A Slightly Tainted Hero

A bright white light flooded Dave Lockwood’s mind, and he had the wit to wonder if it was the sort of light that heralded one of those near-death experiences he’d so often read about. If so, that could only mean he was dying, a notion that failed to bother him at all, which was surprising. He’d always thought the experience would be terrifying. Yet Dave felt perfectly relaxed and at peace, as if floating on a cloud—so why not the warm, ethereal comfort of a shining light? Countless others who had been dead—technically, anyway—claimed to have seen such a light as they drifted in the same euphoric tranquillity. It left them with no fear of death for the rest of their lives, and he now understood that. He was really dying! He had to be. It all made sense in a peculiarly tired sort of way...

As the seconds ticked by, however, Dave began to grow concerned. Nothing more was happening. Had something gone wrong? No kindly apparition beckoned from within the heavenly glow, nor were there any deceased loved ones such as his grandmother—the one on his mother’s side—urging him onward. Nor was there anyone else, such as his grandmother on his father’s side, telling him to bugger off and go back, it wasn’t yet his time.

Dave blinked. As he did it struck him that if indeed he was dying within a calming aura of bright light and all its related trappings, why was he blinking? He blinked again, several times in succession, to be sure; then groaned as the warm glow morphed into a bank of glaring fluorescent tubes—no, two banks of fluorescent tubes, and they were not floating, they were recessed in a vivid white ceiling. That meant he probably wasn’t dying at all, a conclusion that Dave found vaguely disappointing. Everything had been so damned peaceful...

His eyes flicked from side to side as his mind absorbed his new surroundings. He was in a hospital room and, as his memory flooded back, he realized that was only to be expected. There’d been a shot, several shots in fact, and one of them had hit him in his—good God! He’d been hit—down there! Yet there had been no pain, nor was there any now. Just a tired, gradual exhausting of energy as if he’d been—well, it wouldn’t have surprised him at all if he’d woken up dead.

There were people close by, Dave realized; real people, talking—further proof of his continuing state of mortality. Two women stood in the open doorway with their backs turned, and it was clear that neither was a grandmother. They were probably nurses, and they were blessed with long dark hair. Shouldn’t they be looking after me?

Dave closed his eyes, his fuddled mind struggling to remember what had happened. There’d been the parking garage in the building where he worked. Others had been there too, and whatever had occurred had been nasty. And Irene Blanchard also had been . . .

Yes, Irene had been there too! In fact, she’d been there all the time, even before leaving the office. God, surely nothing had happened to Irene!

Dave’s mind fumbled to place events in order. Irene had been leaving the office at the same time as him, which didn’t happen that often, not at night, anyway. Then there’d been the elevator. Both had entered at the same time, then after that . . . what had happened next?

***

Dave Lockwood glanced at his watch. Nine p.m. He tossed his pencil on the desk, leaned back in his chair, stretched both arms high above his head, and yawned. The reading glasses (three pairs for eighteen bucks at Costco) followed the pencil, and without leaning forward he reached out and clicked the cordless mouse to log off. For a full five minutes he stared at the blank screen, unwilling to leave the comfort of the chair, and finally decided that if he didn’t move soon, the janitors would be waking him up at midnight. With a grunt he pushed the chair away from the desk and rose, cautiously stamping each foot on the thick carpet to make sure neither leg had fallen asleep. Of late, the left one in particular had developed a habit of doing precisely that.

Dave yawned again and glanced at the desk calendar, an unnecessary gesture. It was the first of April. Twenty-nine more days before the current income tax season was over. How many more remained to retirement? He groaned at the thought. There had been a day, not that many years ago, when all the hype was about freedom fifty-five. In retrospect, the prospect was pure nonsense and always had been. Touted as a retirement utopia, in reality it was an urban myth. As far as David Lockwood was concerned, it was nothing but a financial pipe dream cooked up by regiments of so-called financial planners competing to lay hands on your retirement funds. Fifty-five was far too early to retire, and besides, it was damned unhealthy. Living such a dream was a semi-supine, pre-geriatric slide into mental oblivion for the naturally idle and the civil servant. Anyone who had actually worked hard for a living would go stark raving mad. Bah! Humbug!

Dave smiled at the thought, and figured he’d better keep his mouth shut on that one. Politically incorrect! Seriously, though, what does a man do to keep himself busy when he finally quits? Dave sighed, wandered over to his office door, and pulled his overcoat off the rack.

