Split Second - Catherine Coulter [85]
She saw Kirsten fall back, slam into a couple of people, who yelled in surprise as they leaped out of the way. She watched her trip and go down with a yell into a guy’s legs.
She heard one of the older guys who’d been belting out Irene’s name yell, “Hey, Redhead, what are you doing? Why’d you knock her down? You nuts?”
Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, managed to pull out her SIG and press the barrel to her mouth. “Hold it right there, Kirsten, party’s over. You’re under arrest.” She knew her words were slurred, and though she wanted to tell her what she was under arrest for—how many women?—she barely managed to call over her shoulder, “Dillon, I’m here. I’ve got her down!”
Had anyone even heard her over the singing, the shouts, the laughter? If they had, had any of them even understood her words?
Kirsten came up on her elbows, stared up at Sherlock. “What? You’re not—”
She knew she was going to heave, and yelled, “Dillon!”
She was weaving over Kirsten, unable to control herself, her SIG a dead weight in her hand, all the people pressing closer. There were shouted questions, angry voices—she heard someone yell, “She’s got a gun!” No more drunken laughter now.
Everything was happening so fast, all in an instant of time, and Kirsten was squirming wildly. Sherlock tried to hit her again, but it wasn’t going to happen. She had to do something before she passed out, but her coordination was shot, the world and all its noise was fading in and out on her now. She managed to grab Kirsten’s head between her hands and slam it against the sidewalk. Kirsten’s eyes went blank; she was out. Thank you, God.
She heard Mrs. Spicer yell something about Billy—who was Billy?—to get back inside, and for Billy to stop. There was more, but Sherlock simply couldn’t understand now; her mind wasn’t working right, and she felt so sick and miserable, she simply wanted to roll under a car and die. Who was Billy?
Sherlock threw herself over Kirsten, her brain spinning, the din of people yelling, many screaming now, running to avoid Mr. Spicer’s swinging bat. Billy, she knew it was Billy, she recognized his voice—he was yelling about Gator putting down the freaking bat.
Sherlock heard Dillon’s beautiful voice over all the chaos. “All of you, quiet! We’ve got this under control. Go back inside, now! Take Mr. Spicer with you.”
How much time had passed? Maybe an hour, maybe a minute, two seconds? She didn’t know. Sherlock saw Billy shoving people aside like bowling pins until he came up to her and grabbed her shoulder. She very nearly threw up on him. His voice sounded like a foghorn, fading in and out. “What is this, you robbing her? You knocked her out cold?” He saw the gun and grabbed her arm. Sherlock, nearly gone now, made out the gun in his big hand—at least she thought it was a gun—and he pressed it against her head. “Listen up, sister, I’m a cop. I want you to step away from Ms. Spiked-up Hair. Drop that big-assed SIG, and get down on your stomach.”
She was surprised her SIG was still in her hand. “Wait, wait—” Sherlock tried to reach under her tunic to her jeans pocket to pull out her creds, but it wasn’t happening. Her jeans pocket seemed to be in a different universe, her hand floating all around it. She looked up at him, couldn’t make out his face but felt anger pulsing off him—and that was clear as day. She heard Dillon’s voice but couldn’t make out what he was saying. She knew she had to make this angry man understand, but her voice came out a blurred whisper, “FBI, I—I had to knock her out or she’d—kill me.”
He was right next to her, and his hand clutched her hair, pulling her face back, “You, FBI? I’m a cop, and I say you’re a drunk moron with a gun. Now, let go of it, you hear me, or I’ll make you real sorry. As for you, buddy, you get your ass out of here or I’ll knock your head off.” Who