The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [156]
He turned and looked in Wayne’s direction. A surprised grin.
Wayne knew him.
Impossible.
What would he be doing here?
A body in full trot struck Wayne in the back, almost knocking him over. Wayne turned to the man, who was clearly drunk. He had something heavy and metal in his hand. Like a crowbar. Or a piece of the iron fence.
“What the hell, man?” He raised his weapon and struck. Wayne blocked it with his left arm, which swelled from the pain of the blow. With his right fist, he punched the guy in the chest, reeling him on his feet. Furious and numb, he attacked with the bar again, this time hitting Wayne hard in the head, knocking him down. He stood over Wayne and reared back for another blow.
Wayne reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. He flipped the safety and fired it quickly and defensively, striking the guy in the thigh and dropping him to the grass like a collapsing marionette.
A woman screamed at the sound of the report. Wayne pushed himself to his feet, his arm throbbing, his head screaming, the infected wound in his side cutting deeper into his abdomen. He was only upright for a few seconds before a dizzying gray spiral filled his vision and he fell back to his knees and then forward on his face. His ears rang. The noise all around became faint.
Wayne remembered the figure at the door. And he knew who had killed Bea Beaujon and David Amoyo. Who had framed him. Who was here now for Nada.
But he couldn’t imagine why.
Then he heard another gunshot, this one from high above, probably out a window. A shot fired from inside the house.
63
“NOW!” Bobby yelled.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder and pulled Della out by the arm, his weapon covering her as they ran east down North Avenue, away from the house, toward a patrol car that had magically appeared off the frontage road along Lake Shore Drive. A white-haired cop jumped out the driver’s side and pushed them into the backseat and then he slipped quickly back into the car and locked the door.
“Jesus, Detective, what happened here?” the uniform said. The man’s face wasn’t familiar, but Bobby thanked God the cop had recognized him.
“Good to see you, too.” Kloska was staring at one of the still-intact windows of the Jameson estate, a semicircle of glass with a metal grille like the top half of an old clock, and framed by thick bloodred curtains. This was a creepy, beautiful old house for sure. Kloska wondered about the generations of priests, the years of faith and superstition, of good works and bad thoughts. Too bad there probably wasn’t going to be much of anything left inside it.
“It’s like New Orleans,” said the white-haired cop Bobby didn’t know.
“What?”
The cop spread his arms, indicating the scene taking place around them. “New Orleans. Katrina. All over again,” he said. “Half the cops off the job. Assholes running around, smash and grab. Civilians with guns. People calling 911 and not getting any reply.” He sniffed the air and waved his hand at the burning neighborhoods off to the west. “We got fires instead of floods. That’s the only difference.”
Bobby ignored him. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan?” the cop scoffed. “There’s another car on its way. And an ambulance.”
“One car? We’re not going to put this down with one more car.”
“Who said anything about putting it down?” the cop said. “I got orders to stay out of it. Supposed to keep off the grounds until somebody higher up can contact the people inside. Apparently, some gold star is afraid Monday morning quarterbacks are gonna say the police made a bad situation worse.” It sounded like an accusation aimed at Kloska.
“Of all the ass-fucking-backward—”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” the cop said. “We’re standing here picking our asses while lawlessness abounds. Just like Katrina.”
Bobby glared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying …”
Della calmed him with a hand on his back. “So we’re just supposed to let this whole thing fizzle out?” Bobby asked.
“I guess,” the cop said.
Bobby hunched down to get a better look at the house through