Happy birthday, Mister Lockwood.

Yeah, yeah, thanks, Irene. Dave glanced up as he fumbled with the coat, and assumed the tragic expression he’d worn all day. It was expected. The entire staff had trooped into his office earlier to remind him he was a year older. Irene had carried a chocolate sponge cake covered in jet black icing. Someone else toted a dozen helium-filled balloons of the same grim colour, and one of the secretaries clutched a magnum of real champagne. Ten in the morning, yet! There had also been a darkly humorous birthday card that was not really funny at all, especially to someone turning sixty. Humbug again! If he was honest with himself, the tragic expression he’d feigned hadn’t been entirely counterfeit.

The gloom and doom had been somewhat eased by the gift of an eighteen-year-old bottle of Macallan scotch, which Dave suddenly remembered as the heavy coat settled comfortably about his shoulders. No way was he going to leave that in his office where his partners could come mooching in for a taste, regardless of whether he was there or not.

Oh come on, it’s not that bad, Irene teased, taking the time to lean against the doorframe, even though she was clearly dressed to leave in a knee-length leather coat, suede gloves, and a pair of warm, low-cut, high-heeled boots. It might be the first of April, but patches of snow still lay on the ground in suburbia, and on the way in that morning the wind had been cutting.

That’s fine for you to say. Dave grinned as he tucked the bottle of scotch under one arm and lifted his briefcase with the other—then promptly set it down again. He knew it would not be touched if he took it home this time of night, so why bother? The thing would likely never leave the trunk of the car. Particularly not on his birthday—which reminded him that he was already late for his late-evening birthday dinner. Louise would be angry. He should have left an hour ago, he really should, but as usual he hated to abandon his desk with anything unfinished on top. There had been just one more quick, tiny change to old Hoffman’s statement, and before he knew it the time. . .

Dave shook his head. The time! Sixty years old! How had it happened so fast? The big six-O. It was only the sixth zero-ending B-day in a lifetime of having the damned things. Dave frowned, and it was noticed.

Look on the bright side, Irene quipped as she stepped back, leaving space for him to pass. At least you know you’re going to live this long.

And you keep that up, young lady, and you just might not. Dave paused in the doorway, and gestured for her to go ahead. And I’m not getting so old that a woman figures she should step aside to let me go first.

Hmmm. Touchy, touchy, Irene murmured, raising her eyebrows as she led the way into the hallway.

Anyone left? Do we need to lock up? Dave asked as he trailed behind, unconsciously glancing down at her legs. They were long and slim and the skin was probably as smooth as a baby’s. All of which was a stark reminder of his current birthday, an age where a man’s mind lagged drastically behind in an unwelcome race to keep up with his body. Dave quietly grunted to himself, and managed a sardonic smile. One of the more sobering aspects of growing older was accepting that the body declines faster than the mind by a margin of at least twenty years. Or, to put it another way, what the hell is a virile, middle-aged brain doing inside a declining sixty-year-old bod?

Not that he was in bad shape, Dave told himself as he lifted his eyes, only to find them resting on Irene’s bottom. Its pert curves swayed tantalizingly against the taut leather of her coat, and he sighed. No, he wasn’t in bad shape at all for his age, though he winced at the automatic addition of the disclaimer. For his age! It was all part of the package, Dave supposed, and today was just one more milestone. Only to be candid, it really was a significant one. And Irene, walking confidently ahead of him to the faint rustle of leather and the muted click of her heels, was simply a sober reminder. One of the difficult facts to accept on the climb toward sixty was how younger women, those under forty-five say, viewed a man of his age. Dave grimly smiled at the answer: Yeah, maybe he’s nice, but the old boy is getting up there!

Not that he had an ounce of carnal interest in other women, of course. That wasn’t even a consideration. Dave Lockwood was a happily married man and had been for many years, and if he failed to mention it from time to time, then his wife Louise reminded him. And the occasional concern about age and image was probably motivated by nothing more than sagging self-esteem—which, he reluctantly admitted, was just another phrase for battered ego. It wasn’t that he was interested in other women, Dave mused; the problem was, they were no longer interested in him.

Take someone like Irene, for example. She was intelligent, attractive, and maybe twenty years his junior. What did she actually see and think when she looked at someone his age? Was that when words such as distinguished or well-kept slipped into their vocabulary? Or, God forbid, the word spry! Whatever image women like Irene held of men who were hitting sixty, Dave was damned sure it did not jibe with his own opinion. Certainly not the one held when viewing the image that faced him in the mirror every morning—particularly that morning.

