Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

“I hear them coming,” he rasped. “And I can still see you.”

Katie tensed herself to leap to her feet.

“You’re fucking dead, bitch,” he growled, and stepped forward.

At that moment, Katie spotted the dark black metal of her gun resting on the floor, slightly underneath the bed. She lunged for it, clutching it in her bloody hands.

His heavy thudding footsteps seemed to shake the world as he drew nearer.

Range-master Sergeant Morgan’s booming voice over-shadowed even that sound as she remembered his frequent advice for taking down an enemy combatant.

Fire into the pelvic girdle.

She tightened her grip on the gun.

Break the body’s support.

Katie swung the gun toward his advancing figure.

If a man can’t walk, he can’t fight.

Without aiming, she pointed the pistol toward his waist and slapped the trigger.

The gun barked in her hands, the muzzle flashing.

He didn’t stop.

She fired again. And again. The gun bucked in her hands as she brought the sights back to bear on his pelvic girdle. She blasted a fourth time, then a fifth.

He paused, then stumbled brokenly backward. With a loud crash, he collapsed to the ground only a few feet from her. His arms and chest shuddered.

Katie indexed, placing her trigger finger along the side of the pistol. She stared at the quivering heap of evil on her bedroom floor through the sights of her gun. Rage suffused her. Her own hand trembled with fury.

He tried to rape me.

He tried to kill me.

In my own home.

He should die.

With some effort, she steadied her hand. The unmistakable yelp and wail of police sirens rose in volume as they grew closer. The acrid smell of cordite and the coppery odor of blood filled her nostrils. Katie drew a bead on the back of her attacker’s head, her trained eye focusing on the front sight. She moved her finger from the indexed position onto the trigger.

He should die.

A gurgling breath leaked out of his mouth.

Katie pressed the trigger slightly, swallowing in anticipation. She could do it. She knew she could. All it would take is for her to apply few pounds of pressure on the trigger and a 186-grain bullet would blast into the back of his head.

Blood coursed down her fingers and dripped from her extended hands onto the floor. The dollops that landed on the wooden floor seemed louder than her own breathing, louder than the approaching sirens.

All she had to do was squeeze. Kill him. Kill the memory of Phil. Just another pound or two of pressure and the gun would explode with the same fury and pain she’d carried with her all these past years. The blast would fill the room. The gun would leap backward in her hands. The bullet would sizzle through the air, impact his head and end his miserable life. No one would know any better.

She would feel good about it.

She would be free.

She could do it.

Another wheezing breath came out of him.

He should die.

Katie MacLeod lowered her gun.

1026 hours

Gio screeched to a halt in front of Katie’s house. He leapt out of the patrol car, leaving the engine running and the door standing open. He sprinted up her walkway, his long legs eating up the ground quickly. At the same time, he drew his sidearm on the run. At her door, he stopped and checked the knob.

Locked.

Gio drove his shoulder into the door.

It didn’t budge.

He cursed loudly, stepped back and delivered a powerful, thrusting kick directly next to the doorknob. With a crash, the doorjamb shattered. The door swung open and Gio dashed inside, his gun extended in front of him.

“MacLeod?” he shouted. He scanned the living room and kitchen for any movement. The bathroom door stood open, the remnants of steam still visible on the mirror. Another siren drew closer, followed by another set of tires screeching to a stop.

He could detect the unmistakable scent of fired gunpowder hovering in the air. And something else, too, but it was a moment before he recognized the odor.

Blood.

“MacLeod?” he shouted again. “Where are you?”

The only room that remained was the bedroom. He shuffled toward it, his gun trained on the doorway.

“I’m in here,” Katie called out weakly. Then, a moment later, she added, “Code Four.”

Gio lowered his gun but didn’t holster. He strode quickly into the room. Katie sat with her back to the wall on the far side of the bed. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped herself in her bloodstained terry cloth robe. Her wrist rested on a raised knee. A still-smoking automatic dangled from her hand.

“Are you all right?” Gio asked.

Katie didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the ground in front of her. Gio followed her gaze, moving around the foot of the bed.

In front of her lay a man, collapsed in a twisted heap, a bloody knife still clutched in his hand.

Gio covered the man with his own gun and brushed the knife away with his foot. The blade skittered and spun across the wooden floor. Then he reached for his radio.

“Adam-254, situation is Code Four here,” he transmitted. “I need medics to this location.” He hesitated, then added, “Two ambulances.”

“Copy.”

“And start a supervisor,” he said. “This is an officer-involved shooting.”

Behind him, Gio heard the stomping of heavy feet. Before him, he heard the rasping, gurgling breath of the downed suspect. He ignored both sounds. Instead, he stepped over the bent form and knelt in front of Katie. His uniform blocked her view of the attacker. Gio looked into Katie’s eyes. He waited until their focus shifted and met his own.

“You did it,” he told her softly. “You’re okay.”

RIVER CITY, WASHINGTON

I sit and savor that I’m alive

Abandon the world to die and thrive

Moment by black moment passes me by

Beneath a weeping sky.

Rebecca Battaglia

Friday May 9th

1406 hours

Detective John Tower stood on the fringe of the crime scene. He watched as Detectives Finch and Elias from Major Crimes worked the scene. The pair was an efficient tandem and he knew he shouldn’t resent them for being inside the yellow tape, examining evidence and espousing theories. It was their job. Moreover, this was an officer-involved shooting, so it fell under the purview of Major Crimes. It wasn’t their fault he was on the sidelines, so he shouldn’t be pissed at them for it.

But he was.

He stood at the front of his car, sipping terrible convenience store coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The acid in the foul brew made his stomach gurgle in protest, but he ignored it. Instead, he watched the hustle and bustle of the crime scene. Watched Elias direct Diane from Forensics and other support personnel this way and that. Watched Finch’s careful contemplation. He watched it all happen outside the residence and then he watched it all drift gradually inside as a careful, measured, recorded process.

A few minutes later, Ray Browning arrived. The compact, cocoa-skinned detective gave Tower a soft, sympathetic smile before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape.

Tower didn’t smile back.

He knew he shouldn’t resent Ray, either. But he did.

Lieutenant Crawford stood inside the crime scene perimeter, overseeing the activity but giving very little direction. Everyone knew their job, so little was necessary. He glanced over at Tower. Even at the distance of forty yards or so, Tower could read the disgust plainly on the lieutenant’s face.

Everyone knows their job, all right.