Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [69]
“It got a little crazy,” Malcolm said. “That happens sometimes.”
Boomer made no attempt to hide his revulsion. He’d seen a lot in the years since he first pinned on his shield and he knew about the ugliness that filtered down the streets of his beat: men who killed the women they loved over the last hit on a pipe; dealers who sold poison to junkies, caring little that they would die within seconds of the rush; hitters who murdered strangers for cash and walked off into the night without care or concern; radicals so filled with hate they butchered the innocent in honor of some indefinite principle. All those he had seen and, over the years, had slowly come to understand.
But what he had seen over the past several days was a new form of evil. The man he stood across from and the other on his knees behind him were alien creatures to Boomer, each so willing to drop into the depths of an inhumanity he found terrifying.
There had been many criminals who’d crossed paths with Boomer whom he’d found pleasure in arresting. There were a handful he had killed because of the situation and the moment. But there had never been anyone he had wanted to kill for the pure emotional need to eliminate him.
Not until he crossed paths with Junior and Malcolm.
“I’m taking the girl,” Boomer said quietly. “The police’ll be here soon and take you and your friend away.” He took two steps back, and for a moment closed his eyes.
“Learn to pray, Malcolm,” Boomer said. “Pray for a long prison sentence and for me to die the day before you get out.”
• • •
DEAD-EYE HAD HIS gun back down by his side, the heat of anger swelling within him as well. It was fueled by the bleakness of the room, the thick smell of blood and body fluids that filtered into his lungs. He fought back a desire to scream, trying to erase from his head images of his own wife and son caught in the grips of such men. His eyes were fixed on the girl in Boomer’s arms, so different now from the open, smiling face on the picture that was hidden inside the fold of his jacket pocket.
It takes a great deal to touch a hardened man, to penetrate the defensive shield and reach down and press his vulnerable core. Dead-Eye always felt he had made himself strong enough to escape such pressure.
He knew now that he was wrong.
Dead-Eye took his eyes away from the girl and looked down at Junior, who had inched closer to Malcolm’s knife. His fingers were stretching to reach it, only a quick grab away from the handle. Junior had stayed silent, making himself easy to ignore. He had glanced behind him and was aware that Dead-Eye’s gun was at rest, no longer pointed at him. Besides, the rich, pampered Junior was arrogant enough to think no cop would ever shoot him and expect to walk away.
It was the perfect time to make his move.
Malcolm saw it first, saw Junior standing behind Boomer, the blade of the knife held high, ready to come down hard into the cop’s back, the gleeful look of a vengeful killer fulfilling his fate.
Malcolm curled a half-smile over at Boomer and shook his head slowly. “Maybe,” he said, “I don’t have to pray so hard as you think.”
Boomer looked into Malcolm’s eyes, saw the confidence suddenly show itself. He held his ground, gripping Jennifer’s slight body closer to him, burying her head deeper into his chest, sensing what was about to happen.
One shot brought it to an end.
It came out of Dead-Eye’s .44 and flew past the center of Junior’s brain.
A low, guttural moan came from deep inside Junior’s body. Thick, dark gushes of blood sprayed across Malcolm’s face and over the back of Boomer’s head and neck. Boomer turned to see Junior fall face first to the floor, the hole in his head large enough to shine a spotlight through, the knife held loose in the curve of his right hand. Behind them, Dead-Eye stood in a crouch position, his legs spread, right arm extended, smoke filtering off the barrel of his gun.
“You’re not supposed to shoot a suspect in the back,” Boomer said. “Or is that one of the classes you missed?”
“He wasn’t a suspect,” Dead-Eye said, holstering his