Failing Upward

Chapter 8 (part 3): In a Grain of Sand

We'd just paid for our groceries at the local Meijer's store when I saw him.

"Over there," I murmured, motioning to the first aisle near the bottle return.

Sherlock knew immediately. He followed my eyes to the front of the store. Watching him, my face betrayed me, recalling the twisting knife. Sherlock turned and walked around me as I took the bags and pushed through the checkout line. We followed him, winding around the shoppers and carts. Out the main entrance, the door hissed shut behind us. Another parking lot. At dusk again. With Sherlock.

And Sherlock's cat-like eyes were fixed on the stranger who glared at me. The lights of the lot cast an eerie yellow glow and feet pounding the asphalt echoed. As he tried to lose us, we zigzagged through parked cars, but he'd had a head start. Sherlock sprinted ahead, his long legs narrowing the distance between them as the man ran toward far end of the lot. The bastard always does stupid shit like this--thinks he's damn invincible. I ran and cut left to toward my assailant to head him off--the eggs weren't going to survive this. Instead racing away, the man spun and rushed toward me, yelling that he needed to speak to me. I wasn't much interested in giving him directions again, but I stood my ground.

I had nothing but a plastic shopping bags with a few groceries and the eggs. I didn't want him anywhere near Sherlock. I was the invincible one. I grabbed a can of tomato soup out to the bag and winged it at his head. I heard a crunch as it hit his temple, but he continued toward me like it never touched him.

I reached back in the bag. Pasta, frozen peas, bacon, seedless grapes, and the damn eggs. Ahh...canned baked beans! I threw the beans.

A first Sherlock was confused at the change in direction. But as the second can slammed into the man's nose, Sherlock adjusted and he jumped, feet banging over the hood of a car as he took the shortest route toward us, leaping down, pushing shopping carts out of his way. Sherlock sprinted toward him, eyes locked on his target and lunged toward the man.

Sherlock saw it coming before I did, a car rolling up on us fast. So did our assailant. He got between the car and Sherlock, wiping the blood that gushed out of his nose with the back of his hand. He shouted, "Gun! Get down." The halide parking lamp above us sparked at the same moment the gun flashed. I heard three pops. The man spun, then fell against Sherlock.

I felt a sting in my arm. I saw the blood. In slow motion, I watched as someone stepped back into a black SUV.

Then, a crowd gathered. Covered in blood, Sherlock stood staring at me. The pain in my arm was trivial compared to the ache inside me. Then utter relief that none of the blood was Sherlock's. I clutched my arm, catching my breath.

I heard sirens.

"He took the bullet for you," I said to Sherlock. "I don't get it."

Bending down winded, I checked my assassin. "He's alive." I said, applying pressure to the worst wound. "Nose is broken, shot twice, but doesn't look like he's hit in any major organs. He's bleeding out bad though."

"And you're shot."

"Yeah, and we lost most of the eggs too," I said, as Sherlock inspected the eggy mess that's the contents of the one of the white plastic shopping bags. An odd tingling crept from my shoulder to my arm--like the springy sensation when my foot or arm falls asleep and blood rushes back. "The shot went clear through my arm. I'll be okay in a few minutes--it's already starting to heal; I can feel it."

The paramedics arrived before the police. Brave guys. A shooting and they raced to help a man they didn't know, not knowing whether or not the shooter was still near. For all they knew, the shooter could have been us. They relieve me, and the tall lanky-haired medic noticed my wound and Sherlock covered in blood, assessed us, then continued to help the man prone on the ground. I felt the blood sticking to my shirt and knew by the time the medic got to me that he might not even find a scar.