Even Steven (40 page)

"The light," Tim wheezed. "You'll get a light when you open the lid."

Homer sighed. Actually, he'd already thought of that and couldn't figure a way around it. "Well, if you hear more shooting, you just stay low. And if I fall down next to you, just remember that there's a first-aid kit in the trunk." If he wasn't mistaken, Burrows might actually have cut a smile.

Opening the lid, snatching the kit, and slamming it closed again took all of five seconds, and luckily for both of them, their man hadn't taken advantage of his opportunity.

The first-aid kits provided to state troopers were designed primarily for auto accidents on the interstates and were therefore long on dressings and Cling-Pak, but that was about it. Heavy-duty Band-Aids. Something's better than nothing, right?

The silver bandage scissors gleamed at him as he lifted the lid on the onetime tackle box and pulled open the retractable shelves. He grabbed the scissors, then repositioned himself so he could get in closer to his patient. "Okay, Special Agent Timothy Burrows, I'm going to make you a little naked here, okay? I need to see where you're bleeding."

"Check the big fucking hole in my side," Tim moaned.

Homer smiled. Wittiness was a good sign. He slipped the blunt end of the angled scissors into the space between two buttons and cut away the blood-saturated cotton to expose a drenched T-shirt, which he likewise cut away.

Everything felt slippery and sticky as he peeled the material away to reveal a torso smeared crimson. At first, he couldn't see the source of the blood; it seemed to be everywhere.

The instant he saw the wound, he wished that he'd minded his own business.

APRIL WANTED TO feel sad about William, felt that she should feel sad about him. The man who'd been there for her when she really needed him was dead, never again to utter another word or to breathe another breath. She thought back to the times when he'd been tender, the times when they'd really made love to each other, hoping that somehow those memories would trigger something more than the hatred that burned front and center in her heart. As much as she tried to conjure the image of a warm, loving man-and, yes, there'd been times when he'd been exactly that-all she could see was the useless drunk he'd become. The man who'd let her baby be used as collateral.

He deserved to be killed all right, but it should have happened last night, when Logan's men came searching for their money. If he'd been even half a man, he'd have laid down his life right there in the filthy streets outside Wilson's tavern, rather than let them take away a little boy whose only offence was to have been born to someone as incompetent as she.

So, now William was dead, just as Carlos had warned, and she accepted that as a fair trade.

So, Carlos had been true to his word. He'd gone to Logan and he'd had his little talk with him. There were lines never to be crossed, and Logan had finally seen the light. Soon, Justin would be home.

But what about her? What was April going to do about this armed-robbery charge? Such a stupid thing to do! If she'd just waited, every-thing would have been fine. She'd be at home, waiting for her son to return, rather than in a police station waiting for some court-appointed lawyer to come in and screw everything up.

Screw everything up. There was a thought that made her laugh. She was perfectly capable of screwing up her own life, thank you very much. She certainly needed no help from outsiders.

At least Justin would be safe. No matter what else happened, at least he would have a future. Who knew? Maybe while she was rotting away in prison, the system would find a set of foster parents who would really take care of him; provide him with a real house with a real yard, and neighbours who wouldn't recruit him as a drug runner. It could happen.

What kind of people might they be? How could people take a baby into their house for just a few days or a few weeks at a time, only to give him up again? Wouldn't that tear their hearts out? And once torn a few times, would those hearts grow a kind of emotional scar tissue that would prevent them from ever truly loving the children in their care?

It turned her stomach to think of someone caring for her Justin merely for the paycheck.

Well, she should have thought of that before she went and tried to hold up a store. A store with security cameras every ten feet, for God's sakes. What had she been thinking?

Nothing, that's what. She hadn't been thinking a thing. She'd been in a blind panic, and she'd been stupid.

Maybe the judge and the jury would take it easy on her, when she explained how she'd been in fear of her child's life, and that she'd had no choice--

In a flash of realization, a brand-new wave of panic overwhelmed her. She gasped as she realized that she'd never be able to tell the real story of what had happened. That would mean implicating Logan and Carlos, and if she did that, they'd kill her for sure. The baby, too, probably. And God help her if the jury didn't believe her. She'd be trapped in a cage surrounded by countless felons who'd be thrilled to kill her in return for an extra pack of cigarettes.

She was trapped, with no choice but to take the whole fall. It had been her choice, after all. No one had forced her to be this stupid, and now that she'd done it, once little Justin was safe and sound, she'd do what she had to do.

For Justin.

She could do anything for her son.

They'd left her alone in the interview room, presumably to allow her to deal with her grief without the glares of the women in the holding cell, but as she sat there in silence, trying to force her mind to grapple with the problems that lay ahead, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. The big mirror on the wall did that to you. She could almost hear them asking each other why she wasn't more emotional over the death of her husband. How could she make them understand that there comes a point when you've felt so many emotions for so long that they don't register one at a time anymore? They just combine to form a kind of general misery that settles on your life like a blanket.

It had been a good half hour since she'd seen anyone, and Detective Stipton had been clear that he would be returning shortly to ask her a few more questions. As if there'd ever been a cop in the history of police forces who ever limited himself to just a few questions.

When the door opened, she wasn't surprised to see him standing there, but the expression on his face unnerved her. Cops were supposed to be rocks, but this one looked as if he'd just been rolled down a hill. If she wasn't mistaken, she'd have thought he looked close to tears.

April, I'm sorry, but we're going to have to continue this conversation tomorrow. I'm going to send an officer in to take you back to the lockup."

"Is everything okay?" Clearly, it was not.

