Gone, Baby, Gone - Dennis Lehane [86]
Poole’s head lolled against the fender. His shirt was open to the navel, and he’d placed one hand against his heart.
Broussard slammed the car to a stop and jumped out, slid on the dirt, and dropped to his knees by Poole.
“Partner! Partner!”
Poole opened his eyes, smiled weakly. “Got lost.”
Broussard felt his pulse, then put a hand to his heart, pushed up Poole’s left eyelid with his thumb. “Okay, buddy. Okay. You’re gonna be…you’re gonna be fine.”
Several police cars pulled past us. A young cop stepped out of the first one, a Quincy unit, and Broussard said, “Open your back door!”
The cop fumbled with the flashlight in his hand, dropped it to the dirt. He reached down to pick it up.
“Open your fucking door!” Broussard screamed. “Now!”
The young cop managed to kick the flashlight under the car before he reached back and opened the door.
“Kenzie, help me lift him.”
I got a grip on Poole’s lower legs, and Broussard eased behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest, and we carried him to the back of the police car and slid him onto the seat.
“I’m fine,” Poole said, and his eyes rolled to the left.
“Sure you are.” Broussard smiled. He turned his head to look at the young cop, who appeared very nervous. “You drive fast?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
Behind us, several troopers and Quincy cops approached the front of the Lexus, guns drawn.
“Step out of the car now!” one trooper shouted, pointing his weapon at Gutierrez’s windshield.
“Which hospital is closer?” Broussard asked. “Quincy or Milton?”
“Uh, from here, sir, it’s Milton.”
“How fast can you get there?” Broussard asked the cop.
“Three minutes.”
“Make it two.” Broussard slapped the cop’s shoulder and shoved him toward the driver’s door.
The cop hopped behind the wheel. Broussard squeezed Poole’s hand and said, “See you in a bit.”
Poole nodded sleepily.
We stepped back and Broussard shut the back door.
“Two minutes,” he repeated to the cop. The wheels of the unit spewed gravel and kicked up clouds of dust as the cop blew out onto the road, turned on his lights, and sped down the asphalt so fast he could have been shot from a rocket booster.
“Holy shit,” another cop said. He stood at the front of the Lexus. “Holy shit,” he said again.
Broussard and I walked toward the Lexus and Broussard grabbed a pair of troopers, pointed at the abandoned mill building. “Secure that building. Now.”
The troopers didn’t even question. They placed hands to the guns on their hips and ran back up the road toward the mill.
We reached the Lexus, worked our way through the small crowd of cops blocking the front bumper, and looked through the windshield at Chris Mullen and Pharaoh Gutierrez. Gutierrez was in the driver’s seat, Mullen riding shotgun. The headlights were still on. The engine was running. A single hole formed a small spiderweb in the windshield in front of Gutierrez. An identical hole was bored through the glass in front of Mullen.
The holes in their heads were pretty similar, too—both the size of a dime, both puckered and white around the edges, both spilling a thin stream of blood down the men’s noses.
By the looks of it, Gutierrez had taken the first shot. His face registered nothing except a sense of impatience, and both his hands were empty and lying palms up on the seat. The keys were in the ignition, the shift in PARK. Chris Mullen’s right hand gripped the gun in his waistband, and the look on his face was