Is that blood?"

"A friend of mine got shot as we were
walking through the Gardens."

He stared at my clothes. "Are you soaked? Is
that water?"

"We were near the docks when it happened. I
was scared. I fell into the pond. Then I picked him up and tried to
run. The blood is his. I'm okay." My words tumbled out in a nervous
rush. The wind picked up and I shivered. Fitz stood beside me,
staring down at the medical team working below.

"What the fuck were you doing walking around
in Duke Gardens at night?" he asked. "Especially with all that's
going on?"

"I think I better talk to Detective Ferrar,"
I said between chattering teeth.

"I think maybe you better," he agreed.

"Can I change first?" I begged him. "Please,
please, please. Give me a ride home. I'll give you my clothes, I'll
put them in a plastic bag for you. You can watch me undress. I just
need to put on something dry. And come back here and check on Luke.
That's my... that's my ..." Words failed me for a moment. Then I
started to sob. Like some dumb girl. "That's my friend down there,"
I finally choked out. I began to cry even harder.

"Jesus," Fitz begged me. "Don't cry, Casey.
Sure, I'll take you home. Let me just clear it past Ferrar first.
No problem. I'll radio Ferrar on the way. Come on." He patted my
shoulders in helpless sympathy. "It'll be okay. Your friend's got
the best doctors in the country a few yards away. Come on, pull it
together." He sounded worse than I did. "Christ, Casey, I never
thought I'd see you cry."

"Don't tell anyone," I said through my
tears. "And make your partner swear the same."

"Sure, sure. Anything. Just come on, kid.
We'll get you some dry clothes."

"Geeze, Casey," Bobby grumbled. "I don't
know whether to strangle you or hug you." He plopped down beside me
in an empty plastic chair. It shook beneath his weight.

"For godsakes, don't hug me," I said. "For
one thing, I smell like pond scum."

"There's a joke in there," he said, clumsily
patting my leg. "But I'm not going to touch it."

We were sitting in an empty examining room.
Ferrar had let me change clothes under the watchful eye of a female
officer, making me feel like a suspect. I felt like even more of
one when he refused my request to shower. "Not yet," he had
commanded via radio.

That "not yet" worried me.

The doctor had come in half an hour earlier,
looked me over, pronounced me healthy as a horse, painted half my
hide in expensive iodine gunk, then warned me that the police were
waiting to question me. I was all theirs.

I was really worried by then. But sometimes
fate helps. My palm and fingers were now coated in Betadine. A
residue test would be unreliable. If it came to that.

Luke was in an operating room with a team of
trauma surgeons working to save him. He'd taken a shotgun blast in
the back. It had hit him off-center and been fired from a distance,
thank god. His right lung was damaged but not destroyed. Still, he
was in grave danger and had lost a lot of blood. No one would tell
me whether they thought he was going to live or die.

And no one could find his parents.

"Where's Fanny?" I asked, suddenly longing
for her maternal comfort.