The Guilty - Jason Pinter [18]
I saw the EMS crews working as fast as they could on the
downed officer, but through the binoculars I could see one of
them shake her head. Watching fingers of blood drip down
the steps, I knew what she was thinking. This one can't be
saved.
As they placed the cop on the stretcher, I increased the
magnification. I could just make out the face.
My breath left me. I dropped to my knees. Panting. Felt
Jack's hand on my shoulder. Felt the world swimming away.
Saw the face again. Saw his brother in-law's face. Both men
lying in a pool of their own blood.
The downed cop was Detective Lieutenant Joe Mauser.
8
She was lying on her back. Propped up against three pillows.
One more across her chest. One more by her right arm. She felt
warm, safe, comfortable. Henry made fun of her for this. Said
she was building a fort every night.Yet when the lights went out,
after Amanda had burrowed into her pillow castle, she would
push the pillows aside and gently lay her head on his chest.
She would listen to Henry breathe. Listen to his heart beat.
She knew when he was thinking about a story--his heart
beat a little faster. She knew if the day had been long and challenging, or fast and invigorating. All this from his heartbeat.
She would glide her finger down his chest, tickling his side.
She knew he was sensitive, but he never told her to stop.
Sometimes she would run her finger along the scar where the
bullet had come so close to ending his life. She knew that in
some way she was responsible for that scar. For some reason,
despite the pain it had caused Henry, she was glad it was there.
She knew he was awake. His breathing was shallow.
Henry's eyes had sunk. His body looked as though it had been
sapped of all energy, like one of those video game characters
after some evil shaman sucks their soul right out of their
body then yells something cheesy like "Fatality!"
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Another death. Reporters weren't supposed to see lives end
in front of them. Henry wasn't off in a tank in Iraq. How much
more could he take?
Henry's breathing had grown steadier. Maybe he had fallen
asleep. She hoped so.
And then the shrill noise of Henry's cell phone broke the
silence, and Amanda kicked herself for forgetting to change
the ring tone.
Henry didn't stir, so Amanda reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. She expected to see Wallace Langston
or Jack O'Donnell calling about some urgent scoop.
But no, it was Mya Loverne. Undoubtedly calling again
in the desperate and pathetic hope that her old boyfriend
would return her affection. That some previously severed
synapses would again begin firing.
Amanda stared at the phone and felt a terrible pressure beginning to settle behind her eyes. She pressed and held the
power button until the phone went dark. Then she gathered
all the pillows, held them close to her chest and hoped sleep
would arrive soon.
For both of them.
9
The Boy sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Feet planted
on the floor. He read the newspaper again. Third time he'd
done so. Then he put it on the chipped wooden nightstand and
turned off the light.
He lay in the dark. He could feel his heart beating fast. It
wasn't just the thrill of the kill that did it, it was the beautiful anticipation. Then the memory of the blood.
His hands still tingled, gravel still stuck in the treads of
his shoes. Amazing how he could read about himself in the
newspaper mere hours after the killing, the ink drying
quicker than the blood.
He thought about last week. He thought about the grave,
that headstone he'd visited so many times, wanting to wrap
his strong hands around the necks of all those idiots who'd
stolen God knew how many marble replacements. It had
gotten so bad that the graveyard proprietors had to construct
a metal fence around the headstone. Didn't matter much.
They couldn't afford good metal, and twice a year some kid
would use a pair of eleven-ninety-nine wire cutters and steal
it just the same.
After visiting the grave for twenty years the Boy didn't
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