by Baxter Clare
"JUST BACK OFF!" Tunnel shouted, then said more to himself, "I gotta think 'bout this."
Noah replied they couldn't back off without Kennedy.
"You understand that, don't you? You wouldn't leave one of your homies and we can't leave ours. So what do you want us to do? Talk to me, Timmy."
Noah was engaging him, keeping him occupied. Tunnel had no idea Frank was in there with him. Her gun hand started to shake and a completely irrational memory flashed through her head of driving up Highway 101 in the sunshine, Mag laughing and getting whipped by her own hair.
Okay, she ordered, steady up, goddamnit. Despite a clamoring heartbeat and an incredible desire to take a leak, Frank forced herself to breathe deeply and smoothly, focusing on the present. Noah was talking soothingly through the door, and she thought, Good boy, No. She was glad he was out there.
Stepping carefully and without sound, she peered around the door. The hall was clear. She couldn't see Kennedy or Tunnel in the living room. She was grateful for the commotion in the apartment complex—anxious neighbors talking to each other, catcalls and insults, sirens, radios, cops in motion. A chopper was thumping overhead, and the rain fell on, a somber motif to the cacophony. Frank was acutely aware of sights and sounds, the smells of old grass and cigarette smoke, fried food and musty carpets, the texture of the 9mm, warm in her damp, cold hand.
Tunnel was telling Noah that he wanted a car, a black Explorer. Frank could hear him by the door, explaining he wanted a fully loaded vehicle.
Frank sucked in a deep breath. No one was in the hall. She darted into the bedroom on her left. It was dim and windowless and she froze beside the door. Holding her breath, heart thudding, she listened for Tunnel. He was still talking to Noah, who asked how Kennedy was.
Tunnel said, "Your bitch be fine unless you fuck wit me."
"How do I know you haven't cut her?"
"Fuck that. She my insurance. I cut her when I'm good an' ready."
"Then how come I can't hear her?"
"Tell your homie, you alright."
"I'm fine, Noah. I really am."
Kennedy's voice was strong and steady. Her confidence encouraged Frank. Okay, she ordered again, breathe easy. Willing herself into a quiet spot amidst the chaos, Frank envisioned herself moving up the hallway, hugging the wall. She remembered the sheet hanging over the window in the living room. No reflection. Good.
Tunnel was nervously telling Noah that this was bullshit, like the cops were really going to let him get away.
"Hey man, I'm not saying we're gonna let you get away, but at least in a car you got a chance. I gotta tell you it's not a good one. The best thing you can do right now, the safest thing for yourself, is to send her out, and you follow, hands up."
"I can't do that!" Tunnel pleaded. "I can't be locked up again."
There was a pause, then Noah, ever patient, saying, "I understand you gotta do what you gotta do. It's on you, man. Do you still want the car?"
"Hell yeah! What other choice I got?"
"You can come out, man. End this right now, before you get hurt or a cop gets hurt. You know that'd be as good as the chair, Tim. If you stop now it'll go a lot easier."
"I done it now, cain't stop. Done set it rollin'," Tunnel said pragmatically.
That was when Frank made her move to the edge of the hall. Now Tunnel was talking softly to Kennedy.
"I should just bleed you just like I'd bleed a Crab, and let your brothers take me out. Yeah," he said wistfully, "I go out a ghetto star and there be one less pig bitch in this fucked-up world."
Again Frank felt the panic brush against her, like a huge, winged shadow, and she knew she had to do something. She knelt quietly and peeked around the wall. Tunnel was standing with his back to her, facing the door and holding Kennedy against him. It looked like he was holding something to her neck, but from her angle Frank couldn't see what it was. She retreated behind her corner, weighing her options. Sneak out the bathroom and continue negotiating. Stay hidden and continue negotiating. Pull a gun on him and hope he'd surrender. Not likely. Johnston's rap sheet was extensive and included numerous aggravated assaults and two murder charges, both of which he'd beaten. Clearly he was capable of violent and aggressive action.
"Get me that shit," he was ordering Noah. "And I want it now, like in ten minutes and—"
"That's impossible, Tim," Noah interrupted.