Happy birthday, Dave!

God, life could be depressing!

Roger and Pete were working in the bull pen, and I think Shirley was still in her office. Irene fell back alongside him as they passed through the lobby.

Ah, good. Good, Dave muttered, and fumbled vainly for something else to say. And that was another thing. How do you maintain an interesting conversation with a young person? A conversation that is not restricted to what’s going on at the office, or the miserable weather.

The elevator sat directly across from the accounting firm’s suite of offices, and Dave opted to stare at the closed doors while Irene pushed the call button. The elevator was already there for the doors promptly opened, which during April was not that unusual. At the height of income tax season the bean counters seemed to be the only people who haunted the building’s hallways late at night.

You drive in today? Irene asked as he followed her inside, his eyes again drawn to the trim set of her firm behind.

Er, yes. Yes.

What level are you on?

You don’t want to know! The double meaning flitted through Dave’s mind, but instead he answered, Park-3. Then, for something to say, he added, Did you drive in today?

Yeah. That’s where I’m going, too. Brian’s out this week on an audit, and said I could use his spot.

The underground parking garage of the Manulife building is the usual confined mass of concrete found in all the downtown parkades, only it’s far more polished than most. The rough concrete ceilings are painted; each parking level surface is flat and smoothly finished rather than sloped; the stubby, round columns glisten white with a dark green trim, though like all the others in town the parking stalls are still better suited for Smart Cars if a person values space. The lighting, however, is excellent. Row upon row of fluorescents gave off a constant luminous glare that seemed magnified on P-3, almost devoid of vehicles and awash with white paint. Dave’s was the nearest, a cream-coloured Lincoln Town Car that sat no more than ten yards from the entrance. Irene’s was parked farther down the concourse, close by one of the exit signs, only the sign had the word out written on it instead, either to avoid or create confusion.

Dave followed Irene through the double doors into the parkade, absently listening to the crisp click of her high-heeled boots against the cement floor. It was an oddly ominous sound that he’d heard in a hundred movies. A thought struck him, one that seemed completely incongruous: Lone woman in an empty parking complex, late at night, and lurking in the . . . Nine times out of ten, such scenes led to disaster, Dave mused, yet there was something erotic in the steady staccato rhythm of Irene’s boots. And maybe I’m losing my mind, he sighed as they reached the back end of the Lincoln.

He was about to bid Irene good night when he realized that something was wrong, clearly wrong. The driver’s door was wide open, and the interior light was on. Had someone broken into his car? Shit! Dave swore, and stepped around the side of the car, only to stop dead in his tracks and curse again. Oh, shit!

Dave later remarked on Irene’s composure. Rather than scream she simply echoed the same words, and with just as much sentiment.

A male figure crouched in the shadow of the car, plainly alerted by the steady patter of Irene’s high-heeled boots. The man uncurled snakelike from the concrete floor, a lean, balaclava clad shadow that at first seemed to be seven feet tall. He wore a quilted down jacket and faded jeans, and stood barely three feet away. But once he stood up straight and Dave’s heart fell more or less back to where it was supposed to be, he realized the man was at the very most six feet tall, and was lean to the point of being skinny. That left him hardly any taller than Dave, and maybe thirty or forty pounds lighter.

Hey, man, just borrowing your car.

The words were casual, almost apologetic. Dave stood frozen in shock, for the moment unsure what, exactly, was happening. He then blurted the first words that came to mind, and they sounded absurd even as they tumbled from his lips: I need it to get home.

Yeah, well, the stupid ignition seems to have got itself jacked, so go ahead. It’s all yours. The hooded figure shrugged, his eyes shifting rapidly back and forth between Dave and Irene. They were a pale blue, and it struck Dave that they were—well, they were a pale watery blue, and there was absolutely no feeling in them. Then he began to notice other details. The menacing black balaclava stretched tight across the man’s nose, which made it appear flat, like a boxer’s. There was a small damp patch about the size of a silver dollar in the woolen material just below where the nostrils would be, and the thug’s pink tongue flicked across his lips as if he might be nervous.

I guess money will have to do instead then, dude. I’ll settle for your wallet, and as for you, his eyes swept over Irene, and came to rest on her handbag, you can give me that. And hey! The eyes swung sharply upward to meet Irene’s full on. You riding with the old guy, or are you driving yourself?