Stipton looked at April for a moment, considered not saying anything, but then said, "There's been a shooting at St. Ignatius School, There's at least two dead. During a student orchestra concert." He spoke as if he needed to share the news with someone, anyone.

As the door closed, April shook her head pitifully. What was the world coming to? Every day, it seemed, you opened the paper or listened to the news and heard about another shooting in the schools. And St. Iggy's, no less-known throughout the universe as one of the finest private schools in the country. Who would have thought-"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed. In a rush, she remembered the sound of cello music wafting from Carlos Ortegas library while she waited in the hallway to be announced. She remembered the beautiful little girl with her long black hair who glared at her as she exited through the pocket doors as if April were a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. With the greatest clarity of all, she remembered the sweatshirt the little girl wore. It was white, with a green-and-black plaid design around the cuffs and the collar.

And over the left breast, where there might have been a logo for Hilfiger or Izod or any one of a thousand designer names that April could never afford to own, was an elaborate school crest, under which were the embroidered words ST. IGNATIUS SCHOOL.

The panic rushed toward her like an out-of-control freight train. She brought her hands to her head, inhaling spasmodically, and her eyes grew huge as she understood exactly what had happened.

That's when she started to scream.

The rain came from nowhere. Steady but not hard. Drenching.

Burrows was slipping away and Homer could do nothing to stop it. The hole in Tim's gut was huge, about the size of Homer's fist, and from what he could tell by feel alone, it was through-and-through, both wounds to the right of midline, and both below the rib cage. In between the two holes, it had to look like hamburger in there.

The agent hadn't said another word since giving Homer a hard time. That was what, ten minutes ago? Fifteen, maybe? And the flow of blood had slowed to a trickle around the pressure bandages Homer had tied in place. Or at least that he thought he'd tied in place. It's tough work in the dark when your patient won't sit up for you. Whether the trickle meant that he'd controlled the bleeding, or that Burrows had simply bled out, was hard to tell.

"C'mon," Homer growled impatiently, searching the dark clouds for some sign of an approaching chopper. "C'mon, guys, or there won't be nothin' to save."

Beyond the incessant hammering of his own heart, though, combined with Burrows's raspy breath, the night brought nothing but the sound of the rain. Even the shooter remained still. Why would he do

that? Why would he shoot a man at the door and then not even attempt to finish the job? What was that?

He listened carefully, and the sound disappeared. He thought at first that maybe it was the approaching beat of helicopter rotors, but now wondered if maybe it were just more of his own pounding pulse.

No, there it was again! That was definitely a helicopter. But was it the helicopter? Was it Life Flight?

Homer scanned the sky for some visual sign, but when the sky returned only blackness for his effort, he picked up his portable radio. If the medevac helicopter were approaching, it should be trying to raise him on the radio. Why wasn't he doing that?

Because you've got to turn the goddamn thing on, you idiot. Jesus, he'd never been so unraveled. He twisted the knob on the top of the radio, next to the antenna, and was instantly greeted by the sound of an electronic voice.

". . . four seven seven, this is Life Flight one, do you copy?" Homer's hands shook as he brought the radio to his lips and keyed the mike. "West Virginia State Police unit four seven seven to Life Flight one. I copy and I can hear your rotors approaching."

"Nice to hear from you, West Virginia four seven seven. We've been trying to reach you. How is your patient?"

Homer glanced at the man lying next to him and pressed two fingers into the notch alongside his windpipe. "I've got a pulse, but he's been hit pretty bad. Lost a lot of blood."

"I copy that, four seven seven. You're going to need to set out four flares in a rectangular pattern to give us an LZ. It's nice to know we're in the neighbourhood, but from up here, everything looks the same. Do you have a visual on us yet?"

"That's a negative, Life Flight one. No visual." "Okay, four seven seven. We'll keep an eye out for each other. By the way, your scene is secure, is it not?"

Homer hesitated. "Uh, negative, Life Flight. But we've had no further shooting."

"Be advised, four seven seven, our procedures require a secured scene before landing."

Homers heart sank. He'd been afraid of that. And as much as he wanted to rail against them, he understood their position. They were medics, after all, not soldiers or cops. That meant that they were defenceless.

It didn't make sense even to ask someone to take such a risk. There was a guy in there with a gun, for God's sake. A guy who was more than willing-hell, maybe even anxious-to add another trophy to his case. And a helicopter was one hell of a trophy.

Homer hated the thoughts that were knocking on the door of his brain. Why on God's green earth should he even think about taking on this nutcase by himself? Why shouldn't he just do what they should have done from the very beginning-wait for backup to arrive and then go in with superior strength and firepower and blast this guy right out of his socks? That would be justice, after all. That would be showing this scumbag what it meant to shoot at a cop.

But a federal officer lay beside him dying.

God, how he wished there was a better way. Yet the more time he wasted out here trying to decide what to do, the longer Stanns had to dig himself in, and the more blood would drain from Burrows's body.

Worst of all, if he waited, he'd be a coward. No one would call him that-hell, he'd probably already qualified tonight for a damn medal of commendation-but every day that he woke up, he'd realize it for himself, and he wasn't sure how well he'd be able to live with such a thing.

"Goddamn you, Burrows."

He checked to make sure he had all six chambers loaded. Next, he checked the magazine on the shotgun. Full to capacity. He shucked a double-aught round into the breech and was suddenly out of time-killers.

Well, this was it. He keyed the mike on his portable. "State police four seven seven to Life Flight one. Be advised, I'll be securing the scene right now. Stay close."

The medevac responded with something, but Homer wasn't all that interested. This being the night he was going to die in the line of duty, he frankly didn't care what a pilot in a clean uniform had to say.