The squad car spun. Tony jumped another curb, clipped the stop sign there, and fishtailed into the southbound lane.

One of the units behind him stopped to help the car he’d hit. That left two on his tail, red stoplights ahead. Tony floored the gas, bore hard to the left, and pounded across the median into the oncoming lanes.

Cars swerved. Traffic parted.

He ran straight down the wrong side of Saddle Creek, trading sideview mirrors with a Plymouth Grand Voyager in a glittering spray of glass. Unit number one stayed on him. The other ran parallel, across the median, slowly drawing ahead.

At Leavenworth, Tony cut back over, shooting behind unit number two. Both squad units braked and swerved, but there wasn’t enough street left between them. They piled into each other.

Tony let out a whoop and sped on, approaching the very SaveMore where Grocery Boy and Gwen Mullen had cooked up their little scheme.

He couldn’t help glancing at the big glowing letters over the front of the store. They seemed to tower there, encircled in a hazy red corona.

At that moment, Tony wished more than anything else that he’d done them both.

The Mullen girl for Uncle Eddie; that had been his thinking. But it wasn’t right.

He should have done them both. He should have taken them outside, behind the building, knelt them down in the dark. Two bullets: one for Uncle Eddie, and one for Ray.

He snapped back to attention just in time to see the little Honda pull out in front of him. Young girl at the wheel, not even looking.

The stupid kid saw him coming too late; her eyes flew wide. No time to swerve. Tony stood on the brakes.

Everything slowed down.

The car stopped dead in front of him. He could see the girl flailing her arms. Somehow, even as he braced for impact, she managed to find the reverse gear. The little Honda scooted back up into the parking lot.

Tony couldn’t believe it. Attagirl.

Then the truck suddenly lost traction. The tires were screaming, shedding long smears of rubber; then, all at once, the street seemed to glide out from under him.

Hell no.

In that yawning moment, Tony had time to identify the problem: Dirty snow piles on either side of the parking lot entrance had melted into thick pads of ice.

He had time to feel the truck bounce over the curb, time to feel the wheel slip out of his hands. He had time to see a wall of pebbled concrete approaching fast. He even had time to think: I’m going to hit a goddamned grocery store.

Ray Salcedo would have liked that one.

34

“Dude. That’s Supercop’s truck.”

“Bullshit.”

Curtis Modell pointed. “That’s his license plate, man.”

His brother said nothing. LaTonya Wells shook her head and said, “This ain’t even good.”

All around them, shoppers and other employees continued filing out into the lot, everybody craning to see what on earth had rattled the store to its rafters two minutes ago.

Worth’s maroon Ford Ranger had rammed head-on into the southeast corner of the building. The front end had crumpled halfway to the cab, creasing the hood into a sharp peak. Steam hissed; engine fluid splattered the ground. Nuggets of windshield scattered the sidewalk.

Two squad cars had already arrived: one behind the truck, one parked at an angle in the exit of the lot. Both held spotlights on the truck, illuminating the scene in bright light.

Sirens filled the air. More cop cars arrived. Suddenly, they seemed to come from everywhere, descending on the parking lot of the SaveMore like black-and-white bugs. Whirlpools of red and blue swirled against the side of the building.

Somebody said, “Is that thing going to blow up?”

Before anybody could speculate, a brace of uniformed police officers came toward the crowd. They all made pushing gestures with their hands.

“Everybody back.”

“We need you folks back.”

“Back inside the building now. Here we go.”

Sorensen, the night manager, walked out toward one of the cops. The cop nodded his head, steered Sorensen around by the arm, and herded him back with everybody else.

Behind them, a bullhorn sounded, loud and electric over the chatter of the crowd: Step out of the vehicle. Hands first.

The driver’s door wrenched open.

LaTonya said, “That ain’t Supercop.”

They all saw the guy stumble out, blood streaming down his face. He staggered a few feet into the spotlight, doubled over a moment, then straightened again. He looked around like he couldn’t get his bearings.

All at once, he seemed to shake off the cobwebs. He turned and started hobbling toward the crowd.

“Stop,” the bullhorn said. “Stop right now.”

Somebody said, “Is that a gun?”

The officers working the crowd drew their weapons, shouted warnings. Some woman screamed. The bloody stranger held his ribs with one hand, raising his other.

He did have a gun.

So they shot him.

It sounded like firecrackers. Pop pop pop. The guy fell down like he’d tripped on something, writhed on the ground a moment or two. Then he coughed and stopped moving. Right there in front of everybody.

Curtis Modell said, “Holy shit.”

He turned to his brother, but Ricky was gone. Everything went nuts. Standing on his tiptoes, looking over the crowd, Curtis glimpsed Ricky in the distance, heading back into the store.

“Dude,” he called out. “Where the hell are you going?”

If Ricky heard him, he didn’t respond.

Curtis tried to break away, but he never quite managed. Somehow, he found himself stuck in the parking lot, helping the cops move people back from the scene, working to keep the gawkers at bay.

35

“Your face is looking much better.”

“Think so?”

“No question about it.”

As Dr. Jerry Grail moved his hand toward the middle desk drawer, Worth closed his eyes. Jesus. Couldn’t he see it coming by now?

“Have a look for yourself.”

“I swear, Doc. You and that mirror.”

Grail smiled. “Humor me.”

Worth gave in, picked up the mirror, held it in front of his face. Two black eyes, fading. Assorted cuts and scrapes, all gone to scab.

“I see a man on the mend,” Dr. Grail said. “What do you see?”

Worth slid the mirror back across the desk. His ribs still hurt when he leaned forward. “I see a guy who didn’t take a knife in the stomach.”

“You say that like you wish otherwise.”

“I wish a lot of things.”

Grail nodded along. “Let me ask you. Do you hold yourself personally responsible for the actions of every officer in the department?”

“Of course not,” Worth said.

“I see. Only in the case of Officer Briggs, then.”

Worth sighed. “I hold myself responsible for putting people in dangerous situations. For my own actions.”

“Do you believe your actions could have prevented those situations?”

It was physically painful, sitting here, but not because of his few straggling injuries. All in all, he would have rather been back on the floor of the Homey Inn, getting stomped by the mob.

“You mean, do I think that if I’d behaved differently, there might not be a crew from Dateline outside your office building right now?”

Grail smiled. “If you’d like to put it that way.”

In the past two weeks, most of the major news outlets had been to town. Everybody seemed to love the story: a disgraced officer, a battered checkout girl. Crooked cops and organized crime. A bloodbath in the frozen heartland. Worth assumed it must have been a slow month.