Chapter 1

Pop!

"Whoa! What was that?"

Pop! Pop! Pop!

"Holy—"

Jim Stockbridge slammed on the brakes. He ducked. He sank low in his seat, as if to duck would somehow make him a smaller target…as if the shots he had just heard were meant for him. He cringed. He waited a moment and then breathed a deep sigh of relief and sat up.

"Man that was close! I could feel the percussion. Did you feel it?"

Jim glanced at his partner.

"Sharon?"

Sharon Duncan didn’t respond. She was sound asleep. She had her head propped against the window, her field coat pulled up tightly around her neck.

"Hey," Jim said. "Are you deaf? Wake up."

Sharon mumbled something unintelligible and resumed her snoring. Jim couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d always thought she looked rather like a gnome, short and plump, with stumpy fingers and a full double chin that shook when she laughed, but she was one of the finest paramedics he knew, and if Sid needed the night off he was proud to have her for a partner.

"Hey!" He gave her a rough shove. "Will you wake up?"

"Huh?" Sharon jerked and bolted to an upright position. "What! What is it?"

"I heard gunfire."

"Gunfire?"

"Close gunfire."

"You woke me up to tell me that?" Sharon frowned and settled back into her seat. "Wake me up when they start shooting at us."

"Come on, Sharon, I’m serious. That last group was close. We’re about to get a call, I can feel it."

"Wonderful." Sharon sat up and adjusted her seat to the full upright position. "I just love it when bullets start flying around this place. What time is it anyway?"

"It’s almost five-thirty."

"Five-thirty?" Sharon moaned, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her glucometer. "No wonder I’m hungry."

Jim ignored the comment. He took his foot off the brake, rolled to the end of the block, and stopped the ambulance in the shadow of a large pine tree at the corner. The apartment complex just across the street reminded him of a miniature ghetto, thirteen run-down brick buildings clearly marked with colorful gang graffiti and enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence. The Garden Terrace. Hardly the Garden of Eden. He gazed through the windshield, searching for movement. He felt anxious. Hungry for action.

"I think we’ll wait here. I have a feeling some drug dealer just got shot."

"Who cares?" Sharon said.

"I do. I still love a good shooting, you know."

"I know. That’s what scares me, the way you go rushing in on crime scenes before the cops arrive. One day it’s gonna be you that gets shot, and I’ll have to be the one to explain to Dr. Vick what happened."

"Oh, hey!" Jim reached into his pocket. "That reminds me. Check it out. For Val." He pulled out a small black box and handed it to her. Sharon opened the hinged lid and gasped. Jim grinned. "What do you think?"

"Oh, my!"

"Like it?"

"What girl wouldn’t? It’s gorgeous!" Sharon tried, but she couldn’t fit the little diamond ring over any of her fingers. "Rats! It doesn’t fit."

Jim stifled a quiet chuckle. Sharon smirked and placed the ring back in the box.

"When are you giving it to her?"

"Tomorrow. We’re sailing to Lookout for the day. She’s never seen the lighthouse up close."

"It’s not too cold?"

"For sailing? Are you nuts? Besides," Jim said. "I know how to keep Valerie warm."

Sharon giggled and raised an invisible glass.

"Well here’s to both of you. I wish you and Dr. Vick all the luck in the world."

"Thanks."

"Just don’t, like, get yourself shot first."

Jim chuckled. He took the ring, shoved it back in his pocket, and turned his attention back to the Terrace. He couldn’t get past the strange feeling that all life on earth had suddenly ceased to exist and they’d been left behind. He rolled down his window expecting to hear some kind of noise, some proof that he was wrong, but except for the gunfire he had heard a few moments earlier the night was quiet. Too quiet.

"This is weird. I don’t know what it is, but it’s like we just entered the Twilight Zone or something. Where is everybody?"

"Who cares? My blood sugar’s dropping. Besides if someone had been shot we would have been dispatched by now. Let’s get outta here."

"In a minute."

"Jim, I’m starving."

"In a minute! Jeez, you’re starting to sound like Sid."

Sharon gave an exasperated moan. She settled back down in her seat and propped her knees on the dash. "You’re impossible."

