Under a Raging Moon (22 page)

Nice tight group
.

The cop fell, disappearing from view.

Carla screamed.

“Drive, you stupid bitch!” Mace screamed at her, “or I’ll fucking shoot you next.”

Winter felt himself go
thunk
on the asphalt. For a second, he couldn’t see. He felt wetness on his face, the left side, but the greater pain was lower. In the chest.

He’d been hit.

He heard the squeal of tires and the thick odor of exhaust assaulted his senses.

His left hand fumbled at his belt, searching for his portable radio. He located it and slid his thumb aw
k
wardly into the small notch at the back where he hit the tiny red panic button.

Now wait for the sirens
.
They’re coming.

He willed himself to stay calm. To breath. Focus. Listen for the s
i
rens.

But instead, he remembered a time years when he waited in the midst of sing-song Vietnamese screams and the splatting sound of AK-47’s, listening for the sweet sound of helicopter rotors.

Another alarm tone,
wondered Kopriva.
What the hell?

“Signal-98, panic button,”
the dispatcher intoned.
“Charlie-251, O
f
ficer Winter. Jackson and Cincinnati. Repeat, Signal-98.”

“Holy shit!” Kopriva yelled, dropping his car into gear. He punched the accelerator and flew up Standard toward Jackson. On the way, he blew past a white Chrysler, which dutifully pulled to the side to let him pass even though it was driving southbound.

The alarm tone surprised Payne as well. He reached Hami
l
ton.

North or south?

He decided on north, since more of the sector lay to the north of his location.

Good choice, good reason,
he told himself as he swung the police car north on Hamilton.

“What the hell are you doing?”
screamed Bates.

Payne winced. Fifty-fifty shot and he lost. He turned the car around as soon as they passed the concrete island.

“Sorry,” he told Bates.

“Drive faster or I will stop this car and drive myself,” Bates told him, his voice steeped in cold anger.

As soon as he heard the garage door close, Mace pushed the cushion forward and slid out of the trunk into the back seat. He replaced the c
u
shion again. Carla cried hard, bordering on hysterical. He slapped her without thinking twice about it.

“Shut up. Let’s get upstairs.” He put his jacket, the wig, gun and money into an empty gym bag. They left the small garage and made their way up the stairs to his apartment.

Carla sniffled and hitched, but otherwise maintained herself all the way up the stairs. As soon as the door closed behind her, she started to cry hysterically again. “You shot a cop!” she screamed. “Oh my God, you shot a cop.”

Andrea and Leslie sat on the couch, watching her dispassionately. She turned to them both. “He shot a cop! We’re all going to hang! They hang people in this state, you know.”

“It’ll be all right,” Mace said. “No one saw us. No one knows but him, and he’s as good as dead.”

He wondered if that were true. Mace narrowed his eyes. He needed to turn on the TV and see what the news reported.

“Oh, God,” Carla sobbed. “He shot a cop.”

“Fuck that cop!” Mace snarled. “That’s what he had co
m
ing.”

Carla whimpered.

“The cop was the enemy,” Mace said, his voice low and intense. His body felt electric. “He would have killed us if he had the chance. I did what I had to do.”

Silence filled the room, except for Carla’s sobbing and muttering. Mace put his gym bag on the kitchen table and turned to look at Andrea and Leslie. Andrea remained silent.

Leslie finally spoke. “Did you score any smack, baby?”

Karl Winter clutched at his wounds. His chest seemed constricted and pain pulsed where the bullets had hit.

Thoughts flitted through his mind.

One bullet there or two?

Jesus, that was close to his heart, wasn’t it?

He should’ve worn his protective vest.

He couldn’t see out of one eye.

Winter chuckled, a wet raspy sound. His theory had been right about Scarface, hadn’t it? Almost right.

Then the pain hit again, followed by a coldness.

Mary. Mary. Had he kissed her goodbye tonight? He’d kissed her goodbye every day for twenty-four years, but he could not remember if he’d kissed her tonight.

Mary. He could hear her sweet laugh as he struggled to play the gu
i
tar. The music rang in his ears.

“The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves.”

Winter’s bloody hand twitched as his fingers struggled to form the chords.
He tried to sing, but only a wheeze escaped his mouth.

Mary. Her soft touch on his shoulder.

Had he kissed her goodbye?

His feet were so cold.

A siren broke through his thoughts, followed by the screech of tires.

Kopriva leapt from the car and ran to the fallen officer. He recognized Winter more by his belly than his bloody face.

“Baker-123, officer down! Start medics, now!”

“Copy. Injuries?”

“Multiple gunshot wounds,” Kopriva said, guessing.

He knelt beside Winter. Blood, coming from his left eye, covered the left side of the officer’s face. That wound appeared to be only a trickle, perhaps from a grazing shot. Kopriva saw the bullet holes in his chest and heard the raspy rattle of a sucking chest wound. He applied pressure, noti
c
ing that Winter didn’t have on a vest. Frantically, he struggled to recall the proper first aid.

Winter tried to mouth something to him. He leaned forward but no sound came from the veteran’s lips. Wi
n
ter spoke the same silent few words over and over, but Kopriva couldn’t make them out. He lifted his head again. Winter continued to mouth the phrase, looking like a fish gasping for water in the bottom of a fishing boat.

Then Kopriva noticed the puddle of blood that emerged from both sides of Winter, spreading slowly ou
t
ward like a pair of black wings.

He took Winter’s hand and held it tightly in his own.

