Frank Zafiro: Under a Raging Moon

Morris lay motionless. He’d tried three times to get his left arm out from underneath him, all without success. Impotently, his left fist clutched the derringer, while his right arm hung useless, his fingers resting on the pavement. He felt the wet warmth of his own blood there.

With great effort, he looked up and saw the cop wasn’t moving.

Good. Maybe the motherfucker was already dead.

The sirens were very close now, and Morris found that he was glad to hear them.

Chisolm slammed on the brakes and put the car into park. He made it out of the car before it even stopped rocking. Pistol out, he approached the scene. He saw the downed suspect lying motionless, eyes closed. As he drew near the police car, he spotted Kopriva seated on the pavement, leaning back into the open driver’s doorway. The officer’s gun lay in his lap. Chisolm noticed empty casings on the pavement near him.

Chisolm trained his gun on the downed suspect and moved forward quickly. Once close enough, he rolled the suspect forward onto his stomach and put his knee across his neck.

Then he saw the derringer in the suspect’s left hand.

The hand twitched.

Chisolm’s free hand shot down, grasping the suspect’s wrist. A low moan escaped the injured man’s lips. Chisolm holstered his pistol and removed the derringer from the suspect’s grip. There was no resistance. Either the man was too weak to put up a fight or he simply surrendered. Chisolm quickly cuffed the wounded man behind the back and made his way to Kopriva.

He set the derringer on the ground next to Kopriva. He pulled the uniform shirt back and examined the officer’s wounds. One through the upper back. Looked like it entered where the vest panel was thin and exited at the collarbone. The bone stuck out of the wound, a compound fracture.

“Try not to move,” Chisolm told Kopriva softly.

Kopriva’s only reply was a cross between a grunt and a moan.

Chisolm continued to check for wounds. Another one in the left arm, just above the elbow. Blood coursed from that wound. There was a third injury in his left knee, a huge hole in the kneecap. Painful, but not life-threatening.

Chisolm rose and ran back to the handcuffed suspect. Rolling him over, he searched until he found what he wanted. Hanging from his right front pocket was a blue bandanna. Blue, the color for all Crips. Chisolm took it without a hint of irony.

Kopriva’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned when Chisolm wrapped the bandanna tightly around the wound in his upper arm. The pain had probably roused him.

“Tom?” he whispered weakly.

“Yeah, Stef, it’s me. Hold tight. You’re gonna be fine.” He forced a smile. “You’re just lucky that bangers are such terrible shots.”

The corners of Kopriva’s mouth twitched, as if he were trying to return the grin.

“Scarface,” he whispered, coughing blood. He pointed toward the store.

Chisolm looked up and saw matted slide marks smeared on the ice-cooler by the door to the convenience store. A small revolver lay on the pavement. A moment later, he saw the trail of blood that lead to the corner of the store, where the light ended. He looked back to Kopriva.

“Scarface.” Kopriva mouthed the word more than said it. With his right hand he held up four fingers. Code four. “Go.”

Chisolm considered for a moment. Kopriva was badly hurt, but he knew of nothing more he could do for him. The suspect lay handcuffed and barely conscious himself. But what if Kopriva died? He couldn’t let the man die alone.

Chisolm hesitated. In all his experience, he’d learned that most men could sense when they were going to die. Without exception, they did not wish to die alone. It was a true test that he had used on more than one occasion. Especially if the man had stones. Kopriva was a tough kid. If he wasn’t asking Chisolm to stay, he probably wasn’t going to die.

Chisolm grabbed Kopriva’s four fingers and squeezed. “Medics are on the way, cowboy. You’ll be fine?”

Kopriva nodded.

Chisolm nodded back and set off in the direction of the blood trail.

Kopriva felt his confidence fade as soon as Chisolm left his sight. He’d often morbidly wondered what, or who, he would be thinking about as he lay dying. He found his mind strangely empty.

He blinked slowly and stared up at the moon that raged in the night sky above.

Matt Westboard used Illinois, a wide road that ran diagonally from Perry to Market. He hit one-hundred and ten miles per hour before he had to slow for the upcoming curve onto Market.

Then he saw a white four-door Chrysler at Haven and Grace, one very short block to the north. He locked up his tires. A small, single driver. Probably female.

Westboard whipped through the empty restaurant parking lot, lighting up the car from the front. A single, white female sat in the passenger seat, her eyes wide with surprise and terror. He recognized her immediately as a skinny version of the woman in the photo from the driver’s license that had been found lying next to Karl Winter. He also noticed that the driver’s rear window was rolled down, even though the front window was up.

Westboard gave his location to channel two and requested a thirteen as soon as Kopriva’s scene was secure. He exited his patrol car smoothly and took a knee at his vehicle’s front tire. In one fluid motion, he rested his elbows on the hood of his car and pointed his gun directly at the woman in the car. Westboard put his laser sight right on her forehead. He decided he would give her one warning, which was one more than Karl got.

“Do not move,” he yelled over the sound of his rotators. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel or I will blow your head off.”

The small field to the south of the Circle K should have been an easy escape route for James Mace. All he had to do was run three short blocks and he could hop into the trunk through the rigged back seat of the car.

But it wasn’t as easy as that when you’ve been shot.

He’d staggered a few feet after letting go of the store wall. Then he had fallen.

Never quit, he had told himself.

Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.

He crawled, pulling with his arms, pushing with his legs. The paper bag tore and he knew some of the money was falling from his grasp, but enough remained. Enough to get some underground medical attention and still get a fix.

He moved another two feet, paused, breathing. He hoped Carla kept her cool and waited.

The sirens were very close, all around now.

Never quit, he muttered soundlessly and continued to crawl.

Chisolm rounded the corner, gun in hand. He saw no running figures and no trees to hide behind.

He followed the blood smears down the wall several yards, where they ended. He turned to the south and spotted a police car in the distance, rotating blue and red lights and a flood of white.

Did they have him up there?

Chisolm took several steps, then saw the drag marks in the grass. He hesitated, remembering ‘Nam and the ambush at Bai-trang in the Mekong Delta. He’d followed those drag marks for over a mile before finding the wounded sniper. He hadn’t seen any need for interrogation, not after having watched Bobby Ramirez’s head explode right next to him and shower him with his best friend’s blood. With a crazed smile on his face, he’d pumped all eight rounds from his.45 into that VC’s head.

The drag marks went due south.

Chisolm followed them as he squeezed the gun in his hand.

Katie MacLeod screeched to a stop and exited her car, weapon drawn. She surveyed the scene and saw the handcuffed suspect.

Then she saw Kopriva, still and unmoving.

James Mace knew he was going to make it now. His bleeding had slowed, almost stopped, and he felt strong enough to make it to the car.