"I know."

"Sid." Sharon chuckled and shook her head. "Where is the preacher anyway? You two are usually, like, inseparable."

"He took the night off." Jim motioned over his shoulder. "He’s just down the street there. Corner of Club."

"Not that silly revival again."

"Why not?" Jim saw Sharon smirk. "Well, Sharon, it means a lot to him, you know that."

"I know, but gag. The whole idea makes my stomach turn, the way they cram their religion down other peoples’ throats."

"It’s not like that."

"Yes it is."

"Okay, maybe it is, but nobody forces people to go. Besides I think Sid’s doing some good."

"Good?" Sharon huffed. "I’ve saved enough drug dealers this past year to last a lifetime."

"Oh come on, Sharon."

"No, Jim. I don’t buy all that Christianity smoke. Getting saved and going to church. Like, gross."

Jim shrugged.

"Well?" Sharon clicked her tongue. "You must not either. I’ve never seen you toting a Bible."

"Well, don’t worry," Jim said. "You never will."

"You don’t look like one of them either. All the Christian guys I ever knew looked like wimps—banker’s haircuts, collared short-sleeved shirts, starched khakis. Take Sid. He’s your basic Christian wimp."

"He also happens to be my best friend."

"But you—" Sharon reached over and touched the crescent-shaped scar under Jim’s right eye. "You’re a fighter." She grabbed his right hand. "Like leather. And look at those knuckles, all scarred, it’s like you spent your childhood beating up oak trees in your mother’s back yard."

"All right!" Jim pulled away. "So I’m no Christian. You aren’t either."

Sharon chuckled and then sighed and dropped her face into her hands. "Ugh," she groaned. "I feel like mud." She reached into her pocket and pulled out her glucometer. She wiped her fingertip with alcohol, pricked it with a small lancet, and then squeezed a drop of blood onto the test strip protruding from the end of the glucometer. Jim heard the unit beep. He glanced back up and scanned the neighborhood. The Terrace looked deserted. It was too quiet. It seemed as if something sinister had just happened and everyone had run away. There should be people…where are the people? He heard a beep. He heard Sharon moan.

"What is it?" he said glancing at the glucometer.

"Fifty-one, but it's going to be a whole lot lower in a few minutes if I don’t get food."

"All right." Jim shifted the truck into drive. "You win. I was going to drop by and see Sid real quick, but since you’re so—"

"Jim!" Sharon grabbed his arm. "Look!"

Jim glanced to his left and saw three black males running up the middle of Core Street toward the ambulance. All three wore red. One carried what looked like an automatic weapon.

"Holy smokes!"

Jim threw the truck into reverse and stomped on the accelerator.

"Hang on!"

Tires squealed. The truck shot backwards. He dodged a parked car and slammed on the brakes behind a small clump of trees fifty yards down the street. The truck came to a hard stop and threw him backwards into his seat. He leaned forward, hunkered behind the wheel and peered through the windshield. The teenagers sprinted past The Terrace and disappeared behind the abandoned houses on the other side of the street. Jim suddenly realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and glanced at his partner.

"Whew…" He could feel his heart racing. "That was close."

"Too close. Who were they?"

"Don’t know." Jim shook his head glancing about quickly for other signs of danger. "Core Street Crew maybe? Northside Nights? Both gangs wear red."

"They looked like kids," Sharon said her voice cracking.

"Oh, they were," Jim assured her. "But they still carry guns. Did you see the automatic that guy had? It looked like a MAC-10."

"All right," Sharon said. "You’ve had your kicks! Can we please get out of here now?"

"Yeah, I guess we shouldn’t press our luck, huh?"

Sharon balled herself into the fetal position and leaned against the window. "Wake me up when we get there."

Jim wove through the neighborhood, turned the truck onto Club Boulevard, and hit the gas. Come to think of it, he thought, a slice of pizza would be good. He felt his mouth begin to water, he imagined the aromas lofting through Luigi’s Pizzeria, and suddenly the need for food outweighed his desire for a good call. He sped up. He hadn’t driven more than a half-mile down the boulevard when he heard the shrill warble of an approaching siren. A black and white police cruiser roared past them moving in the direction of the Terrace. A moment later a second. Then a third.