Karl Winter saw the shadowy shape of a man above him but not well enough to recognize who it was. He saw the silver badge on the man’s chest, though. That was what mattered. He’d been able to give his message to the man, who would give it to Mary. He didn’t want her to worry at his bedside while he recovered.

The light shining from the streetlight had dimmed. He was cold, so cold.

He could barely feel the officer’s grip on his hand and wished he could hold it tighter.

Had he kissed Mary goodbye?

“You’re going to be okay, man. Just hold on.” Kopriva squeezed Winter’s hand tightly. He didn’t know if the wounded officer could hear him or not. “Just hold on.”

Hurry up with the goddamn medics!

He looked around frantically, willing them to appear. He saw fresh rubber marks beside Winter in the flashing red and blue lights. They led westbound. He realized that he’d probably passed the suspect car on his way and cursed silently.

When he looked down again, Karl Winter’s eyes had fr
o
zen into a fixed stare.

TEN

Saturday, August 27th

Day Shift

1315 hours

A warm August rain fell on the mourners. It began as large, fat drops, splattering noisily when they struck. After a short while, a brisk wind swept in and broke up the drops, thinning them out. Within minutes, it had transformed the rainfall into a misty sheet, lightly soaking the attending mourners.

Police Chaplain Timothy Marshall stood in the downpour, oblivious to its assault. His usually jovial face turned somber for the occasion. His only reaction to the weather was to close his eyes as he spoke the words he knew by rote.

“Ashes to ashes,” he intoned, his words torn and fragmented in the wetness. “Dust to dust.”

Three hundred officers stood in the large cemetery, all in dress un
i
form or dark suits. Those closest to the chaplain heard his words and found in them no solace. Those too far away to hear shifted uncomfortably in the rain, remaining respectfully silent. A very few openly wept.

Lieutenant Alan Hart stood rigidly, unsure of his proper role. Winter had not cared for him. Neither did his friends. As such, his sympathies would likely be rebuffed, so he only offered them in a perfunctory manner to the widow. He knew, though, that his distance would only serve to reinforce their negative image of him. It was, he realized, the price of command.

At his side, Sergeant David Poole watched Mary Winter. He knew how much Karl and she loved each other. He had often compared Sherrie to Mary until he realized he did not love his wife. When had he stopped? He couldn’t pinpoint even an approximate time. That should make him sad, but for some reason it didn’t. Stan
d
ing at Karl’s graveside, he found himself envying the man his heroic death. He feared his own would not be so glorious. A deep sadness finally came upon him with the belief (
or was it knowledge,
he thought morbidly) that he would die alone and unloved.

Anthony Giovanni and Mark Ridgeway stood on either side of Mary. Ne
i
ther man could have known that they shared the same thoughts. Both were deeply hurt over the loss of a woman and both cursed themselves for not being with Winter when he’d needed them. After all, he had always been there for each of them.

A furious, guilt-racked Kopriva stood in the second row of the mourning group. He felt as if he, too, had failed Winter. All the way to the hospital, he watched the paramedics work feverishly on an already dead Winter. He recognized the first few procedures as field techniques he could have performed. That knowledge slammed into his chest with a vengeance. He could have saved Winter if he had acted more quickly. All the doctor’s assurances to the contrary didn’t change that. The surgeons might have been able to repair a nicked aorta if he’d only given them the chance. Instead, he’d stood by uselessly while Karl Winter’s life bled out onto the warm, summer asphalt.

Kopriva spotted Katie MacLeod standing on the fringes of the crowd. She wore a black, calf-length dress. Simple and elegant. She looked beaut
i
ful, like a sculpture.
Beautiful and untouchable,
he reminded himself.

Standing with the pallbearers, Thomas Chisolm kept his face calm and impassive. He barely noticed the rain as it washed over him. He had attended dozens of funerals in his life, most of them after returning from Vietnam. His trip to Arlington cemetery and then, years later, to the Vietnam Memor
i
al had been emotional ones. He’d wept openly, shamelessly, mourning for dozens, even scores, of men. Karl Winter was one man, howe
v
er, and Thomas Chisolm would do him the honor of a stoic burial.

The honor guard from the local National Guard unit folded the flag in crisp motions. Their presence, along with the police motorcycle escort to the cemetery, was an honor accorded to Winter out of respect for his status as both a veteran and a policeman. The bugler stood ready at a distance.

Chisolm watched the honor guard sergeant present the flag to Mary Winter. The uniformed man spoke softly to her. Mary nodded and thanked him. The sergeant patted her twice on the hand. Even that act was done with military precision. He paused several moments before returning to his squad.

Chaplain Marshall gave a nod and the groundskeeper began to turn the lever. The brown casket slowly sank into the wet ground.

Mary Winter sat at the grave
-
side, watching them lower her husband into the earth. The solemn notes of
Taps
pierced the stillness. Her brother Aaron’s strong hands rested on both her shoulders. The casket lowered out of sight as the final notes of
Taps
welled up like a tear and trailed off.

The crowd began to break up. Mary heard the murmuring of sympathies and nodded automatically, wit
h
out understanding the words or seeing the faces. She knew Mark and Gio would stand with her until she was ready to leave, and that Aaron would be there to lean on throughout the day and for the weeks to come.

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing could change the pain. Not the honor or respect they paid to her husband, not the insurance pol
i
cy, not the hat-passing that would take place at the reception following this and not the flag she clutched to her breast.

Mary Winter began to weep and her huge, racking sobs pierced the dow
n
pour where the chaplain’s words had failed to.