Irene’s eyes slid involuntarily toward her car, a solitary red Dodge Charger glistening under the bright fluorescents as if fresh from the showroom, perhaps fifty paces away.

The masked figure chuckled. Nice machine. Gimme the purse, lady. And the keys, if they’re not in it.

You riding with the old guy? Dave had been about to reach for his wallet, but stopped short. He’d been quite ready to pass it over, meek as hell and fervently hoping the thug would just go away. It was only a wallet, for Christ’s sake. The darn thing was readily replaceable, along with whatever was inside. There was hardly any cash, and he was insured anyway. Perhaps it was the old guy reference, but Dave was suddenly aware that Irene was also standing right there beside him, also being robbed. He was the one who was supposed to leap to her assistance. He was—he was the man!

No, the old guy, damn it!

Tomorrow, for better or for worse, the story would be all over the office, and what would be said? There was old Lockwood just standing there like a wuss, spinelessly handing over his wallet. Worse still, he would have done absolutely nothing while Irene was forced to give up not only her purse, but her car, too. Never mind what they might say in the damned office, what would she think?

Er, hold on minute. Hardly aware of what he was doing or saying, Dave slid a hand sideways to restrain Irene’s arm. She had edged much closer than he realized, and instead his pale knuckles came to rest across her breasts. Neither of them noticed. Look, fella, how about I just give you fifty bucks and we call it a night?

Listen, asshole! The man’s voice, so far almost pleasant, turned surprisingly harsh and ugly. He stepped forward, his right hand rising from the pocket of his jacket. Dave hadn’t even noticed it tucked in there. Don’t jerk me around, or you’ll get this jammed up your nose and your stupid brains blown out the back of your head.

The words fell on numbed ears as Dave glanced downward, his stomach lurching. What he saw there was crystal clear, and an ice-cold fog flooded his brain as the man’s hand slid from his pocket and moved upward as if in slow motion, clutching a pistol—cold, terrifying and black.

With a mind of its own, Dave’s right hand shot out in sheer panic, as he instinctively lunged to stop the weapon from moving farther. The expensive scotch, forgotten for the moment, arced off to right. The thug’s eyes briefly shifted as the doomed bottle shattered on the concrete, and Dave found himself hanging onto the man’s wrist, mere inches above the weapon. His grip was surprising solid, which startled him, and for a split second, time stood still.

Dave glanced down at the gun and realized the barrel was pointed straight at his belly. With a cry of desperation he jumped back and to one side all in the same movement, his mind vaguely aware that under no circumstance could he let go. With all the force he could muster, he pulled hard on the thug’s wrist, intent only on getting the stupid gun pointed away from his belly. The thief, caught off guard, stumbled forward. Blind with terror, Dave saw no other option than to keep pulling, and push the weapon away from his belly.

The younger, taller man was fumbling to find his footing as Dave yanked harder and harder, forcing him round in an ever widening circle. How, in the name of God, could he end this? There was no place to go. The man was now reeling into his second go-around but clearly winning the battle to regain his balance and Dave, quite literally, was beginning to lose his grip. When that happened, the whirling thug was going to be thoroughly pissed off! There had to be something he could do . . .

A vague, ingrained memory flashed through his mind: high school—how many decades ago?—that half-baked karate club in grade ten . . . or was it judo? It didn’t matter.

Dave tugged desperately on the wrist, and tried pulling himself nearer to the struggling thug. There was a trick to doing this. For God’s sake, what had it been? That was over forty years ago! Yet at the time he’d been surprised at the strength of the small, plumpish kid who showed him. And he’d been thoroughly shocked at the leverage it produced. An odd, deeply embedded sixth sense seemed to take over Dave’s mind. He moved his left hand against the back of the thief’s elbow, clutched the joint, pushed hard, and suddenly everything became easier. Using the man’s wrist as a pivot, he forced the fellow’s elbow forward and—and the fool just kept going in a circle, yet there did seem to be far more control. Only...

Only the useless idiot should have gone down!

And the damned pistol was pointing everywhere, including at Irene.

There must have been something else.

There was . . .

Shit! Dave’s voice almost cracked. There was the tricky part, and he’d forgotten all about it.

