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right hand and pulled at it to drag himself upward. When he was standing, he looked over his shoulder. Francine was on her hands and knees, staring up at him with wild eyes. Lisa hadn't dropped. She was frozen upright behind her mother, fists pressed to her cheeks. |
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'Are you both OK?' he asked. He could barely hear himself through the ringing in his ears. And he didn't need to ask the question. He could see that they hadn't been hit. 'Stay right here,' he said. |
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He staggered through the doorway and headed for his desk. It seemed like a great distance away. He kept glancing at the counter, though he doubted that Patterson was capable of popping up and firing (fuck, you shot his throat out). |
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As he walked along, he emptied his cylinder. Brass casings clattered against the floor. |
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From the top drawer of his desk, he removed a box of cartridges. His shaky hands dropped two of them while he tried to reload. At last, he managed to fill the cylinder and snap it shut. |
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Glancing back, he saw Francine in the interrogation room doorway with her arm around Lisa. They both looked dazed and sick. |
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He walked over to Lucy. She was sprawled facedown in a spreading swamp of blood. |
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The switchboard was a panel of blinking lights, a call on every line. |
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Trev leaned across the counter. |
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Patterson was stretched out on his back, revolver |
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