If Miller and his men had known where Creed was staying last night, he was sure he would already be dead. But nothing had happened, which told him that no one who knew had leaked it.
He sat back in his seat. Was it true what Holly had said last night—that he could be redeemed? Was it possible that God had not given up on him? Creed had grappled with his Creator all night long, asking God to show him if there was still a chance. He had finally fallen into a fitful sleep and dreamed about Holly and the baby, years from now when Lily was four
or five. They were a happy family in his dream, something too far outside the realm of possibility . . . just a wish processed by his active mind.
But he had kissed her last night, and she hadn’t pulled away.
He was falling in love with his daughter, and maybe her mother too. Was that even something God would consider? Letting them become a family? Or was that ludicrous?
It was too soon, and there were too many hurdles to cross before that time came, but the thought gave him hope.
His mind drifted back to a conversation he’d had with his dad in his workshop when Creed was fourteen. Creed had been sanding a piece of furniture he’d helped build, and they’d been talking about girls.
“So like, how do you even know when it’s the right girl, when so many of them
seem
right?”
His father sanded for a few minutes, not answering, until Creed wondered if he’d heard him. Finally, he blew the sawdust off and straightened, looked Creed hard in the eyes. “You know you’re in love, son, when you meet the girl who makes you want to be a better you.”
Creed hadn’t understood it then. That hadn’t even made sense. What was wrong with the way he was? That was before he’d gone downhill, thinking he knew more than God or his parents.
Now he understood. Holly made him want to
be
better,
do
better.
As they approached the police department, he watched out the window, dreading the day of interrogation. It was tedious and demanded constant repetition as the police dissected every sentence he spoke, testing for truth and jogging his memory for unnoticed details or things he’d forgotten.
As the officer pulled into the drive where he would be let out, Creed heard sirens somewhere a few blocks away. He looked toward the sound, saw smoke rising in the sky. Was there a building on fire somewhere?
Suddenly there was a burst of chatter on the police radio. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. He leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Explosion up near the county courthouse, in the parking lot,” his driver said.
“Anybody hurt?”
“Not sure yet. Come on, let’s get you inside. I might need to head over there.”
The officer got out of the driver’s seat and came around to the back passenger side to open Creed’s door. Creed slid out.
Something whizzed past his ear, and he instinctively ducked and pivoted. Had that been a gunshot?
“Get down!” the driver shouted.
But Creed froze at the sound of two more rounds, and a bullet whizzed past like knuckles across his cheekbone, knocking his head back. Blood sprayed his shirt, his hands. Before he could react, another one hit his forearm, then pinged into the body of the SUV.
Creed clutched his forearm as his knees buckled in pain. He hit the ground.
“Man down!” one of the cops was yelling into the radio. “Need an ambulance and backup, but the shooter is still active! Repeat, shooter is still active. Rounds are still being fired.”
A cop covered Creed with his body then shoved him under the car.
Shot . . . he was shot! His head . . . his arm . . . blood all over him . . .
“I can’t see the shooter,” he heard someone bellowing into
the radio. “But it looks like it’s coming from the roof of the jail. We need people up there to take the sniper down.”
Creed’s mind raced. The jail again? How would an inmate have gotten up there with a rifle without being noticed?
He was shivering . . . cold . . . and pain shot through the bones of his arm, through his shoulder and his neck and up through his skull. He rolled onto his back, trying not to cry out, praying for cover, for another chance . . . just one more.
It was Miller again. He desperately wanted Creed dead.
He heard more sirens, saw the wheels of more cars skidding to a stop near where he lay, doors slamming. Strong hands pulled him from under the car, pain shot through every nerve ending . . . blinding, heart-stopping pain . . .
Why was he even still alive?
“He’s going into shock,” someone said, dragging him to his feet.
Someone tightened a tourniquet around his arm, wrapped him in a blanket, rushed him through a doorway into the building. The hallway was too bright, and men and women ran past, firearms clutched in their hands. Would one of them blow him to pieces, right here in front of everyone? Did Miller’s tentacles reach that far?