He lifted his left leg, not sure if it was the correct one, and kicked out. The bottom of his foot caught the man’s knee and, sure as hell, he yelped and went down on the concrete like a stone. Dave, panting hard in both panic and relief, pushed firmly on the back of the thug’s elbow to keep him there, which proved no difficulty at all. The man lay sprawled on the concrete with cheek and shoulder pressed hard against the cold surface, one arm splayed sideways like a broken wing, his body locked in its skewed position by the opposing pressure against elbow and wrist. And . . . and his hand still clutched the stupid gun! Dave cursed again.

Drop it.

Fuck you.

I said drop it!

Aaagh! The man tried to struggle free, clearly in pain as Dave pushed down on the elbow. And-and I said st-stuff it!

Dave, sweat dripping from his forehead, was fast running out of breath. What the hell to do? The faint spark of reason at the back of his mind told him that if the goon got loose, he was as good as dead. Yet the front of his mind, the part still in panic mode, wanted nothing more than to cut his losses and run like hell. Something had to give.

Gritting his teeth in desperation, Dave wrenched the man’s wrist upward with his right hand, and shoved down as hard as he could on the elbow with the left. A sickening crack of bone or cartilage followed, along with a piercing scream that echoed clear across the parkade. The pistol clattered to the concrete.

Jesus! Irene muttered, staring as if dazed.

Dave gazed numbly downward, the thug’s wrist still tightly clasped in his right hand, only now the arm felt like a thick rubber rope. The man writhed on the concrete, vainly trying to turn onto his back, doubtless trying to relieve the terrible pain. Dave let go to allow the fellow to roll over, and another scream rang out as the arm landed on the concrete at an angle that was positively obscene. Dave almost bent to down to pick it up again, but decided that would just make matters worse. Instead, he helped ease the man onto his back, then leaned over and tugged the balaclava away. A pale, angry face glared back, that of a youth only a few years out of his teens. Even so, he was the TV image of a mugger. Pale, indoor skin, and a small smatter of zits dotting his cheeks and neck. A tangle of dark, oily hair, half a dozen tiny rings looped into his ears, nose, and eyebrow, and a look of hatred that made Dave blink twice.

Jesus, Dave . . . Irene mumbled again, then fell silent.

Yeah, I know, he replied, though he had no idea what it was that he knew. Not while he was bent over trying to catch his breath, which felt as if it was blowing halfway between a gasp and vomiting. The harsh panting was fueled more by shattered nerves than shortage of air.

You shithead! The thug spat the words as he lurched painfully upward, trying to gain his feet. His eyes edged sideways, and his good hand suddenly grasped for the fallen pistol.

Da-ave . . . Irene’s warning was pitched high with alarm.

Dave looked up and swore. The punk’s hand was inches from the pistol grip. Furious, he lashed violently out with his foot in an effort to kick the weapon as far as possible, just as the thug lost his balance and fell sideways. The toe cap of Dave’s highly polished Oxford missed the gun, and caught the youth under the jaw with a sharp, resounding crack. A gargled cry bubbled from the man’s throat. He flipped over onto his back and lay on the concrete as still as death.

Jeez, Dave . . .

Shit, I didn’t mean to. Dave dropped to one knee, his stomach churning, and placed two fingers against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. He felt around for another second or two, but there was still nothing. Christ, he’s dead.

Try the wrist.

What?

The wrist, Dave. Try the wrist.

Oh, yeah. Yeah. Once again he grabbed the man’s wrist, this time the left one, and desperately fumbled for a sign of life. He quickly found the pulse, strong and steady, and with a huge sigh of relief he sank back on his heels, vainly trying to regain a sense of normalcy.

You killed him, you dumb prick! The voice seemed to come from nowhere.

No. No, he’s not dead, Dave answered as a matter of course, then he looked up and saw that Irene was standing rigid, her mouth open. She appeared far more unsettled than before, and was staring somewhere off behind him.

He’s dead. You just said so!

Dave whirled on his knees and saw a dusky-skinned teenager standing by the open door of the Lincoln. The kid must have had his head buried somewhere under the dash, extracting the sound system or the GPS, for he brandished a black rectangular box that trailed a tangled web of wires. Dave simply knelt where he was, stunned, as the youth hauled back and threw the entire mess at him. At the last moment Dave ducked and raised one arm, and whatever mystery box of electronics had been pulled from the dash crashed off his elbow. Nerves running wild, he hardly noticed.

That’s my fucking brother! the youth screamed, and thrust one hand into the pocket of his grubby, black fleece hoodie, that seemed to be two sizes too big for him. He found what he was looking for and tried tugging it out, but it seemed to be caught in the loose material. Enough of it was exposed, however, to make out the size and shape, and Dave could have wept.

