Liars & Thieves by Stephen Coonts Page A

dragged him to the bedroom and put him on the bed. He had some Scotch tape on his dresser, so I used that. Slapped tape on the worst of the cuts to hold the edges together and slow the bleeding.
    “Come on, man, we gotta get you to the emergency room.”
    “That you, Tommy?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You get the motherfucker with the knife?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He dead?”
    “Seems to be.”
    “Shoot the fucker again. Drive a stake through his goddamn heart.”
    I began working pants and a shirt onto him.
    “They wanted to know about you,” Willie said. “Where you were, when I talked to you last, who your girlfriends were, everything. . . .”
    “What did you tell them?”
    “Everything I could think of when that prick got to cuttin’ on me with that fuckin’ knife.”
    The hell with his shoes.
    “You’re gonna have to help me, Willie. I can carry you, but we’ll both be dead if we meet another of these bastards.”
    “Okay.”
    I draped one of his arms over my shoulder and lifted him. He could barely stagger. I half carried him into the hallway and made sure the door locked behind us.
    “You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re still bleeding, man.”
    “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    “You tell them about Dorsey?”
    “Who?”
    “Dorsey O’Shea.”
    “Probably. Fuck, I was jabberin’ my fool head off there at the end.”
    “Who were they?”
    “Cops.”
    “How do you know?”
    “By the way they asked questions. The good guy, bad guy routine, all of it.”
    “You’re guessing.”
    I almost put him down and went back to search the corpses, but he was still leaking blood at a good rate. It was the hospital quick or the morgue later.
    Going down the stairs he said, “I been grilled by cops all my life. I could tell.”
    We took the hitters’ car. Willie was not in any shape to do the two blocks to mine, that was certain. I drove back to my rental heap and took the time to collect the MP-5, then headed for the nearest hospital that I knew about. I asked Willie if indeed the one I was thinking of was the one, but he had passed out by then.
    I whipped into the ambulance entrance and carried him into the emergency room. There was a vacant gurney there, so I put him on it. An attendant rushed out to help me.
    “He’s lost a lot of blood. Some guys cut him on his arms and chest. No drugs. He’s not allergic to anything that I know of.”
    As the attendant rushed the gurney through the swinging doors, I turned to the window where the admitting lady sat with a client.
    I’ll be right with you, sir,” she said. “Please take a seat.”
    “I’ll park the car and be back,” I said.
    As I got behind the wheel and headed for Wisconsin Avenue, I wondered if Willie did tell them about Dorsey O’Shea. Well, they were dead, so even if he did, it didn’t matter.
    Unless they called someone, of course. Maybe that was what the guy in the kitchen was doing when I rudely interrupted. I didn’t recall seeing a cell phone in the kitchen. Of course, he might have put it in his pocket as he drew his pistol, after I fired the first shot.
    Perhaps I should go back to Willie’s and search the bodies.
    I decided to do it. I had the brains to come down a side street and look toward Willie’s before I turned that way and committed myself, which saved my silly ass. Two cop cars with lights flashing were parked in the street.
    I turned the other way and fed gas. As I drove I heard the moan of an ambulance.
    My arm was leaking blood where the bullet had grazed me.
    I hoped they were dead. All three of the sons of bitches.
    Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a McDonald’s and parked. The sky was turning light. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it soon would be. The vehicle registration certificate was in the glove compartment. The car was registered to a Donald P. Westland in College Park. His insurance certificate verified the address. I used his cell phone to call information.
    “I’m sorry,” the operator said. “I