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT'S FUCKIN' IMPOSSIBLE!" he exploded, "CUZ IF I DON'T HAVE ME A FUCKIN' RIDE IN TEN MINUTES I START CUTTIN' THE BITCH! SO DON'T TELL ME WHAT'S FUCKIN' IMPOSSIBLE!"
Frank squeezed her eyes shut. His height made his head a clear shot. There'd be no wounding him, only the one clean shot. It would kill him. Oh Jesus Christ. She thought about aiming for his right shoulder and disabling him, but Kennedy was too close against him. Christ, if she'd just step a little to the side, I could get his arm.
She held her breath for a moment, trying to hear where Tunnel was.
She had to look again. Johnston still had his back to her, was still hugging Kennedy against his chest. If I go wide I hit Kennedy to the left, to the right I go straight through the front door.
Frank resumed her squat against the wall. Shivering threatened to overtake her again and she backhanded drops of sweat off her brow. Fuck, this is so sideways! She heard Noah's assurance that a car was on its way, but because they didn't have enough time it wouldn't be a black Explorer.
"What is it?"
Noah's reply was muffled. Frank couldn't hear it, but Johnston seemed satisfied.
"Alright. Yeah, that'll work." Then to Kennedy he said, "Yeah. You an' me gonna go for a long ride, baby."
Frank could see this getting out of hand, another OJ ride down the freeway, but the difference was OJ had everything to lose and Johnston had nothing. The fear in her gut told her to just end it, take him out while she still had a smooth, clear target. Only one shot. Part of her wanted to giggle insanely as Robert DeNiro's face from a scene in The Deer Hunter swung crazily before her. Underneath her agitation, an older voice born of years of training and experience urged her to be calm and wait it out, get the negotiators in to slowly diffuse the situation with no one getting hurt. The problem was, she didn't know if Johnston could be reasoned with. While she weighed this she could still hear Noah's soothing voice and Johnston's tense one. Then she heard another sound, like scuffling, quick steps, and Johnston swearing. Then with a hint of panic, he urgently whined, "Bitch, don't fuck with me."
She thought for a moment that Tunnel had seen her, then realized Kennedy must have broken free. Frank heard more steps, then Kennedy saying, "Come on, man, you're not stupid. You gotta know this ain't gonna work."
In a freeze-frame moment Frank would never forget, the earth stood perfectly still and every clock in the world stopped ticking. Words and sounds murmured around her, but all she could distinguish was the rush of blood in her brain, like surf breaking smoothly on sand. Summoning a breath and holding it, she harshly willed her body to cease its trembling. She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and stood swiftly. In one smooth motion she swung a leg into the living room and took a stance, aiming the 9mm with both hands. Frank's vision had narrowed and all she could see was Johnston closing in on Kennedy in the small kitchen, an open pocketknife in his hand.
She heard herself say, "Drop the knife," and her voice sounded like someone else's, from far away. She hoped he'd heard. He must have because he turned toward her. As he did so, Kennedy moved in on him. Johnston swung back, slashing the knife toward her. Frank moved when Kennedy did but stopped when she recognized the bright red spurt of arterial blood and saw Johnston reaching again for her. In slow motion she saw Johnston trying to drag Kennedy back against him, saw Kennedy grasping at her neck, the too-fast flow of blood, Kennedy suddenly white.
"LET HER GO!" Frank commanded. Johnston's face was in her sights. He stared at her, still grappling with Kennedy, and Frank squeezed softly on the trigger. Like a girder in an earthquake, the tall man
buckled and swayed as the right side of his brain flew into the ceiling.
Kennedy made a startled, incoherent sound and started to go down.
"Get an ambulance, get an ambulance!" Frank screamed to whoever was kicking on the door. Noah and Johnnie tumbled inside, drenched, hair plastered on their faces. They paused involuntarily, taking in Tunnel and Kennedy on the floor.
Frank had whipped off her jacket and was pressing it against Kennedy's neck. Kennedy looked at her, eyes wide and dark against the sudden paleness of her skin. She tried to say something, but Frank hushed her. "You're gonna be alright. Just be still, okay?"
Kennedy barely nodded, and Frank said quietly, "Atta girl."
Noah knelt next to Frank. He took Kennedy's hand. "You're supposed to stay outta the way, idiot."
