The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [36]
The second shot exploded inside him—a punishing dumdum round.
The power of being hit was sickening, physically nauseating. He was victim to the ability of a small metal projectile to so easily penetrate flesh and bone.
Bear Kupchek did the unexpected. He was working on instinct, nothing else. Survival was his only conscious thought. The handgun fired again, shot number three. The gunman missed.
Suddenly Kupchek ran straight at the man. Except that he swerved past him, out of the tunnel in a low, hurdling crouch.
And in that confused instant, Kupchek recognized the gunman. The man was a cop. Someone he knew. A detective. He’d been set up and shot by another policeman.
His mind was reeling, completely out of control as he rumbled up a steep hill that seemed all thorny branches and protruding rocks.
His lungs were sloshing liquid, filling up much too quickly with blood. Run. Just run, he told himself.
He made it to a bus-stop bench out on Central Park South. He barely made it.
He had to sit. It didn’t matter how dangerous, how exposed he was. He’d been shot by another cop.
Bright lights were spinning every which way around him. He wanted to yell out to somebody.
But no. They couldn’t help him, not these people innocently walking around the perimeter of the park: Plaza Hotel guests, tourists, a few neighborhood women walking their dogs. Then Bear Kupchek was angry, mostly with himself. He struggled to his feet. He began to weave away.
He shuffled toward the street and the bright, splintering lights of streaming traffic.
He flagged down a Checker cab, stepping in front of the off-duty taxi. Brakes shrieked up and down Central Park South. Drivers shouted through their open windows.
Kupchek waved his detective’s shield at the driver; otherwise the cabbie might have run him down.
“Drive where I tell you. Police business, let’s go.”
He was slurring his words. Blood was dripping onto his sport coat, his shoes, the inside of the cab.
34
John Stefanovitch; East Eighty-first Street
STEFANOVITCH HAD ARRIVED home at his apartment a little earlier than he’d expected.
He could work out for twenty minutes or so. Maybe do a few Nautilus exercises; something he’d been neglecting since the investigation began.
Stefanovitch was fumbling for his keys when the elevator doors opened. He started out into the hallway.
He stopped the wheelchair. Dear God, no… no. His mind was a shrill scream.
The Bear!
He was slumped like a sack against Stefanovitch’s front door. Blood had soaked through his work shirt and was visible from thirty feet away.
Kupchek spread his arms and tried to smile when he saw Stefanovitch coming. His eyes were glassy, and they started to roll up into his head. Kupchek looked so weak.
Stefanovitch pushed himself furiously down the hallway. His stomach was falling through empty space.
When he got a few feet away, he saw how bad it was. Right then he knew.
“Worse than I thought,” Bear Kupchek whispered.
Stefanovitch slid down out of the wheelchair. He sat on the floor with his body pressed against the Bear. Oh please, a voice whispered inside him.
“Don’t try to talk. I’m going to get you help. Just lie still,” Stefanovitch said.
Bear Kupchek closed his eyes for several seconds. He opened them and began to speak—at least he tried to. A hoarse whisper came out.
“I love you, Stefanovitch…” he managed. That was all.
Right then, it seemed as if Stefanovitch’s friend could go no further, that he had to let go of everything. Bear Kupchek lay very still. His breathing faltered badly, then it stopped. Just like that.
Oh please, don’t let this be happening, Stefanovitch’s brain screamed. Oh God, please.
He whispered to the body in his arms.
“I love you, Bear. Oh Christ, Bear. Don’t do this.”
Then Stefanovitch was all alone.
PART TWO
The Sixth Estate
35
Isiah Parker; Harlem
ISIAH PARKER WALKED the streets of Harlem without fear. This was his neighborhood. He tried to be optimistic, even though he heard voices and whispers in the darkness: teenagers delivering