EMTs ran toward him with a gurney, and he felt his body being pushed down. He dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes as they rushed him back outside and into an ambulance. What if the sniper got him now?
They rolled him into the ambulance, slammed the doors shut. He felt a surge of nausea as the vehicle started moving.
Get me out of here
, he thought.
Far away, where no one is trying to kill me.
He kept his eyes closed and lost himself inside the pain rooted in his arm as the ambulance sped away, siren blaring.
F
rom his third-floor desk, Max heard shots fired and ran down the stairs, along with several other detectives. Uniformed officers stampeded toward the side door, weapons drawn.
“It’s coming from the roof of the jail!” someone shouted.
Max looked out the window, saw the commotion on the ground near the door. Someone had been hit.
“Forbes, let’s cross over!” He ran down the stairs to the basement, which connected to the jail—several sets of footsteps running behind him—and crossed to the other building, then dashed up five flights of stairs. The guards were already on the stairwell, moving up to find the shooter. They stepped aside as Max and those with him passed.
As he reached the roof, the door flew open and Sergeant Norris came running in, out of breath and sweating. “Roof’s clear,” he said. “Whoever it is, is back inside.”
Max pushed past him onto the roof. The men with him fanned out, searching behind the cooling tower and any other structures big enough to hide behind. As Norris had said, there was no one there.
Max went to the edge of the roof and looked down. He saw the ambulance driving up, Creed Kershaw being rolled into it on a gurney. So the shooter was probably connected to Miller, maybe the same inmate who had poisoned Creed.
He ran along the perimeter of the roof, looking over to see if anyone had dropped the weapon over the side of the building. As he suspected, there was a rifle caught in the bushes on the south side.
He radioed down that it was there, then turned back to Forbes, who was breathing like a tuberculosis patient. The man seriously needed to get in shape. Max tried to think. Norris had been dripping with sweat just now, much more than if he’d just gone out for a minute. And according to Michael, he was the one who’d delivered Creed his meal the other night.
“Norris,” Max said. “We need to check his hands for gunpowder residue.”
“We probably need to check every guard and any of the inmates who weren’t in their cells.”
“Yes, but Norris is the one. Trust me!” He radioed for someone to detain him. “Let’s go get the security video.”
When they reached the room from which they monitored every floor, the guard stood up. “Detective, I was taking care of a problem on the second floor when the shooting happened. The cameras were disabled while I was up there. We don’t have any video.”
Max went to the window and looked at the surrounding buildings. There were cameras on the police department
building, but were there any on the roof? And would they have gotten video of this shooter?
There was a bank behind them, ten stories high. Maybe a camera there had gotten some video. He sent a detective to check.
Just then, he heard the transmission on the radio. “Exploded car bomb . . . Michael Hogan’s car.”
His breath caught in his chest. “Did you hear that?” he asked Forbes.
“Yeah, I heard it. They said it was Michael.”
Max’s gut lurched. He got on the radio. “Is Michael Hogan alive? Was he injured?”
Static was his reply, then finally, someone came back on. “Yes, he’s alive, uninjured. Lucky man.”
Max let out his breath and steadied himself. “I have to get over there,” he said to Forbes. “Can you take it from here? Start interviewing the guards, starting with Norris. Make sure his skin and clothes are tested for residue.”
“Sure thing. If it’s him, we’ll know soon enough.”
T
he call from Cathy came at ten as Holly was gathering things in the diaper bag to take Lily to Juliet’s.
“Holly!” Cathy yelled. “Bomb . . . shooting . . . Creed . . .”
The phone was breaking up. Holly clutched it closer to her ear. “What? Cathy, I didn’t hear you!” She could hear intermittent sirens in the background, staccato noises, cracked voices.
“Chaos here!” she heard Cathy say. “Bomb under Michael’s car. Sniper . . . Creed was shot!”
Her lungs seized. “No,” Holly said. “Did you say Creed was shot?”
“He’s alive.” The words allowed Holly to breathe again. “He’s . . . hospital . . .”
Holly dropped the diaper bag.