Kennedy grinned weakly. She tried to shrug.
"Hang in there," he crooned, "You're doin' fine, just fine."
Kennedy glanced at Frank, as if for verification, and Frank smiled reassuringly, telling her to stay still. "It's just a nick. Don't worry. Ambo's on the way."
"What happened?" Noah asked. Their eyes locked over Kennedy, sharing a flicker of dread.
"They were scuffling. He cut her. I shot him. Where was he?"
Noah looked sick. "Behind the door," he said pointing his head toward the hall.
Frank looked perplexed. She glanced at Tunnel, realizing he was skinny enough to have gone undetected on the other side of the hall door. For a second she thought she was going to puke, but she took control and said softly to Kennedy, "How you doing, sport?"
The young cop blinked a few times and shivered. Frank barked, "Get me blankets!"
A uniform covered Kennedy with a ratty bedspread, while Johnnie yelled on the radio for a fucking ambulance. Jill burst through the crowd, completely soaked, and gasped, "Oh, my God."
Frank looked up to see her propped against the stove, almost as white as Kennedy. Too much blood was soaking through Frank's wadded jacket, warm and slippery on her fingers. It was too familiar, and Frank felt the dark panic flapping toward her again. She was ready to bolt from the room, but Kennedy was staring at her. Not cocky anymore, but bewildered and pale.
"You're doing great," Frank assured, wondering where the goddamn ambulance was. With her free hand she smoothed Kennedy's forehead, smearing even more blood on her. A siren grew closer and Frank silently exhorted, Hurry, hurry, hurry, fucking hurry.
Cops had gathered like flies on shit around the apartment.
"Get everyone out of here," she said to Jill who seemed grateful for an order. Two EMTs rushed past her, and Frank and Noah scrambled out of their way. The techs wedged a foam block around Kennedy's head and slid her onto a backboard, rising together on the count of two.
Frank and Noah followed them to the ambulance.
"I'm going to ride with her," Frank shouted over the rain. "Get back to the office, find out who her next of kin is, brief Foubarelle."
To the ambulance driver she shouted, "Where are you taking her?"
"King/Drew," he yelled.
"No, tell Foubarelle where we are," Frank said, as she jumped into the back. An EMT banged the doors together. She left Noah standing in the rain and swearing.
20
Everyday, in milliseconds, people make decisions that put them on specific paths with destiny. Some are good decisions, like taking the stairs instead of the elevator only to find later that the power went out just as you walked out of the building, or choosing tuna salad at lunch and watching all your co-workers who ate the egg salad get salmonella poisoning. Some decisions don't have such good outcomes, like taking the freeway instead of the interstate and hitting gridlock that makes you miss an important meeting. Or doing something seemingly trivial that creates a fatal domino effect, like Frank did when she spitefully ignored the half-and-half on the grocery list.
Mag and Frank had been lucky enough to work the same shift that day. They'd gotten off late, as usual, but Mag had been done earlier than Frank. On the drive home she'd asked Frank to run into the liquor store for a pint of half-and-half for Angie.
Angie was Mag's best friend from high school. A pilot with American Airlines, sometimes Angie stayed with them for a night or two on a layover. She and Mag would be up till the early morning, laughing and catching up on news from home while Frank fumed in bed. Despite the fact that Mag clearly adored Frank, and that Angie was happily married with two kids, Frank always felt second best when the two friends were together.
Angie was so much like Mag—outgoing, vibrant, adventuresome —all the things Frank wasn't, and she had convinced herself that sooner or later Mag and Angie would end up together. Frank would sulk jealously throughout Angie's visits. If Mag couldn't tease Frank out of her sullenness, she'd just ignore her. She'd explained often enough that Angie was like caviar and champagne, but Frank was pot roast and mashed potatoes. Her friend was extravagant and funny; Frank was daily life with all its stable, reliable comforts and pleasures.
Smacking Frank's thigh, Mag had double-parked in front of the liquor store. Trying to humor Frank out of her funk, she'd teased, "Come on, old pot roast."
But Frank had whined, "Why can't she just use milk in her coffee?" and slouched further in her seat.
"Because she likes half-and-half. And I had it on the list yesterday, so don't give me any crap."
