Vandermein

XIII

I reached for mine too, but it wasn't there. I must have lost it in the crash.

Boone was turning, his head and eyes moving to consider Veronica, whose body was pivoting toward her boss. She meant to shoot him, but why? What could she gain in offing her boss right here, in the middle of the day, while cars zipped by right behind her. There would be witnesses, no getaway, no anonymity.

I was 20 feet away and down hill. The likelihood that I could rush forward and intercept the shot was very poor. Not only did I have the elevation disadvantage but my body was still smashed up from the hard landing. I could only watch, maybe turn and run. But Veronica's hands were not shaky like her boss's. She could probably pick me off as I fled.

My best chance--my only chance--was to move forward, deal with the situation ahead of me as I found it.

Veronica's gun emerged from her holster. Boone's face turned, but his barrel discipline kept the killing end of his weapon away from his partner. He was professional. Too professional for his own good.

I had only moved ten feet by the time Veronica's gun was all the way out, her finger on the trigger.

I heard my words in low, slow syllables as I shouted, "Get down!"

But Boone's eyes turned instead toward me, away from his soon-to-be killer. He trusted this stranger more than he trusted me. And of course he did, but it still stung.

Pop!

A gun went off, the sharp crack of the bullet deafening even from this far away. But I was focused on Boone's face, not on the muzzles of the weapons. Who shot who?

As my body dropped to the ground, I figured it out.

It was me. Veronica was shooting me to shut me up. The grassy ground drew closer as I felt about my body, trying to locate the wound. Getting shot feels like being punched most of the time, but my whole body had basically been punched when I flew off the hood of that car. There was no way to know where I'd been hit, except that it couldn't have been a headshot, otherwise I wouldn't be thinking about it.

I hit the ground and skidded, dirt and blades of grass getting into my mouth. My head hit something hard, a rock or a root perhaps.

I heard the two detectives arguing in non-discernable tones.

"Why did you shoot him!?"

"He was running for his gun!"

"Your gun was out before he started running!"

"He's a dangerous criminal!"

"He's no good to us dead!"

Their words became murmurs, low and undecipherable. I kept on my person vials of chemical compounds to help me in case of emergencies. With the last remnants of my consciousness, I reached in and grabbed the first I could touch, hoping it was the right one.

I removed the plastic cap with my thumb and stuck it into my thigh.

I woke up freezing cold, in a body bag.