of Irish's hand.
Dave reached for it, rolled toward it, his fingers closing around the handle even as he pushed himself to his hands and knees.
It was only then, gasping for air, wet hair in his face, blood pouring from his side onto the rain-soaked tarmac, that Dave realized Irish was gone.
He heard the sound of approaching police sirens—no doubt it was they that had saved his life—as he grabbed again for his cell phone and dialed Sophia's number.
He dragged himself toward the rental car—ready to lock himself in, in case Irish decided to come back—as Sophia picked up.
“Hey,” she said. She sounded fine—thank you, Almighty Father. “What's taking so long?”
“Are you all right?” he gasped.
Her voice changed, turning crisp, efficient. “Yes. What's going—”
“Stay where you are,” he ordered her. “In the lobby. Is there a security guard?”
“By the door to the ER,” Sophia reported. “Yes. Dave, what's—”
“Stay with the guard,” Dave told her. “I'm okay, but I was attacked in the parking lot—”
“Oh, my God, Dave!”
“I'm all right,” he said again. “Stay with the guard—I'm going to come to you. The police are on the scene.” He had to shout over the sirens. “They're going to bring me into the ER. Meet me there.”
He shut his phone, hanging up before she could argue.
And then, thank God, the police
were
there, a woman in uniform drawing her sidearm as she scrambled out of the cruiser that had squealed to a stop closest to him. “Hands where I can see 'em! Drop the weapon!”
Dave pushed himself back onto his knees, leaving the knife on the ground as he held out his empty left hand.
“Both hands!”
He pulled his right hand from his side—it was covered with a ridiculous amount of his blood, like some kind of horror-movie special effect.
“Jesus!”
“My name is Dave Malkoff,” he told her. “I made the 9-1-1 call. I'm former CIA. I was attacked by a man with a knife—that's his knife. I've been wounded.” Obvious, but sometimes in duress, people needed help getting past their initial shock. “I could use an ambulance.”
“I need an ambulance!” the female cop shouted.
“We need one over here, too,” someone shouted back, and Dave turned to see another uniform—had to be a rookie; the kid was maybe twenty—on the other side of his rental car. “Oh, fuck,” the rookie said, then scrambled away.
Dave could hear the unmistakable sound of vomiting, as the female cop said again, even more horror in her voice,
“Jesus!”
He held his side as he pulled himself forward, so he could see around the car and …
Dear God.
The female cop shouted something that seemed to be directed at him, her words a dissonant blur.
Dave didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He had no idea what the answer was. He was suddenly dizzy—maybe from the spinning blue lights atop the police cars or the loss of blood—and try as he might to stanch the flow, he couldn't keep it from slipping out between his fingers.
The female cop's weapon was up again, almost in his face, waving in his peripheral vision as she shouted at him, “Is this the man who attacked you?”
The question finally penetrated, and Dave looked up from the grisly sight of a man with his throat slit, lying in a puddle of blood, half underneath his rental car.
It wasn't the big Irish man, but what the hell… ?
“No,” Dave tried to tell the cop. “No …”
The dead man was Barney Delarow, a fellow CIA agent, a real sonuvabitch who'd led the murder investigation against Dave, all those years ago, back when Kathy-slash-Anise's body had been pulled out of the Seine, just outside of Paris.
“Dave!
Dave!”
He turned to see Sophia, running toward him across the parking lot, another woman beside her, and he tried to stand up, to show her he was okay, that he could walk into the ER for the stitches he was going to need, but somehow the driveway smacked him in the face, and he realized he'd
Dave reached for it, rolled toward it, his fingers closing around the handle even as he pushed himself to his hands and knees.
It was only then, gasping for air, wet hair in his face, blood pouring from his side onto the rain-soaked tarmac, that Dave realized Irish was gone.
He heard the sound of approaching police sirens—no doubt it was they that had saved his life—as he grabbed again for his cell phone and dialed Sophia's number.
He dragged himself toward the rental car—ready to lock himself in, in case Irish decided to come back—as Sophia picked up.
“Hey,” she said. She sounded fine—thank you, Almighty Father. “What's taking so long?”
“Are you all right?” he gasped.
Her voice changed, turning crisp, efficient. “Yes. What's going—”
“Stay where you are,” he ordered her. “In the lobby. Is there a security guard?”
“By the door to the ER,” Sophia reported. “Yes. Dave, what's—”
“Stay with the guard,” Dave told her. “I'm okay, but I was attacked in the parking lot—”
“Oh, my God, Dave!”
“I'm all right,” he said again. “Stay with the guard—I'm going to come to you. The police are on the scene.” He had to shout over the sirens. “They're going to bring me into the ER. Meet me there.”
He shut his phone, hanging up before she could argue.
And then, thank God, the police
were
there, a woman in uniform drawing her sidearm as she scrambled out of the cruiser that had squealed to a stop closest to him. “Hands where I can see 'em! Drop the weapon!”
Dave pushed himself back onto his knees, leaving the knife on the ground as he held out his empty left hand.
“Both hands!”
He pulled his right hand from his side—it was covered with a ridiculous amount of his blood, like some kind of horror-movie special effect.
“Jesus!”
“My name is Dave Malkoff,” he told her. “I made the 9-1-1 call. I'm former CIA. I was attacked by a man with a knife—that's his knife. I've been wounded.” Obvious, but sometimes in duress, people needed help getting past their initial shock. “I could use an ambulance.”
“I need an ambulance!” the female cop shouted.
“We need one over here, too,” someone shouted back, and Dave turned to see another uniform—had to be a rookie; the kid was maybe twenty—on the other side of his rental car. “Oh, fuck,” the rookie said, then scrambled away.
Dave could hear the unmistakable sound of vomiting, as the female cop said again, even more horror in her voice,
“Jesus!”
He held his side as he pulled himself forward, so he could see around the car and …
Dear God.
The female cop shouted something that seemed to be directed at him, her words a dissonant blur.
Dave didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He had no idea what the answer was. He was suddenly dizzy—maybe from the spinning blue lights atop the police cars or the loss of blood—and try as he might to stanch the flow, he couldn't keep it from slipping out between his fingers.
The female cop's weapon was up again, almost in his face, waving in his peripheral vision as she shouted at him, “Is this the man who attacked you?”
The question finally penetrated, and Dave looked up from the grisly sight of a man with his throat slit, lying in a puddle of blood, half underneath his rental car.
It wasn't the big Irish man, but what the hell… ?
“No,” Dave tried to tell the cop. “No …”
The dead man was Barney Delarow, a fellow CIA agent, a real sonuvabitch who'd led the murder investigation against Dave, all those years ago, back when Kathy-slash-Anise's body had been pulled out of the Seine, just outside of Paris.
“Dave!
Dave!”
He turned to see Sophia, running toward him across the parking lot, another woman beside her, and he tried to stand up, to show her he was okay, that he could walk into the ER for the stitches he was going to need, but somehow the driveway smacked him in the face, and he realized he'd
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