The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [93]
I flew out the front door, just in time to see Lamar and Cletus falling in a heap at the foot of the steps. I started toward them and the pillar next to me made a thump-cracking sound, like it had been struck with a large hammer, and splinters smacked into my left cheek and shoulder. I ducked, and saw the sidewalk ahead of Lamar start to puff in several places as rounds struck it. I jumped down the steps, slipped, wrenched my damn back again, and almost fell on Lamar. I grabbed Cletus just as Lamar got back on his feet.
“Behind the cars,” he gasped, and we started dragging Cletus through the wet slush toward the line of parked cars out in the lot. I thought Cletus had been hit, and fleetingly wondered if he’d die on us.
Just as we got to the first car, there was a thunking sound, as if you’d hit it with a golf ball. Several golf balls. Dust flew from under the fenders, and one of the tires went flat with a bang.
We kept dragging Cletus, to the second car, and then the third. We heaved him up to the front of the fourth, and collapsed behind him.
I grabbed my walkie-talkie. “Comm, ten-thirty-three, ten-thirty-three, shots fired, parking lot!”
One of the newer dispatchers was on duty, I think her name was Grace. “Ten-nine?” 10-9 means for you to repeat your traffic.
“This is Three, this is ten-thirty-three, somebody is shooting at us in the parking lot!” I gasped for breath. “Get assistance!”
The golf balls started up again, working toward us. Plunk, plunk, bang, plunk. A tire.
“Where is that fucker?”
“Can’t tell…” I couldn’t, either. Nor was I about to stick my head up and look. I could hear the dispatcher say something on the order of “Three … thirty-three … uh … courthouse … I think …”
Of course. We couldn’t hear the gunshots, and neither could she. She was assuming that we were at the courthouse. That’s where she knew Lamar had been headed.
I brought my walkie-talkie back up. “We’re here at the jail. Shots fired. Get an ambulance!”
“You hit?” Lamar sounded terribly concerned.
“No. You?”
“No. Who the fuck is the ambulance for?”
“Him,” I said, indicating the orange heap that was Cletus.
“Shit,” said Lamar, “he ain’t hurt, he’s just scared.”
We didn’t hear any more plunking sounds. The shooting had stopped. The question was: Had the shooter given up?
I cold hear dispatch again, this time Sally’s voice. My confidence increased. Cautiously, I raised my head over the fender of the closest car. Nothing. I ducked. Nothing.
“See anything?”
“Nope.” I was acutely conscious of the icy water and mud soaking into my shirt and pants. “Let me look again.” This time, I drew my gun.
Up, peek, down. Like playing a child’s game. I put my left hand on the fender and splayed my fingers out as far as I could. Reference points. I popped my head up, and looked over the top of my thumb, concentrating for about a second only on that sector. Down. Up, with the index finger as my reference. Down.
“Anything?”
“I can’t see shit,” I said, “but I don’t know where to look.”
Cletus started to make retching sounds.
“Not again …” said Lamar.
I bobbed my head up, referring to my little finger.
Nothing. Down again. Cletus was still making the noise. “You suppose it could be the jail food?”
“They say,” said Cletus, spitting, “I got a nervous stomach.”
“No shit?”
I could hear a siren start up downtown. Couldn’t be the ambulance yet. Cop car.
I saw a dark blue Ford slowly pull into the lot. Well, originally dark blue. This one was spattered with light tan mud, white road salt, and grungy as hell. Volont. Car might as well have had FBI plates. Although it was so covered with mud you wouldn’t have been able to read them. They monitored a completely different set of frequencies, and obviously were unaware of our problem.
“Looks like the Spook’s back,” I said. As the Ford turned into the parking slots, I saw it had a large dent in the right rear quarter. “Dinged up, too.”
We watched Volont and Art get out of the car, and look at the dent. Both were in suits, with the