[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

All my attention was on moving forward. I tried to do it as quickly as
possible, knowing that Mike was exposed to the shooter while he was trying to
Page 114
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
cover my back. I doubted there would be enough bullets left in his gun to get
us to the iron entrance gate if the assassin was tracking our retreat.
I could hear the sound of sirens coming closer. I was hoping the gunman could
hear them, too.
More shots echoed around my head. I couldn't tell how many had actually been
fired and how many were simply resounding off the various surfaces. I looked
back and saw that Mike was still standing, just a few feet behind me, shielded
by the statue of David Farragut.
I was as low to the ground as I could manage to be and still propel myself
forward, passing Henry Ward Beecher and John James Audubon. I hadn't heard
Louis Agassiz's name since I left Wellesley and didn't stop to make note of
his many accomplishments.
I took another corner and Mike let go with another round. I glanced back
again to make sure he hadn't been hurt. "Keep going, Coop. You're almost
there."
Pushing along the rough surface of the bricks had worn back the tops of my
gloves. My wrists were raw from rubbing against the ground as I tried to scoot
along.
Now I could hear what seemed like a small army of footsteps pounding toward
us. "Stay back. Someone's shooting at us," I yelled, as I saw a guard dressed
in the uniform of the campus police coming toward me. I pointed at Mike. "He's
a cop!"
Mike was too engaged to pull out his gold badge. The danger was off to the
side and below him, not in the form of bewildered and unarmed security guards.
He took one look at the startled officers, called out to them to watch me,
and vaulted over the two-foot-high balcony that bordered the hilltop. In that
split second given me to decide what to do, I knew that if I made the mistake
of calling out his name, it would cause him to look back and think I needed
help.
I picked my head up and watched him slide down the embankment, rolling only
ten or twelve feet until he crashed into a tree trunk. Everything down there
was silent now, with no sign of an attacker.
"The professor's been shot," I said to the officer who reached me first. "He
needs an ambulance."
"Who's the& ?" one guard asked, while I directed two others down to the far
end to tend to Tormey.
I looked over the side of the wall. Mike was sitting with his back against
the large tree trunk. The guards glanced back and forth at each other,
uncertain about what lay below.
"Can you help him, please? He's a detective-NYPD-Homicide."
"He do the shooting?"
"No, we were fired at," I said. "From somewhere down there."
I had just killed their enthusiasm for climbing down to help Mike. One of the
men leaned over and picked up a bullet.
Page 115
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Looks like a twenty-two-caliber-"
"Please don't touch anything. We'll have to get the Crime Scene Unit here."
I could hear more sirens. Guards checked on Tormey and assured me that he was
conscious and coherent, and that an ambulance had been called. I stood up, and
ignoring Mike's gestures for me to stay with the men from security, I swung my
legs over the balcony and lowered myself onto the densely wooded hillside.
"Graceful, huh?" Mike asked as I made my way down the slope to him, bracing
myself against trees along the way, and helped him to his feet. "How's
Tormey?"
"Looks like he's hit in his upper arm, from the way he's just dragging it and
the amount of blood soaking through his jacket. They've got a bus on the way.
D'you see anything?"
"Somebody knew exactly what he was doing. Had Tormey's arrival timed to the
minute, didn't he? And wouldn't have minded shaving some peroxide off the top
of your scalp, either. He was comfortable in these woods," Mike said, looking
around at the rough terrain.
"Unless he was over there," I said, pointing at the railroad tracks on the
far side of the highway. "There's enough scrub to conceal yourself, especially
if he was shooting with a scope. Did you fire down because you saw someone?"
Mike started to walk back up to the colonnade. "Nothing. Nada. I just wanted
to draw the guy out if he was still around."
"Hey, Chapman. Clara Barton's down the hall, if you need a hand," a uniformed
cop called out, clearly delighted to have seen Mike on his ass, then being
guided back up the hill by a woman Sherpa.
Mike scrambled over the metal railing behind the entrance gate, while I
stretched my arms out overhead so two cops could hoist me up onto the balcony
next to a stone-faced Elias Howe.
Medics were loading Noah Tormey into the rear of the ambulance and I followed
Mike over to check on him.
One of the EMTs spoke first, shaking his finger at us. "Sorry. You'll have to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]