Cold Night (Jack Paine Mysteries) by Al Sarrantonio
Authors: Al Sarrantonio
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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again.
The night stabbed at Paine and he fought to keep his eyes open.
Dannon began to say something, then stopped and said, "Holy shit."
He jerked the car to the curb and was halfway out before Paine focused on what was happening. On the sidewalk ahead of them, a man in a stylish raincoat was just collapsing to his knees. As Paine watched, he fell forward. Even in the dreamlike yellow and black light, Paine saw the red tear across the bottom of his face. And up ahead, a small figure in a leather jacket was running away.
Paine pushed his door open. Pulling his .38, Dannon ran past the fallen figure in the trench coat in pursuit of the boy in the leather jacket. He gave a quick glance back at Paine, indicating with a nod that Paine should check the fallen man.
The man in the trench coa t lay unmoving, next to a bench. His leather briefcase had fallen open on the ground, leaving a scatter of papers soaking in the light rain. The man was black, maybe thirty years old. He looked like he had decided to curl up and go to sleep, but he was dead.
Paine pulled him over. The left side of his neck looked like a cherry bomb had gone off in it, taking out a ragged wedge half the size of Paine's fist.
Paine settled the man back down in the rain and let him sleep forever. He looked up. Dannon was well up the street, gaining inevitably on the figure in the leather jacket. The boy took a sudden right corner and Dannon disappeared after him.
Paine ran back to the cruiser and radioed for backup. Then he followed Dannon. He reached the corner Dannon had turned, and stopped. His eyes were burning. He closed them tight and then opened them. He was surrounded by night and drizzling rain and yellow and black. He shook his head, bringing his eyes back to focus. He listened. Ahead of him footsteps slapped against wet pavement. He caught movement between two apartment buildings.
He ran. The pavement hit his feet, hard. He felt detached from himself. He felt like someone else was running, watching the pounding of feet against sidewalk. The black and yellow night blurred, cleared. He drew his hand across his eyes, pulled in burning lungfuls of air.
Dannon was twenty yards from him, motioning for Paine to follow him into an alley.
Paine stood before the opening of the alley and swayed. It looked like a cave mouth, the mouth of a dark giant beast. He stumbled forward and it swallowed him.
He fell to one knee, drew a rasping breath, then stood. His eyes focused and unfocused. He felt perhaps he should lie down in the alley, go to sleep, let the other detached self who watched him continue.
"Paine!” he heard from a great distance. It was a giant’s bellow muffled by darkness, the enclosing alley, his own disjoined self.
He grunted, staggering forward.
Dannon was next to him. That much he knew. Dannon was shouting, pointing with his long hand, and Paine fought his body and stood still and looked where Dannon was pointing.
Everything slowed as if he had been dropped into water. The alley was black but suddenly it became very bright. There was light ahead. Someone stepped out of the darkness, a man-boy with a leather jacket on. He pointed something at Paine. Paine remembered the man in the trench coat with the wedge of neck missing, the thick clotting flow of red that melted into the rain and made the man sleep. The man’s eyes had looked as though the life had been yanked out in one surprised pull.
"Paaaaaaaaaine!” he heard. The world slowed even more. The figure in front of Dannon’s pointing finger moved, stepped into the bright light, because part of it, the thing in his hand, the bright sun-flash of the thing in hand pointed at Paine . . .
When Paine awoke in the hospital twelve hours later, Dannon was there to tell him what had happened. The boy with the leather jacket on was fifteen years old. The thing in his hand had been a four-cell Radio Shack flashlight he’d gotten for free that afternoon. He had stepped into the alley to
The night stabbed at Paine and he fought to keep his eyes open.
Dannon began to say something, then stopped and said, "Holy shit."
He jerked the car to the curb and was halfway out before Paine focused on what was happening. On the sidewalk ahead of them, a man in a stylish raincoat was just collapsing to his knees. As Paine watched, he fell forward. Even in the dreamlike yellow and black light, Paine saw the red tear across the bottom of his face. And up ahead, a small figure in a leather jacket was running away.
Paine pushed his door open. Pulling his .38, Dannon ran past the fallen figure in the trench coat in pursuit of the boy in the leather jacket. He gave a quick glance back at Paine, indicating with a nod that Paine should check the fallen man.
The man in the trench coa t lay unmoving, next to a bench. His leather briefcase had fallen open on the ground, leaving a scatter of papers soaking in the light rain. The man was black, maybe thirty years old. He looked like he had decided to curl up and go to sleep, but he was dead.
Paine pulled him over. The left side of his neck looked like a cherry bomb had gone off in it, taking out a ragged wedge half the size of Paine's fist.
Paine settled the man back down in the rain and let him sleep forever. He looked up. Dannon was well up the street, gaining inevitably on the figure in the leather jacket. The boy took a sudden right corner and Dannon disappeared after him.
Paine ran back to the cruiser and radioed for backup. Then he followed Dannon. He reached the corner Dannon had turned, and stopped. His eyes were burning. He closed them tight and then opened them. He was surrounded by night and drizzling rain and yellow and black. He shook his head, bringing his eyes back to focus. He listened. Ahead of him footsteps slapped against wet pavement. He caught movement between two apartment buildings.
He ran. The pavement hit his feet, hard. He felt detached from himself. He felt like someone else was running, watching the pounding of feet against sidewalk. The black and yellow night blurred, cleared. He drew his hand across his eyes, pulled in burning lungfuls of air.
Dannon was twenty yards from him, motioning for Paine to follow him into an alley.
Paine stood before the opening of the alley and swayed. It looked like a cave mouth, the mouth of a dark giant beast. He stumbled forward and it swallowed him.
He fell to one knee, drew a rasping breath, then stood. His eyes focused and unfocused. He felt perhaps he should lie down in the alley, go to sleep, let the other detached self who watched him continue.
"Paine!” he heard from a great distance. It was a giant’s bellow muffled by darkness, the enclosing alley, his own disjoined self.
He grunted, staggering forward.
Dannon was next to him. That much he knew. Dannon was shouting, pointing with his long hand, and Paine fought his body and stood still and looked where Dannon was pointing.
Everything slowed as if he had been dropped into water. The alley was black but suddenly it became very bright. There was light ahead. Someone stepped out of the darkness, a man-boy with a leather jacket on. He pointed something at Paine. Paine remembered the man in the trench coat with the wedge of neck missing, the thick clotting flow of red that melted into the rain and made the man sleep. The man’s eyes had looked as though the life had been yanked out in one surprised pull.
"Paaaaaaaaaine!” he heard. The world slowed even more. The figure in front of Dannon’s pointing finger moved, stepped into the bright light, because part of it, the thing in his hand, the bright sun-flash of the thing in hand pointed at Paine . . .
When Paine awoke in the hospital twelve hours later, Dannon was there to tell him what had happened. The boy with the leather jacket on was fifteen years old. The thing in his hand had been a four-cell Radio Shack flashlight he’d gotten for free that afternoon. He had stepped into the alley to
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