Chapter 43

The next morning I was at it again. I parked the Blazer in a different spot, a little further away, but where I could still see Charnock's house and the pickup in the driveway. He came out at 10 or so, after I'd been waiting for about three hours, and once again found his way to Central. That was natural – it was the closest major east-west street by a long shot, and there wasn't any point in getting onto Juan Tabo or Eubank just to get from there onto Central.

Charnock headed west this time. I followed along, keeping cars between us, wondering what his goal was today. He hadn't been in his Wal-Mart uniform, so I figured he wasn't going to work. And he didn't head that way; instead he turned north on Wyoming. And from there it got puzzling. He didn't act like he was trying to lose me – "dry cleaning" in espionage parlance – but he turned and twisted all over the Northeast Heights, making loops and squares and circles, apparently going nowhere and not in any hurry about getting there.

Eventually we wound up going north on Edith, in one of those pleasantly seedy light industrial areas that I always enjoy. They're one part of a city that doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is – a place where people work hard, make tangible products, and earn honest money. There's no fakery there, no plastic houses that look like museums to store the plastic treasures of plastic people.

He pulled off the road into a gravel and dirt parking lot just short of Griegos and climbed out of his truck, looking right at me as I approached behind three other cars. I knew then that somewhere I'd made a mistake, for clearly he'd spotted me. Whether it was a look out the window of his house, my constant presence behind him for a couple of hours, or the fact that I'd decided after all not to bother putting on different clothes and driving a different vehicle I didn't know. Whatever it was, it was too late to undo it. What I had to do now was make a decision.

I could either drive on by, and try to pick him up again taking greater precautions – knowing he'd be taking precautions too. Or I could try to dissuade him here and now, since the opportunity was offering. I had maybe two seconds to decide, and I used my blinker and pulled off the road, parking about 20 yards from his truck.

I got out, and saw him leaning back into the cab of his pickup. When he emerged and stood straight again, I saw a flash of light off something in his hand, which he raised to shoulder height. I was moving even before I consciously thought what Charnock might have in his hand, and I had my torso bent over the driver's seat when I heard the pop. Where the round went I didn't know, but I knew he'd shot at me. I yanked my gun out from under the seat, unsnapped the strap over the hammer, and jerked it out of the holster.

There was another pop, and again I had no idea where the round went. I hadn't heard any sounds of impact, so I doubted he'd hit the Blazer, and I'd felt no hammer blows so I knew he hadn't hit me. But he'd fired twice, and as I was straightening up I heard another pop. This time I heard the round – it must have passed between the open door and the body of the Blazer, and gone right past my ear. I reflexively ducked to the left, while desperately flicking off the safety and working the slide to bring a round up into the chamber. I was so scared that only long practice enabled me to do it – without the training, I'd have been frozen with terror.

Charnock was bringing his gun back into line, and I saw that he was walking toward me. He couldn't miss forever, not shortening the range like that. He'd opened fire at far too long a range for a pistol under combat conditions, but if I didn't do something he'd be close enough to hit me with his eyes closed. I finally had my gun ready to shoot, and in order to get a good shot I stepped around the door, giving him my whole body as a target. I didn't think of it as brave – the only thing in my mind was that I needed a good shot now, or else I was dead.

I aimed as best as I could with my hand and arm shaking like a leaf from fear and adrenaline, and just as I saw the muzzle flash – pale in the sunlight – my own gun went off. I couldn't hear his round in the sound of my gun, but I saw the twitch of his pants leg as my bullet hit, and he dropped to one knee as his left leg refused to hold him. I'd been aiming at his chest.

He looked down at his thigh, where his jeans were now darkening with blood. He'd have felt the blow of the bullet striking, but it wouldn't be hurting yet. He glared at me, jerked to his feet, and staggered toward the pickup. He climbed into the cab, started the engine, and drove off. If he had a stick he'd be putting his left leg through torture trying to work the clutch.

I stood there for a moment, quivering with reaction, wondering if I was going to throw up. I managed not to, and stepped back to the driver's seat. I had to concentrate to uncock the gun, put the safety back on, and put it back in the holster. My hands were shaking so badly that I knew that I'd spill a cup of tea if I tried to drink it.

I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. "I need to report shots fired," I told the dispatcher, "at Edith and Griegos. There were two shooters, but the other one's fled the scene. Advise the responding officers that I will be away from my weapon. Also advise APD and BCSO to be on the lookout for the other shooter." I gave a description of Charnock and his truck, including the plate number, and then hung up. It was rude, and 911 dispatchers like you to remain on the line, but if I didn't sit down I was going to fall down.