Irene confirmed what he’d seen, screeching at the top her voice, He’s got another gun!

Implications were slow to register, but when they dawned, they struck like a ton of bricks. Dave’s heart lurched, and his belly turned to water. Oddly enough, it struck him as being so damned unfair. A person escapes certain death by the skin of his teeth, only to find another, far worse threat pop up in its place! Was this how it was going to be, the end? Killed by a hopped-up kid with a gun?

A gun . . .

Where was the other gun?

Ohhhhh, shit! Dave frantically scanned the concrete floor, edging sideways, crab-like, in a forlorn attempt to scramble to his feet. One foot fell on top of the missing pistol and he nearly tumbled backward as the weapon skittered across the smooth cement. Catching himself, he lurched forward and scooped the pistol from the ground, his knuckles grinding across the garage floor. Hands shaking, he brought the weapon up in the classic two-handed stance he’d seen on a thousand cops and killer shows and roared, D-drop it!

The kid seemed not to notice. Glaring wildly down at his jacket, he continued to tug and jerk on the pistol grip. Whatever part of the gun that was caught in his pocket—it had to be the hammer— suddenly tore loose and the muzzle began its upward arc. Dave, his eyes almost closed, pulled the trigger. And—

And nothing happened. In fact, the damned thing didn’t even click on empty. The trigger just sat hard against his finger with no feel or give to it. The stupid weapon was on safety!

Forgotten instincts, memories from a hundred years ago, miraculously appeared from nowhere, surging through Dave’s panicked mind. He glanced down and spotted the safety catch, a tiny pill-shaped button just above the trigger guard. The early training all came back, even the simple technique of using the thumb to slide the catch forward. Safety off, he again raised the pistol—only to find himself staring down the black muzzle of the kid’s gun, now framed against a twisted face which held a huge grin of triumph as he pulled the trigger. Gut churning, Dave flinched and turned his face away, eyes closed, waiting for the impact.

Again, nothing happened.

The youth’s face filled with anger, and he brought the gun down and stared at it in puzzlement. Then he slowly nodded and he, too, fumbled with the safety catch.

Dave wasn’t going to give him a second chance. He again pulled the trigger and felt the pressure of the hammer pulling back, then its release with a loud click—as the firing pin fell on an empty chamber. Again, nothing! The damned fool punk hadn’t even bothered to lever a round into the chamber. Was the idiot a frigging safety freak?

Aaaagh . . .

This time there was no need to think. Dave gripped the crown of the weapon with his left hand and quickly slid the piece back and forth, chambering a round that surely, if there were any gods at all in the universe, sat ready to load in a fully stacked magazine.

The magazine! Oh God, please, let there be a full magazine in the stupid gun!

For the third time Dave raised the weapon, his mind registering the kid doing exactly the same thing, following his own action as if on a nanosecond delay. There could have been no more than ten, twelve feet between them. Way too close to miss . . .

Running on instinct, Dave aimed at the centre of the youngster’s body as he’d been taught to do a hundred times seemingly a thousand years ago. But, at the last moment, he edged the sights over to the youth’s shoulder, the one with the arm carrying the gun. It wasn’t exactly a conscious move, but even in his panic aiming a shot that would kill the lad was too much. This was only a youngster, not that many years older than his grandson.

The gun bucked and the loud crack of the shot echoed through the parkade, followed a split second later by the crack of a second shot. Dave blinked, wondering what had just happened. He was damned sure he hadn’t fired the second shot, yet he didn’t feel anything to indicate the kid had fired and hit him. The youth must have shot and missed, for he just stood there, clearly puzzled, the muzzle of his weapon pointed at an angle that more or less coincided with the direction of Dave’s crotch. The kid, just as plainly, wasn’t hit either. Then his eyes seemed to clear as if in understanding and the gun hand moved upward again.

Screw the humanity bit! Dave gulped and fired two more rounds in quick succession, this time aiming at the middle of the kid’s chest, about six inches below the chin. The rounds struck home! The youth staggered sideways with the impact, half turning as he stumbled against the open door of the Lincoln. The kid stood clutching his shoulder, which was where Dave had aimed that first shot—the first one that had clearly missed. Blood oozed between his fingers and dripped down the front of the hoodie where it formed a dark, glistening stain. Dave stared, unmoving. Three shots, and only one had hit home? And even when it did, it was not where he’d been aiming, thank God. That didn’t say much for either the pistol or his aim, or maybe both.