Sharon sat up in her seat. "Where’re they going?"

The radio crackled. A cool monotone voice began to talk.

"Medic-seven…got one shot in the alley at the end of Core. PD on scene requesting code-three response. Switch to OPS channel three. OPS-three."

"Queen Street Alley?" Jim made a U-turn and stomped on the gas. "I told you they shot a drug dealer."

"Do you always have to be right?"

Jim grinned and keyed the radio mike. "Seven en route from Club. Tell PD we’re about a minute out."

Jim could feel his stomach begin to stir. That old familiar rush. Sharon flipped one of the toggle switches on the dash and an alternating pattern of red and white strobe lights began to flash. She rotated a knob and the siren began its mournful wail. Jim felt his heart beating. His fingers began to sweat. He was in his element. And he was ready. He made a sharp turn onto Maple Street and blasted the air horn to get a stubborn driver out of the way.

"Whose call is this anyway?"

"Don’t even try it," Sharon said. "I rode with the last two."

"Just kidding."

Jim turned the ambulance onto Core Street, crested the hill and hit the brake. Six squad cars were assembled at the other end of the street in front of the entrance to the Queen Street Alley, two with their headlights burning to light the dark interior.

"Nice place for a murder." Jim clicked the radio mike. "Medic-seven."

"Go ahead, seven."

"Ten twenty-three with PD. Medic-seven to PD," Jim continued without pausing. "Where do you want us?"

"We’re in the alley…" a male voice responded. "You won’t need any equipment for this one."

Jim replaced the mike. "DOA."

"Good," Sharon said, opening her door. "That’s, like, ten times less paperwork."

Jim chuckled, grabbed his stethoscope, and started to climb down from the rig. The radio chirped again before his feet could hit the ground.

"Two twenty-two to medic-seven."

"Hey, that’s Rico." Jim keyed his lapel mike. "Seven to Two twenty-two…go ahead, Rico."

"Uh, stand by there, bud, I’ll be right there."

"Ten-four."

Jim walked to the front of the ambulance and leaned against the fender. Sharon walked around the truck and joined him.

"What’s up?"

"Beats me." Jim shrugged and motioned toward the alley. "Rico wants us to wait here."

Jim watched with passive interest as two uniformed police officers walked out of the alley and got into their cars. A few seconds later another cop emerged from the shadows, a short, stocky, bull of a man wearing faded blue jeans and a white tee shirt obscured by a black Kevlar vest. A gold shield dangled about his stumpy neck, a holstered pistol clung tightly to his right hip. Jim held up his hand. Rico Rivetti nodded, seemed to hesitate, and then started walking his way. Jim noticed a strange tilt to his head, an uncertainty to his step.

"What’d you do?" Jim joked as he approached. "Shoot the suspect?"

A sharp crease formed between Rico’s eyes. He stopped and gazed at Jim for a few seconds and then turned to Sharon and whispered something into her ear. Her jaw dropped. Her hand shot up and covered her mouth. She turned to Jim, disbelief in her eyes, then spun around and hurried into the alley.

"Rico?" Jim said. "What’s going on?"

Rico’s hand closed around Jim’s arm. His joyful brown eyes appeared heavy and tight. "Come on, bud. We need to talk."

"Talk?"

"Just—" Rico gave Jim a forceful tug. "Come on."

"Hold it." Jim jerked his arm free. "What happened?"

"Jim…I’m sorry, bud, but…"

"But what?"

"Something terrible’s happened."

"What?"

"I…I don’t know how…oh, Mama Mia." Rico’s eyes revealed the bewilderment of a man totally lost for words. "Jim, I’m…I’m…"

Jim felt an icy finger touch his mind. He felt his eyes widen, his pulse begin to race. He suddenly understood. He pushed past Rico and darted into the alley.

"Jim," Rico shouted. "Don’t!"

Sharon stood up and tried to hold him back. "Don’t, Jim. He’s gone."

"Move!"

