His foot grinding it out on the cement echoed in the dark silence.
Suddenly the door to the warehouse squeaked open on rusty hinges and men appeared with the suitcase of money. They jogged quickly toward the launch. Sam followed them out through the door, but Mac saw his hands were up over his head as if someone with a gun was pointing it at him.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Mac pressed the lighter again. The damp silence exploded with gunfire. He ducked down and pulled out his automatic. The safety flipped off, he raised his head far enough over the top crate to get a better view of who was doing the shooting. Just as Mac looked down at the front of the warehouse, Sam twisted in what seemed like a slow motion ballet, his arms flying out. He ended the dance by falling prostrate on the cement.
A captive audience, Mac was almost surprised when a sharp pain pierced his shoulder. The impact threw him backwards against the wooden crates with a clatter. Another pain burned into his side. His body jackknifed just before a third bullet whizzed by his head.
"Backup," he mumbled. "Where's the backup? "
Mac began falling, not only from the crates on which he lay, but into darkness that seemed to wrap around him like a fog rising from the black water below. He fought to stay awake to identify the shooter. He yelled, "No-o-o!" at the darkness as much as at the shooter. He tried to reach out and fought for purchase from his precariously balanced position. He knew he had to hang on and fight the coming darkness.
The deal was going down all wrong. He should have gotten help by now, but it wasn't help he saw over him. It was only spots in the darkness. His fingers, ripped and bloody from clutching the rough-cut wood, slid from their hold and he tumbled to the cement below.
Sirens wailed in the distance. "No-o-o!" he groaned as cold fog enveloped him and the spots above him disappeared into the darkness.
Each night since then, Mac reached out again for help. If he just could have reached far enough, Sam would not have died. The men on the launch would not have escaped.
All they had was the punk who'd bought the goods–a small part of the whole operation. All those months of work led only to one cop dead and one wounded. They did get a conviction, but it wasn't for murder. The bullets in the dealer's gun didn't match the ones in Sam or Mac.
Now after falling asleep with such sweet thoughts of Carolyn, Mac reached out in the darkness of his unconsciousness. Swirling red and blue lights flashed through the darkness. He yelled in an effort to stop the black fog overcoming him.
"No-o-o!" His voice shot through the silence of the small shared apartment. Mac awoke tangled in sheets he'd thoroughly soaked with sweat from his struggle with his memory.
He knew Hines had heard him cry out, but he stayed in bed. Hines knew he could do nothing for Mac. He had to remember it all–all that his mind was trying to keep hidden for some reason Mac would not know until he remembered. He was the only one alive who knew all of what happened that night. He had to remember. Despite how many months had passed, he wanted to believe it was too early for him to give up hope. It had to be.
If Mac remembered–no, when he remembered–he and Hines could bring the case to a conclusion. Then they both could get on with their lives.
Over an hour later, after taking another shower and remaking the bed, Mac finally surrendered to a restless but thankfully dreamless sleep.
Dressed in a conservative charcoal wool suit with a lighter gray silk blouse, Carolyn readied her notes for the Lakehaven Merchants Association officers meeting. This was the first meeting for the newly elected officers. No longer secretary, she now had the responsibilities of Programs Chairperson–to enlist willing speakers or make other program plans for the monthly meetings.
At first, being secretary and keeping the minutes and records in order seemed easier. Then with the months
Suddenly the door to the warehouse squeaked open on rusty hinges and men appeared with the suitcase of money. They jogged quickly toward the launch. Sam followed them out through the door, but Mac saw his hands were up over his head as if someone with a gun was pointing it at him.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Mac pressed the lighter again. The damp silence exploded with gunfire. He ducked down and pulled out his automatic. The safety flipped off, he raised his head far enough over the top crate to get a better view of who was doing the shooting. Just as Mac looked down at the front of the warehouse, Sam twisted in what seemed like a slow motion ballet, his arms flying out. He ended the dance by falling prostrate on the cement.
A captive audience, Mac was almost surprised when a sharp pain pierced his shoulder. The impact threw him backwards against the wooden crates with a clatter. Another pain burned into his side. His body jackknifed just before a third bullet whizzed by his head.
"Backup," he mumbled. "Where's the backup? "
Mac began falling, not only from the crates on which he lay, but into darkness that seemed to wrap around him like a fog rising from the black water below. He fought to stay awake to identify the shooter. He yelled, "No-o-o!" at the darkness as much as at the shooter. He tried to reach out and fought for purchase from his precariously balanced position. He knew he had to hang on and fight the coming darkness.
The deal was going down all wrong. He should have gotten help by now, but it wasn't help he saw over him. It was only spots in the darkness. His fingers, ripped and bloody from clutching the rough-cut wood, slid from their hold and he tumbled to the cement below.
Sirens wailed in the distance. "No-o-o!" he groaned as cold fog enveloped him and the spots above him disappeared into the darkness.
Each night since then, Mac reached out again for help. If he just could have reached far enough, Sam would not have died. The men on the launch would not have escaped.
All they had was the punk who'd bought the goods–a small part of the whole operation. All those months of work led only to one cop dead and one wounded. They did get a conviction, but it wasn't for murder. The bullets in the dealer's gun didn't match the ones in Sam or Mac.
Now after falling asleep with such sweet thoughts of Carolyn, Mac reached out in the darkness of his unconsciousness. Swirling red and blue lights flashed through the darkness. He yelled in an effort to stop the black fog overcoming him.
"No-o-o!" His voice shot through the silence of the small shared apartment. Mac awoke tangled in sheets he'd thoroughly soaked with sweat from his struggle with his memory.
He knew Hines had heard him cry out, but he stayed in bed. Hines knew he could do nothing for Mac. He had to remember it all–all that his mind was trying to keep hidden for some reason Mac would not know until he remembered. He was the only one alive who knew all of what happened that night. He had to remember. Despite how many months had passed, he wanted to believe it was too early for him to give up hope. It had to be.
If Mac remembered–no, when he remembered–he and Hines could bring the case to a conclusion. Then they both could get on with their lives.
Over an hour later, after taking another shower and remaking the bed, Mac finally surrendered to a restless but thankfully dreamless sleep.
Dressed in a conservative charcoal wool suit with a lighter gray silk blouse, Carolyn readied her notes for the Lakehaven Merchants Association officers meeting. This was the first meeting for the newly elected officers. No longer secretary, she now had the responsibilities of Programs Chairperson–to enlist willing speakers or make other program plans for the monthly meetings.
At first, being secretary and keeping the minutes and records in order seemed easier. Then with the months
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