You okay?

Irene’s words broke the uncanny silence that seemed to have fallen over the entire parkade. Dave nodded. Yeah, you?

I—I guess so. She looked as pale as a pile of ashes.

We’d better phone 911, Dave mumbled and opened his overcoat, pulled out his cell, and handed it her. He noticed the kid seemed to have lost the gun. You do it. I’ll keep him covered. The words, even as they were spoken, sounded as if they came from an old Humphrey Bogart movie.

Irene nodded, and dialed the number. It rang only once, and a detached female voice answered. Please state the nature of your emergency.

Oh. For a moment Irene seemed nonplussed then, with a tremor in her voice, said, I guess it’s a fight. No, a carjacking, and—

Tell ’em someone’s been shot, for chrissake, Dave hissed. We need an ambulance.

Oh yes, and a man’s been shot. Irene’s voice rose two octaves, whether to emphasize the point or from fraying nerves, it was hard to tell. We need an ambulance.

I copy that. Try and remain calm, ma’am. The voice on the end of the line was steady and composed. Where are you located? We need to know where you’re located.

The p-parkade under the Manulife building. The one you get into off Second Street. And hurry.

The police and an ambulance are being dispatched. The voice hesitated a moment, as if relaying the information, then continued as calmly as if delivering the daily weather report. I will need more details. What level of the parkade are you on?

Dave, what level are we—never mind. It’s level three.

Tell me your name, and describe your current situation as calmly as you can.

Irene Blanchard. And there’s a man unconscious on the ground, and—jeez Dave, look out! He’s moving.

Dave, who had grown strangely weak in the knees, placed his free hand on the rear fender of the Town Car for support. His eyes followed those of Irene and he saw that the youth had crouched to the ground and was looking under the car. The gun! The idiot was now searching for the gun while he, dammit, he seemed to have lowered his own weapon. How come he’d lowered...?

Irene. Irene . . . The voice on the phone was demanding.

Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Just a minute. Irene turned to Dave and gestured frantically toward the youth, her voice automatically a half whisper because she was on the phone. Dave, Dave, the frigging gun!

Irene, does anyone there have possession of a weapon? the voice asked.

Dave blinked, confused by the sudden turn of events; yet everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Perhaps he should do something about the youth fumbling around on the floor, despite the vague feeling that he was no more than a witness to someone else’s dream. Only he didn’t particularly feel like moving, not anymore. It just wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, he angled the gun toward the roof, croaked at the kid to get his arse in the car or he’d kill him, and pulled the trigger. The bullet shattered one of the fluorescents, ricocheted onto the concrete floor, whined off into the distance, and slammed into the passenger door of Irene’s Charger with a solid thwack. The youth scrambled quickly back into the Lincoln, still clutching his shoulder and cursing a blue streak.

Oh God, that answers that. The voice on the phone was no longer detached. Irene. What is going on, Irene? Irene?

Irene was no longer there. She whirled around, startled by the gunshot, and screamed. A dark crimson stain puddled the ground where Dave stood, and one leg of his pants was slick with…

Dave, Dave, for Christ’s sake! You’re bleeding all over the place.

She dropped the phone and ran over to kneel at Dave’s feet. He slumped back against the Lincoln’s rear fender, grateful that the vehicle was there to keep him upright. The right leg of his grey pinstriped trousers was a glistening black river of blood that seeped down the crease and covered the laces of his shoe.

You’ve been hit. Irene paused, her eyes growing wider. Holy shit, Dave. You’ve been shot in the . . .

Shot in the what? Dave asked dreamily, his mind telling him that there was need for alarm here, though quite oddly he didn’t really feel any immediate panic over what just might be a serious problem.

***

There was a small hole in the one pant leg, an ugly little dot high on the inseam, just below the crotch. The tiny tear was almost invisible, lost in the thick, sticky, glistening fabric that now covered the entire inside of Dave’s right leg. Irene glanced up at her boss’s face. He stared back as if in a daze. His eyes were still focused, sort of, but they expressed a fading lack of interest in what was going on around him. And his skin. His skin was turning grey, a much ashier grey than even his hair.

Shot in the what? Dave murmured again, then his eyes flashed alarm and he seemed to find new strength. Oh my God!

No, no, Irene said,