2nd Chance - James Patterson [98]
In the melee there was a pop…. Then Coombs lurched.
The bullets didn’t match up. Coombs had been shot with a .40 caliber handgun…. My father’s gun…
I thought of Marty, his promise as he stood in my doorway that last time.
Lindsay, I’m not running anymore…. My father had shot Frank Coombs on those steps. He had been there for me.
“You didn’t answer, Lieutenant. That make any sense to you?” Tracchio asked again.
My heart seemed to be bouncing side to side in my chest. I didn’t know what Tracchio knew, but I was his hero cop. Catching Chimera would erase the “Acting” in front of his title. And like he said, it was a clean shooting.
“No, Chief,” I answered. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Tracchio fixed on me, weighing the file in his hand, then nodded, placing it at the bottom of a heavy pile of other reports.
“You did a good job, Lieutenant. Nobody could have done better.”
Epilogue
I’LL FLY AWAY
FOUR MONTHS LATER…
It was a sparkling, clear March afternoon when we all went back to the La Salle Heights Church.
Almost five months after that first bloody attack, every chink in its exterior walls had been sanded and painted over with fresh white paint. The arched opening where the church’s beautiful stained-glass window had shone was draped with a white curtain erected for today’s event.
Inside, VIP’s from the city government sat shoulder to shoulder with proud parishioners and families gathered for the occasion. News cameras rolled from the side aisles, recording the proceedings for the evening news.
The choir, dressed in white gowns, belted out “I’ll Fly Away,” and the chapel seemed to swell and resonate with the triumphant power of the raised voices.
Some people clapped with the music, others tearfully wiped their eyes.
I stood in the back with Claire and Jill and Cindy. My body tingled with awe.
As the choir concluded, Aaron Winslow stepped up to the pulpit, proud and handsome as ever in a black suit and dress shirt. He and Cindy were still together, and we all liked him, really liked them. The crowd quieted down. He looked around the packed house, smiling peacefully, and in a composed voice began. “Only a few months ago, the play of our children was rocked by a madman’s nightmare. I watched as bullets desecrated this neighborhood. This choir that sings for you today was gripped with terror. We all wondered, Why…? How was it possible that only the youngest and the most innocent of us was struck?”
Cries of “Amen” echoed from the rafters. Cindy whispered against my ear, “He’s good, isn’t he? Best of all, he means it.”
“And the answer is…,” Winslow declared to the hushed room, “the only answer can be, so that she could pave the way for the rest of us to follow.” His eyes scanned the room. “We are all linked. Everyone here, the families who have suffered loss, and those who have simply come to remember. Black or white, we are all diminished by hate. Yet somehow, we heal. We carry on. We do carry on.”
At that moment, he nodded toward a group of young children dressed in their Sunday best, flanking the large white curtain. A girl in braids, no more than ten, tugged on a cord, and the canvas fell to the floor with a loud whap.
The church became awash in brilliant light. Heads turned, followed by a collective gasp. Where once shards of fallen glass had left a jagged hole, a stunning stained-glass window shone intact. Cries of acclamation rang out, then everyone began to clap. The choir started up softly in a hymn. It was so damn beautiful.
As I listened to the moving voices, something stirred inside me. I glanced at Cindy, Claire, and Jill, thinking, reliving just how much had happened since I’d last stood in this place, since Tasha Catchings had been killed.
Tears welled in my eyes, and I felt Claire’s fingers at my side. She probed for my hand, squeezing me by the fingertips. Then Cindy cradled her arm through mine.
From behind, I felt Jill bracing my shoulder.