Frank had retorted, "She's not even here yet and you're already fawning all over her."
Sighing patiently, Maggie pointed out, "One, I'm not fawning. Two, if you could read a simple grocery list, this wouldn't be a problem. Come on, honey, I'm double-parked here."
"She's your friend," Frank muttered sullenly. "You go get it."
Seeing Frank was serious, Maggie had grabbed her purse, swearing, "Goddammit, Frank! When are you going to grow up?"
She'd slammed out of the car leaving Frank churlish but unrepentant. She was still hunkered in her seat, building an even bigger case against Angie, when she'd heard a boom and saw a kid running out of the liquor store. He'd run right by the car, toting a sawed-off. Frank had bolted after him and caught him almost immediately. He couldn't have been more than fifteen. He was terrified. As she'd cuffed him to a stop sign he'd stammered, "I didn't mean it."
She'd glanced behind her, expecting Mag to be running up, but there was only a crowd growing at the liquor store and a man shouting. Frank had raced back, feeling like her feet were glued to the sidewalk. Shoving people out of the store's entrance, she'd seen Maggie on the floor, surrounded by bright, colorful candy bars. A hole foamed pink air just above her left breast. A man had scurried around her, ranting in a language she didn't recognize. He'd tried to blot Maggie's blood with paper towels. Frank had stepped toward her, wanting to touch her and afraid to, sure if she just let this play out she'd wake up to find it was only another nightmare.
She'd heard someone yell, "Call 911!" and realized she'd said it. She'd tried staunching the wound as she knelt next to Maggie, but it was too big and the blood flowed freely around her fingers. Frank gently and uselessly wiped the froth off Maggie's lips. Her lover's face blurred and shimmied as Frank viciously cuffed tears from her eyes. She'd whispered, "Hold on, baby. Stay with me, stay with me."
Mag had stared at Frank without responding. Air had breezed through the hole in her chest. Frank had seen holes like that in other people. Most of them had died. Mag was unconscious when the paramedics rushed in. Frank had prayed in the ambulance for the first time in decades.
At the hospital, she'd paced and paced. When the doctor came toward her she'd read his face and felt herself go into free fall. His voice had been dim and far away, saying Mag had never regained consciousness, the damage was far too massive. She'd literally drowned in her own blood. All over a pint of half-and-half.
Shock, coupled with the deep fatigue of an adrenaline crash, was threatening to settle over Frank. She needed coffee and numbly followed the signs to the cafeteria. Standing in line, she was oblivious to the dried blood on her ha
nds and clothes, or the stares around her. The cashier gingerly handed Frank her change, suggesting there was a bathroom just down the hall where she might want to wash up. Frank's only response was a weary blink. The woman lowered her eyes back to the register.
Frank dragged herself back to the waiting area, where Foubarelle, Luchowski, Noah, and Chief Nelson were waiting for her. The head nurse volunteered her office, and the five of them squeezed inside. Frank reflexively gauged their moods: Foubarelle was livid, Luchowski looked sour, and Noah was still amped. Only the chief seemed calm.
"What happened in there?" he asked as soon as he shut the door. He indicated a chair, and even though she'd have loved to sink down into it, Frank stood. She started from the beginning, with the abandonment of the stakeout. At the part where the bust slipped sideways she paused to let Noah explain. He spoke animatedly with big gestures. Frank envied his energy, but knew it was just adrenaline he was running on.
"It was a clean shoot," she concluded.
"How can you say that?" Luchowski exploded. "You might have killed one of my men!"
Without bothering to correct pronouns, Frank said with barely controlled restraint, "No, Timothy Johnston was killing your man."
"Lieutenant Franco, of course we weren't there, but this looks like a gross overreaction. Was it necessary to mortally wound the suspect?"
Frank couldn't believe these dumb fucks. Kennedy's life was on the line and they were asking if it was necessary?
"With Detective Kennedy bleeding the way she was I didn't feel that exposing her to further risk of injury was prudent. Johnston had clearly demonstrated his intent to harm her, and in my mind he wouldn't have hesitated to kill either one of us if he had another chance."
"With a pocketknife?" Luchowski sneered in disbelief.
"Yeah, the pocketknife that put a fucking hole in her throat!" Frank exploded.
