Tana French - The Likeness

Justin tried to get up, feet scrabbling limply at the floorboards. Daniel took a hand off the gun and shoved him down, hard, into the chair. “Stay there,” he said. “You’re not going to get hurt. I got you into this; I’ll get you out.”

"What do you think you’re doing?” Rafe demanded. “If you have some idea about all of us going down in a blaze of glory, you can stick it-”

“Be quiet,” said Daniel.

“Put down yours,” I said, “and I’ll put down mine. OK?”

In the second when Daniel’s attention went to me, Rafe made a grab at his arm. Daniel sidestepped, fast and neatly, and elbowed him in the ribs without ever taking the gun off me. Rafe doubled over with a rough whoosh of breath. “If you do that again,” Daniel said, “I’ll have to shoot you in the leg. I need to get this done and I don’t have time to deal with your distractions. Sit down.”

Rafe collapsed on the sofa. “You’re insane,” he said, between painful wheezes. “You have to know you’re insane.”

“Please,” Abby said. “They’re coming. Daniel, Lexie, please.”

The sirens were getting closer. A dull clang of metal, booming off the hillsides: Daniel had closed the gates, and someone’s car had just rammed them open.

“Lexie,” Daniel said, very clearly, for the mike. His glasses were slipping down his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I was the one who stabbed you. As the others will have told you, it wasn’t premeditated-”

“Daniel,” Abby said, high and twisted and breathless. “Don’t do this.”

I don’t think he heard her. “The argument broke out,” he told me, “it turned into a fight, and… honestly, I don’t remember exactly how it happened. I had been doing the washing up, I had a knife in my hand, I was terribly upset at the thought that you wanted to sell your share of the house; I’m sure you can understand that. I wanted to hit you, and I did-with consequences that none of us ever, for one moment, could have foreseen. I’m sorry for any and every wrong I did you. All of you.”

Screech of brakes, rush of pebbles scattering; the sirens, howling and mindless outside.

“Put it down, Daniel,” I said. He had to know: that I only had a head shot, that I couldn’t miss. “It’ll be OK. We’ll sort everything out, I swear we will. Just put it down.”

Daniel looked around at the others: Abby poised ready and helpless, Rafe hunched glaring on the sofa, Justin twisted round to stare up at him with huge frightened eyes. “Shh,” he said to them, and put a finger to his lips. I had never seen that much love and tenderness and incredible urgency in anyone’s face, ever. “Not one word. No matter what.”

They stared at him. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “Really, it will. It’s going to be fine.” He was smiling.

Then he turned to me and his head moved, a tiny private nod I’d seen a thousand times before. Me and Rob, eyes catching across a door that wouldn’t open, an interview-room table, and that almost invisible nod passing between us: Go.

It took so long. Daniel’s free hand coming up in slow motion, a long fluid arc, to brace the gun. An immense underwater silence filling the room, all the sirens had fallen away, Justin’s mouth was stretched wide but I couldn’t hear anything coming out; the only sound in the world was the flat click of Daniel cocking the revolver. Abby’s hands going out to him, starfished, her hair swinging up. I had so much time, time to see Justin’s head going towards his knees and to swing my gun down to the chest shot opening up, time to watch Daniel’s hands tightening around the Webley and to remember what they had felt like on my shoulders, those hands, big and warm and capable. I had time to recognize this feeling from so long ago, remember the acrid smell of panic off Dealer Boy, the steady rush of blood between my fingers; the realization of how easy it was, bleeding to death, how simple, how effortless. Then the world exploded.

I read somewhere that the last word on every crashed airplane’s black box, the last thing the pilot says when he knows he’s about to die, is “Mammy.” When all the world and all your life are ripping away from you at the speed of light, that’s the one thing that stays yours. It terrified me, the thought that if someday a suspect got a knife to my throat, if my life shrank to one split second, there might be nothing left inside me to say, no one to call. But what I said, small in the hair-thin silence between Daniel’s shot and mine, was “Sam.”

Daniel didn’t say a word. The impact sent him staggering backwards and the gun dropped from his hand, hit the floor with an ugly thud. Somewhere broken glass was falling, a sweet impervious tinkle. I thought I saw a hole like a cigarette burn, in his white shirt, but I was looking at his face. There was no pain on it, no fear, nothing like that; he didn’t even look startled. His eyes were focused on something-I’ll never know what-behind my shoulder. He looked like a steeplechaser or a gymnast, landing perfectly out of the final death-defying leap: intent, tranquil, gone past every limit, holding back nothing; certain.

“No,” Abby said, flat and final as an order. Her skirt fluttered, gay in the sunlight, as she leaped for him. Then Daniel blinked and crumpled sideways, slowly, and there was nothing behind Justin except a clean white wall.

The next few minutes are shreds of nightmare spliced together with great blank patches. I know I ran, slid on fallen glass and kept running, trying to get to Daniel. I know Abby, crouched over him, fought like a cat to keep me off, wild-eyed, clawing. I remember blood smeared down her T-shirt, the boom echoing through the house as someone broke the front door open, men’s voices shouting, feet pounding. Hands under my arms, pulling me back; I twisted and kicked till they gave me a hard shake and my eyes cleared and I recognized Frank’s face close to mine, Cassie it’s me stop relax it’s over. Sam shoving him away, his hands rough with panic all over me, checking for bullet holes, fingers coming away bloody Is that yours is that yours? I didn’t know. Sam turning me, grabbing at me, his voice finally sagging with relief: You’re grand, you’re OK, he missed… Someone said something about the window. Someone sobbing. Too much light, colors so bright you could cut yourself, too many voices, ambulance, get an-

Finally someone steered me out front and into a marked car, slammed the door. I sat there for a long time, looking at the cherry trees, at the quiet sky slowly dimming, at the distant dark curves of the hills. I didn’t think about anything at all.

There are procedures for this, for officer-involved shootings. There are procedures for everything, in the force, going carefully unmentioned till the day they’re needed at last and the keeper turns the rusty key, blows dust off the file. I had never met a cop who had shot anyone. There was no one who could have told me what to expect, or how to do this, or that it was all going to be OK.

Byrne and Doherty got stuck taking me to headquarters, in Phoenix Park, where Internal Affairs work in showroom offices and a thick puffy cloud of defensiveness. Byrne drove; the slump of his shoulders said, clear as a voice balloon coming out of his head, I knew something like this would happen. I sat in the back like a suspect and Doherty tried to be surreptitious about watching me in the rearview mirror. He was practically drooling: this was probably the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him, plus gossip is good currency in our world and he had just won the lottery. My legs were so cold I could barely move them; I was cold right down to my bones, as if I’d fallen into a freezing lake. At every traffic light Byrne stalled the car and swore morosely.