Marcia Clark - The Competition

Where I was sure Evan was now headed.

The hallway was dark. As I stepped inside, the abrupt shift from daylight to darkness blinded me. I forced myself to move slowly at first to let my eyes adjust, and tried not to imagine that Evan was drawing a bead on my forehead. After a few seconds, I was able to see well enough to run. I took out my gun and stayed close to the wall.

Knowing that Evan might be just steps in front of me, my heart thudded hard against my rib cage, but I kept running. I found the door to the stairway that would lead me to the rooftop. He might be waiting for me behind that door. But there was no other way. I had to risk it.

I crouched down and twisted the knob as slowly and quietly as I could. Then, using all my strength, I threw the door open and held my gun out in front of me. The door banged into the wall and bounced back so fast it almost knocked me down. I pushed it open and flew up the stairs to the roof. Like the one on the floor below, this was an enclosed hallway and it was pitch-black, but I pounded down the corridor, heart beating like a trip-hammer, lungs on fire.

I stopped at the curve just before it opened onto the terrace. And there he was, the monster we’d been chasing since this nightmare began. Evan Cutter stood just a hundred feet away. He’d shaved his head and was wearing dark-tinted aviator glasses. He was slamming a magazine into a forty-caliber Smith and Wesson as he watched the fleeing audience. His lips were twisted in a sick, gleeful smile. I knew that gun held eleven rounds, and I saw another seven clips on the wall in front of him. Even if that was the only gun he had, he’d be able to take out dozens.

He took aim and began to fire at the crowd below. The shots echoed loudly in the hallway, mingling with shrieks of terror. Without thinking, I ran straight at him, gun in hand. Desperate to stop him, and afraid I might miss at this distance, I screamed as loud as I could, “Evan! Stop!”

His head jerked around. He turned and fired. But at the same moment I dropped down to a crouch. The shot zinged over my head and ricocheted off the wall to my right. I raised my gun and aimed for his torso-the biggest mass, as my father had taught me-and pulled the trigger. Once, twice, three times. The first two shots missed, but the third hit him square in the gut. He staggered backward and looked down at his stomach, where a neat, black hole began to fill with blood.

I straightened up and prepared to shoot again. But in that moment, Cutter suddenly raised his gun and lunged toward me. I dived again, catching a brief glimpse of muzzle fire as gunshots exploded above me. Just before I hit the ground, I felt a searing heat slice through my body. I landed hard on my back and my head slammed onto the concrete floor.

When I opened my eyes, he was standing over me. “Perfect,” he said. I stared into the muzzle of his gun. Dizzy and disoriented, I raised a hand to push the gun away and tried to roll out of range.

Another shot split the air. And then, all was quiet. My head hurt. Badly. I put my hand to my forehead, where Cutter’s gun had been aimed. No blood. How could that be? I managed to raise up just enough to see Evan Cutter lying at my feet. He was on his side, facing me, eyes vacant. Dead. My head began to swim, and bile rose in my throat. I sank back onto the floor and swallowed to keep from throwing up.

“Knight? You okay?” I looked up and saw Bailey running toward me, her gun at her side.

I realized that the last shots I’d heard were Bailey’s. She took my pulse and leaned over me. I smiled up at her worried face.

“I don’t need CPR, Keller,” I croaked through a dry throat. “So don’t be using this as an excuse to pound on me.”

“Shut up.” Bailey opened my coat and lifted the hem of my sweater.

I knew I’d been shot. “Is it…?”

“I don’t think it hit anything major.” She pulled off her scarf and wrapped it tightly around my body.

I remembered the image of Evan Cutter firing down into the crowd. My heart thumped, and I struggled to sit up. “Was anyone…?” I asked.

Bailey put a restraining hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know yet. Now stop talking and lie down or I’ll knock you out, I swear.”

I wanted to argue, but my eyes wouldn’t focus, and the queasy feeling in my stomach told me that if I tried to sit up again, I’d regret it. I heard the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. I closed my eyes and listened as they got louder and louder.

The next timeI opened my eyes, we were surrounded by police. An officer with sergeant’s stripes gestured toward Evan’s body. “That him?”

Bailey nodded. Only then did I notice the smell of smoke. “The fire-”

“It’s out,” the sergeant said. “Fire country up here. They keep plenty of fire extinguishers on hand. They got it before it could reach the audience. Scorched the back of the stage pretty bad, though.”

Bailey gestured to me. “Paramedics coming? She got hit.”

He nodded. “Should be here in a few seconds.”

One more second, actually. The paramedics arrived carrying two gurneys. I pointed to Evan Cutter’s body. “You only need one. I’ll be okay. Just give me a few minutes.”

The younger paramedic shook his head. My theory-that God made paramedics good-looking so you got to see something beautiful before you died-was once again proven true. He was a dead ringer for Brad Pitt. Blue eyes and all. He knelt down, checked my right side, then swapped out Bailey’s scarf for a big gauze pad and an Ace bandage, which he began to wrap around my torso.

“See, just the fact that you said something that ridiculous shows you’ve got a nasty concussion,” he said. He shined a light into my eyes, checked my pulse, and with the help of another paramedic, lifted me up onto a gurney. He was about to wheel me away when the sergeant who’d spoken to Bailey walked over. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” I gestured to the paramedic. “Pay no attention to Brad Pitt.”

The officer smiled and shook his head. “We’ll take your statement at the hospital. After another ‘know-nothing’ like Brad says you’re able. But I want to be the first to say that you and your partner over there are heroes. You saved a lot of lives today.”

I tried to raise myself up again, but Brad Pitt gently pushed me back down. “Did he get anyone?” I asked.

The sergeant looked at me sadly. “I heard five got hit.”

I closed my eyes. “God, no.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But so far it looks like two, maybe three are going to make it.” He leaned down and spoke with intensity. “Listen, it’s bad. But it would’ve been a helluva lot worse if it hadn’t been for you and that detective.”

I guess I should’ve been consoled, but I wasn’t. At least two more had died at the hands of this monster. As Brad Pitt rolled me away, a hot ball of anger burned in my gut. I’d been determined to see Evan Cutter brought to court in chains and made to live out a life of miserable anonymity behind prison walls. But he’d managed to go out in a hail of bullets-in a bloody shoot-out with a cop and a prosecutor, no less. It may not have been exactly the ending he’d fantasized about, but it was close.

Bailey insisted on accompanying me to the hospital. It turned out she was right: the wound was through-and-through, no vital organs involved. I’d heal cleanly. But I did have a concussion, which meant I’d have to spend the night there. I hate hospitals. Too many sick people. “You can let me go home,” I said. “Bailey will stay with me.” I looked at her. “Won’t you?”

She started to answer, but the doctor-a young Asian man with a ponytail-held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t care if Mother Teresa wants to stay with you. You’re not going anywhere. We need to monitor you for twenty-four hours.”