“Michael and I . . . all right. Miller won’t stop,” Cathy said more clearly now, her voice vibrating as if she were walking.
Holly’s heart was thudding so hard she couldn’t hear Cathy’s voice. “Which hospital?” she cried.
“The same hospital. Holly, be careful . . . crazy out here.”
The signal disappeared, but Holly had heard enough. The hospital. She had to get to the hospital. She shoved the phone into her jeans pocket, grabbed Lily, and hurried out to her taxi in the garage. She loaded Lily into the car seat. Her hands trembled as she found the pacifier and gave it to her daughter. “It’s okay, sweetie. Daddy’s gonna be okay.”
She struggled to find her key, digging through her purse in the front seat. She strained to see through her tears as she backed out of her driveway. “God, help him!” she whispered. “It seemed like a gift from you last night. That Lily’s dad and I . . .”
She wiped her face. How could she have been so stupid, thinking he was a gift from God? A second chance? Maybe what she’d told him had been wrong. Maybe God hadn’t redeemed her. Maybe he was all out of second chances.
“God, please! Just one more. Please . . .”
She called Juliet on the way, and Juliet agreed to meet her at the hospital and take Lily.
Holly wiped her face as she drove.
Please, God, don’t let him die.
What would she tell Lily if her dad was killed today? Would it be enough to tell her that he was a hero? That he was trying to do the right thing, trying to out a drug cartel that had ruined so many lives? She could tell her that he was courageous, that he was willing to sacrifice his life to do the right thing.
But she didn’t want to tell her that.
God, please don’t let that happen! I’m begging you.
She parked at the hospital, got Lily out of the car seat, grabbed the diaper bag and her purse, and headed inside. She went to the information desk, asked about Creed.
“Yes,” the nurse said. “He came in half an hour ago, but no one can go back yet. Are you his wife?”
“No. Just . . . a friend.”
“Well, we need someone in his family to fill out some paperwork. Do you know if he has insurance?”
“No . . . he doesn’t. Can you just tell me . . . is he all right? Is he alive?”
“Yes, he’s alive,” she said. “I really can’t give you any more information. I’ll check and see if he’s been taken to surgery.”
Surgery? Then it was serious. She imagined ripped organs and internal bleeding, life draining out of him.
No sign yet of Juliet, so Holly went into the same waiting room where she’d waited that first night when Creed was poisoned. She held her baby against her chest and paced back and forth. She heard the sliding glass doors at the front open, a woman crying. She turned and saw Creed’s parents coming in, his mother sobbing, his sister in tears too. His father went to the desk to get information.
Holly approached them. “Mrs. Kershaw?”
The woman turned. “Holly! Were you with Creed when it happened?”
“No,” she said. “I just got a phone call.”
“Is he alive? Is he going to make it? They said he was shot in the head!”
Holly’s knees buckled, and she felt herself going down. His mother and sister caught her and lowered her into a chair. Sandra took the baby from Holly’s arms.
“I didn’t know that,” Holly said, putting her head down between her knees. “I’m gonna be sick.” No, she couldn’t do this now. She had to be strong. She pulled herself back up.
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” His sister’s question ripped through the air.
Holly didn’t answer, just tried to control her breathing.
“Holly,” his sister said again. “Are you two an item?”
Holly didn’t have the energy or the inclination to lie. “I don’t really know what we are.” She looked around. “Are they going to let you go back? I have to know if he’s all right.”
The double doors flew open, and a nurse came out with a clipboard. “Kershaw family?”
His mother nodded and handed Lily back to Holly. “Frank, they’re calling for us,” she said.
His father left the paperwork and hurried toward the double doors. He didn’t even see Holly and the baby as he raced by. Sandra stopped at the door. “Can she come with us?” she asked the nurse.
“Is she family?”
Holly stopped, expecting the nurse to block her.
“Yes,” his mother said.
Holly bolted through the doors and followed them to Creed’s room.
M
ichael perspired under his Kevlar vest. The bomb that had been planted under his car was fairly sophisticated, rigged to his starter. If he hadn’t used his remote key to start the engine, he would be dead, and so would Cathy.