Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [142]
‘‘You little bitch,’’ hissed Nola, moving toward Sally.
‘‘Don’t do it Nola,’’ I said. ‘‘We can’t afford to bury you.’’
I kept moving the fighting pair to the jury room door.
Suddenly there was a noise that sounded for all the world like somebody with a set of drumsticks had just played a tattoo on the wall that separated the courtroom from the hallway. Followed by what sounded like a pistol shot. Muffled, but enough for me.
‘‘Get behind the judge’s bench up there!’’ I hollered, pushing both women ahead of me. ‘‘Move, move!’’
Ever since a dude had tried to pull a gun on the judge while court was in session, the clerk had taken to stacking old lawbooks on the other side of the judge’s desk and partition. The bench. Although only thirty-four inches high, it made a pretty effective barricade.
Seeing Sally and Nola going behind the bench, I charged a round into my rifle, and pointed it at the main courtroom door. About a second later, a face in a ski mask peeked around the doorframe, with a long black object just under it. He saw me, and the long, black object suddenly became a submachine gun with a silencer. He fired, and I fired. I missed. He hit me in the belly. I rocked back on my heels, and then ducked down. I looked at my belly. Small hole in my shirt, and a lump in my ballistic vest right behind it. Cool.
‘‘Fuckin’ thing really works,’’ I said. It did. Course, it was probably a 9 mm round slowed to subsonic speed by the silencer. Hey. Not time to get picky.
‘‘Jesus,’’ said Sally, who had seen the bullet hit, ‘‘you okay?’’
‘‘Fine,’’ I said, kneeling down behind the bench.
She looked at me. ‘‘You better keep that belly of yours covered up.’’ She put her hand on my arm, the only gesture of affection she’d ever shown. ‘‘You scared me to death.’’
‘‘Kiss it and make it better,’’ said Nola.
Sally turned on her, and grabbed her by the blouse collar.
‘‘Jesus Christ, you two,’’ I said.
Wonderful. Trapped with two women who were about to kill each other.
I tried my walkie-talkie. No answers to me, but lots to other people. Pandemonium.
I unsnapped my .40 caliber S&W and handed it to Sally. ‘‘You might need this,’’ I said. ‘‘I think they shot Mark out in the hall.’’
She took the gun. She’d qualified on our handgun course. Had to, to be a matron. Never carried one since, and said that she hated them.
‘‘There’s one in the chamber,’’ I said, too late. She’d vigorously worked the slide to chamber a round, ejecting a live round from the gun, which hit the railing in front of the bench, clanked off the court reporter’s desk lamp, and spun off onto the floor.
‘‘Never mind . . .’’ She looked a little embarrassed. Not good for the troops to be embarrassed. ‘‘Promise me you won’t use that on Nola,’’ I said.
She smiled. ‘‘Nope.’’
Nola wasn’t sure what to think. Good.
It looked like we had a minute. ‘‘Okay,’’ I said to Sally. ‘‘Looks like some paramilitary people want Nola here. Probably the same folks that shot Kellerman and Turd.’’ I spoke very fast.
‘‘Okay,’’ she said softly.
‘‘They’re good. So be very alert.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
‘‘I want you to watch the door on the left, and keep your head down. I’ll take the big doors to the hall.’’
There was what I took to be a burst of fire from the area of the main door and a loud noise. I say I took it to be, because I didn’t hear any gunfire, just the sound of many things striking the bench, hard.
We ducked. The loud noise probably meant that somebody had hit the floor when the shots were fired. Swell. We had company in the courtroom now.
The problem was this: As soon as somebody came in the main doors, there were the gallery benches. The benches were in two sections, like church pews, just not as many. On my left was the jury box. Separating the jury box and the rest of the courtroom was a three-foot-high barrier of oak that traversed the entire courtroom. There was a swinging door in the middle, so the attorneys and witnesses could come from the gallery toward the bench. However, anybody making it through the big doors