Jonathon King - Eye of Vengeance

"Are you hit anywhere else?" he asked Walker, who had started breathing in those short bursts that come with intense pain. Walker didn't respond and Hargrave did a quick search of the man's head and shoulders and back. No sign of any other trauma. He then took a more studied look at the leg, which Walker was still clutching with both hands high at the thigh. Hargrave could see a puddle starting to form on the street surface, but it too confused him. It could be a through-and-through wound, he thought, but the consistency of the blood was too fast and watery. He pulled the man up by the armpits to put him in a sitting position against the truck wheel and when he inhaled with the effort he took the odor up into his nose. Whiskey, Hargrave thought. And it wasn't as refined as Maker's Mark. He reached down to Walker's hands and pushed them off the wound to feel it himself and when he touched the bloodied cargo pants he could feel the broken glass inside the thigh pocket. The bullet had shattered the newly purchased pint bottle and then ricocheted down into the man's leg. The blood-and-whiskey mix was now running a gravity trail out into the street and Hargrave made a note of it before standing and waving the arriving cops to the side of the buildings and pointing up. It only took seconds for the street to clear, but the officers continued to move up using the overhangs as cover until they were beside the truck and Hargrave stood up.

"Probably ought to call EMS," he said to the first man. "You've got one gunshot victim down on the street. And you also better get on the tactical channel to the Secret Service guys and tell them they might have a sniper working north of the barricades."

At that the officers all looked up at the same time as they crouched next to Walker. But Hargrave remained standing and answered a ring on his cell phone.

"Hargrave," he said.

"Detective, this is Mullins. I'm gonna need some help up here."

Two weeks later, Nick was at home, lying on the couch on a Saturday morning, waiting to take Carly on a field trip. He'd had plenty of time at home, unemployed and without a deadline. At first he wasn't sure he was going to be able to stand the open time, the lack of schedule. The slow cocktail of pressure and adrenaline and approaching deadline that had consumed his life was now over for good. But he quickly found that he did not miss it, or its hangover, at all.

On the morning of the shooting he'd called Hargrave on the cell for help and directed him to the top of the Marsh Storage Facility. Hargrave had come alone and in his own stoic way took command. While calling for paramedics on his cell phone, he simultaneously spun his handkerchief into a rope, put a knot in the middle and then stuffed it like a plug into the palm of Nick's hand and then wrapped it in place. Then he crouched there and assessed the leg wound. He stripped his shirt and folded it to form a pressure bandage and then held it hard against the seeping hole and then watched as news helicopters filled the sky like carrion vultures until the rescue squad got there.

"Goddamn snipers aren't such good shots after all," he said. The next day's headline had read:

The Daily News and other media jumped all over a speculation that the shooting had been an attempt on the secretary's life gone awry and that when the sniper was interrupted by two civilians and sensed capture, he fled.

The Secretary of State immediately flew back to D.C. and a spokesperson issued a statement that the incident was "troubling" but that they would have no comment until the Secret Service had done a full investigation.

When Nick was interviewed by the feds he simply told the truth. On a news hunch, he was looking for someone on the roof when he inadvertently surprised the sniper, who turned and fired at him. The bullet was deflected when it sheared through his left hand and then struck his leg. He could not say that he heard another shot, and he saw no one else on the roof until Detective Hargrave arrived.

Later in the week it was directly from Hargrave that Nick learned that FBI crime-scene technicians had taken over the scene and confirmed his story after finding that the round that pierced Walker's leg and his whiskey bottle matched that found in Mullins's thigh.

Both the detective and the reporter had their own theories on what happened. If they ever sat down and compared scenarios, their versions would not have been much different, but they never did.

Hargrave only called Nick one more time. It was on the day that charges of violating probation were filed against Robert Walker for being in possession of and consuming alcoholic beverages. Hargrave had made sure evidence from that shooting scene was gathered by the Sheriff's Office, including Walker's blood-and-alcohol-soaked pants. He'd also called in a request at the E.R. and had them take a blood-alcohol test immediately. And he personally canvassed all the area liquor stores within a ten-minute radius of Archie's until he found the clerk who'd been selling the whiskey to Walker, to use as a witness.

When Nick's name was released as one of the wounded, he was inundated by members of the media, including old friends, requesting interviews. The managing editor of the Daily News sent a written request, pointing out that since he had not gone through the final "separation from the company" process, he might still be considered an employee with certain obligations. That was a new one on Nick. He'd yet to hear of the management technique of both asking a favor and threatening legal action against an employee at the same time.

To everyone he simply said, "No comment," and meant it. Maybe, when his hand healed and he was able to type without pain again, he might put his own exclusive story together.

But this morning he and Carly were on the living room couch, reading and waiting for a visitor. At the sound of the doorbell, Carly jumped up to answer the door.

"Hi, Lori!" she said to the research assistant who had been the first newsroom person to check on Nick without asking for a quote.

"Hello, Carly," she said, walking in. "What are you and your dad up to this morning?"

"I don't know," the girl said and smiled. "You will have to ask Mr. Secrecy over there."

Nick got up, shaking his head and dangling his car keys in his right hand, a smile on his face. "We're going on a visit."

The girls looked at him and gave in. Both of them had already learned not to rush to help him walk or offer to drive. During the trip the girls talked about their mutual interest in paintings and photographs. Lori told Carly about the access she had to hundreds of photos through the newspaper's archives and her collection of museum tomes like the one about Van Gogh she'd given her.

"Awesome!" was Carly's sophisticated comment and Nick smiled.

After several minutes they turned into a neighborhood in northwest Fort Lauderdale where neither Carly nor Lori had ever been. Both of them looked out with curiosity at the streets and the small, sun-faded homes. On Northwest Tenth, Nick spotted the red geranium on the porch and pulled into the driveway.

"I want you guys to meet Ms. Cotton," he finally said. "She's a very nice lady."

The small black woman was waiting for them just inside the door and Nick made introductions as they were invited in. Ms. Cotton had made a pitcher of lemonade and Carly politely accepted a glass while they sat. Nick watched his daughter's eyes go immediately to the photos of the girls on the wall and stay there, like she was studying them. Their host noticed.

"Those are my girls," Ms. Cotton said directly to Carly. "Your father was very kind to them when they passed away."