Rain continued to fall, but not as relentlessly. Visibility had improved, and the streetlamps, imperceptible before, had turned each puddle into a silver pool. I struggled with Debbie’s weight, staggering a few times as I carried her across the parking lot to the Jeep Cherokee. I leaned the nearly unconscious woman against the back door, holding her upright with my arm and shoulder while I fumbled for the front door latch.
The crack of a handgun—a sound as angry as thunder—caused me to drop to the wet asphalt, pulling Debbie down with me. She cried out so loudly that I thought at first she had been hit, but it was her injuries that caused the pain, not a bullet. I held her close, her face pressed against my wet shirt, and listened. Nothing. For a moment, I thought I had imagined the gunshot. Then I felt movement to my right. I spun toward it. There was no sound save the rumble of raindrops beating on the SUV.
“Get under the car,” I told Debbie. She looked at me, but in the darkness I couldn’t read her expression. “Get under the car,” I repeated. She moaned and choked as I pushed her beneath the Cherokee. It was a tight fit, but there was just enough clearance.
I raised myself into a squatting position and leaned against the car door, gun in hand, and cautiously lifted my head above the hood. Raindrops caromed off the surface and splashed my eyes.
“Where are you?” I muttered.
As if in answer, the handgun exploded again and a bullet smacked the front quarter panel of the car directly behind me. I fired my gun in reply; fired at nothing, hit nothing. I fired it only for the sound it made. I wanted whoever was shooting at me to know I had a gun, too. I wanted him to know that I would use it.
I ducked and rolled across the asphalt to the rear of the Cherokee. The rain had flattened my hair and soaked my jacket, shirt, and jeans; the shirt and jeans were sticking to my skin. None of that registered at the time as I moved quickly behind the row of vehicles, keeping low, moving in the direction of the gunshot.
The rain mixed with cold perspiration. Muscles tightened in my neck and shoulders; my lungs compressed until I was taking only short sips of air; the pounding of my heart was loud in my ears; fear built. Yet my mind remained clear and pliant. The moment held no confusion for me. I understood what I must do and how to do it. For that I said a silent prayer of thanks to my skills instructors at the police academy and for what experience I had gained over the years.
I passed half a dozen cars and vans, poked my head up a second time. I saw nothing.
“Where are you?” I asked again, dragging breath into my lungs.
I moved several more car lengths.
Still nothing.
Then a scream, loud and painful.
Again I refused to panic. Instead of rushing to Debbie’s side, I moved slowly and cautiously in a half-crouch back to the SUV. I halted at the rear bumper. A man was standing between my car and the one parked next to it, his gun pointed more or less at the pavement.
“Come outta there,” Nye growled. His face was ominous, with thin lips curled over teeth made unearthly bright by the glow of the streetlamps.
I raised my nine and leveled it at his chest.
“Drop the gun, put your hands in the air,” I shouted.
Nye looked at me. I had surprised him. Except not enough to drop the gun.
For a single instant that seemed much, much longer, the blood behind my eyes pulsated with a terrible sense of déjà vu.
Please, God, not again, my inner voice pleaded.
And then, “DROP THE FUCKING GUN!”
Nye was as startled by my voice as I was. I was moving toward him now, never lifting the front sight of the Beretta from the center of his chest.
“DROP THE FUCKING GUN. DROP THE FUCKING GUN. I’LL KILL YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS! I’LL KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!”
Nye dropped his gun.
“ON YOUR KNEES. ON YOUR KNEES. HANDS BEHIND YOUR FUCKING HEAD. DO IT NOW.”
I continued to scream at him until Nye knelt and laced his fingers behind his neck. I shoved him forward. He sprawled spread-eagle on the wet asphalt. I pressed my knee against his spine and jabbed the barrel of the nine against the base of his skull.
“Don’t shoot me, please, don’t shoot me,” Nye said.
I thought how different my life might have been if only I had screamed obscenities at the first guy.
14
I was cold. I tried not to shiver in my rain-drenched clothes, my arms wrapped tightly across my chest, only there was nothing for it. No one had offered me a dry jacket to put on, or a blanket, or even a towel to wipe away the water that dripped from my hair and sloshed in my shoes. Certainly no one could be bothered to turn down the air-conditioning that added to my discomfort. Yet I refused to ask for those things. I didn’t want these people to think I was a wimp. Instead, I chose to suffer in silence. Well, not in complete silence. My teeth chattered periodically, and try as I might I couldn’t silence them.