Jim shoved Sharon aside and gazed at the bullet-riddled body lying on the alley floor. "Oh, no, no, no, Sid! Oh, my God!" Sid Drake’s pale lifeless face stared back at him, glassy eyed and fixed, jaw locked open in shocked horror. His hand had been stabbed. Streaks of partially congealed blood trickled from his palm. Jim felt his chest heave. His head began to spin. "Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!"

"Jim…"

"Sharon!" He grabbed his partner’s sleeve. "Get the boxes. Quick!"

"Jim, it’s no use, he’s—"

"Sharon, what’s wrong with you? Go!"

Jim dropped to the ground and tilted Sid’s head back.

"Oh, Jesus!"

"Jim," Sharon said. "Don’t, it’s too late."

Jim drew a panicked breath. He placed his mouth over Sid’s and blew forcefully into his lungs. The chest wall rose and fell. He felt his own chest begin to spasm, his diaphragm locked in rage. He found it hard to breathe. He found it hard to think. His eyes blurred. He could barely see. He struggled to catch another breath. Inhaled. Blew again.

"Sharon! Somebody," he shouted, gasping for air. "Do compressions!"

Sharon didn’t move. No one did.

"What’s wrong with you?" Jim ripped the front of Sid’s shirt open and placed the heels of his hands on his chest. "Help me!" He began to count, pushing hard against Sid’s sternum. "One, two, three. Sharon! What’s wrong with everybody? Move!"

No one moved.

Jesus!

Jim stood up and ran toward the truck…

Airway box…defibrillator…meds…

But then, as if reality had suddenly slapped him across the face, he stopped and gazed at the scene around him. The police officers stood in a semicircle around Sid’s body, their faces stunned, their eyes marked with disbelief. Sharon had her hands to her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Jim glanced at Rico and saw him shake his head. He looked back down at Sid and suddenly realized the truth—his best was friend was dead. The weight of a thousand hands began to push down on his soul. He dropped to his knees and burst into tears.

"Nooo!"

Jim felt his chest tighten. His lungs became heavy. His breath came in short, labored pants. He stood up and threw himself against the alley wall. Got to do something! Got to fight back!

"No," he shouted, banging his fists against the bricks. "No, no, no! Not Sid!"

"Jim," Rico shouted. "Stop it!"

Jim continued to beat the wall. Blood began to seep from his split and battered knuckles. "No," he cried. "No!" He felt his legs go weak. His head began to pound.

"Jim!"

A powerful hand clamped around his bicep and spun him around.

"Stop it," Rico shouted. "Calm down!"

"Let me go, Rico!"

"No."

"Someone’s going to pay!"

"Someone will, but not this way."

"I’ll kill ‘em!" Jim struggled to break free, but he was no match for Rico’s powerful grip. "I swear, I’ll—"

"Jim! This is the last thing Sid would have wanted. The last thing!"

Jim glanced at Rico, startled. He felt as if he had been slugged in the stomach. He looked down and saw Sid’s lifeless eyes staring up at him, even in death, the message coming through—
Jesus loves you, Jim, Jesus loves you.

Jim hung his head. He felt ashamed. Confused. Consumed with blood vengeance. His jaw quivered. His fists closed tight, involuntarily flexing as if preparing themselves for a fight. "Sharon," he heard Rico say. "Get him back to EMS. Keep him there. I’ll be there as soon as I can."

Jim felt a soft hand take his arm.

"Come on, hon," Sharon said, giving him a firm tug. "Let’s go, sweetheart."

Jim surrendered. He turned and started walking back toward the truck, and then jerked his arm free and ran back to the scene. "Get out of my way," he shouted, pushing through the police officers. "Move!"

Two of the cops grabbed him.

"No," Jim yelled. "Let go!"

"It’s all right," Rico said. "Let him be."

Jim pulled free and dropped to his knees beside his best friend’s body. He stared dumbfounded into Sid’s lifeless eyes. He couldn’t believe what was happening. "Oh, Sid, why? Why’d you do this?" His tears began to flow, his heart to break. "Forgive me," he whispered. "Oh, Sid, please forgive me for what I’m about to do."

* * *