Fifty-Eight

“She’s hit, she’s hit. Taylor’s hit!” He heard the words screaming from his mouth.

It happened too quickly. He’d gotten into that room as fast as he could. They’d found Sam, bloody and crying, in the garden, all her strength gone. She’d told him where Taylor was.

Taylor had turned, saw him enter the room full speed, the look on her face not exactly a smile, more like satisfaction, and relief, as if she were saying, “See, I didn’t do it. I couldn’t go through with it.”

But Copeland was moving behind her. Sitting up fast. The glint of metal in his hand. He had a gun. Taylor must have seen or heard the movement, she turned back to Copeland, her mouth a grim line of fury, her gun moving fast. But not fast enough. Baldwin’s logical mind proceeded with the proper response—start shooting. He started to squeeze the trigger. He wasn’t quick enough. He saw Taylor go down, collapsed in a heap, not graceful or slowly, just all of a piece, on the floor. Blood pooled beneath her head, and his heart froze.

Baldwin had only a fraction of a second to decide, the space between the heartbeats—go to Taylor, or put this dog down. His finger never left the trigger. He pointed the gun and squeezed, four times, in quick succession, a tracking line from Copeland’s sternum to his forehead. A fine mist of blood, the thump of the body hitting the floor, and he knew it was over.

Marcus came into the room yelling, “Officer down, officer down.” He dropped to the floor on the other side of Taylor, frantically feeling for a pulse.

Baldwin couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t breathe—was he shot? No. Too hyped. Adrenaline. A ragged breath finally entered his lungs and the scene in front of him grew clear.

Taylor.

He threw his gun down and knelt at her side.

The entry wound was an angry red hole above her right temple, a little left of center. He felt the back of her head, there was no exit. The gun Copeland had used was four feet away, lying quietly on the cement floor. She mustn’t have frisked him, or she would have found the weapon. Sloppy. But the gun was a .22. Small caliber. There was a chance.

“Taylor Jackson, you are not allowed to be dead. Goddamn it, woman, respond. Open your eyes, Taylor. Open your eyes!”

Someone pulled his arm, forced him away and held him back while they started working on Taylor.

“V-tach. Shit, we lost a pulse.”

“Pupils fixed and nonresponsive.”

“Start CPR, now!”

He wasn’t breathing, and neither was she. He watched them work on her, hands at his side. Pumping on her chest, the ribs cracking from the pressure, creating a strange concavity. The stretcher arriving, them practically throwing her body on the thin mattress, the crash as they brought it full open and rushed her out of the room. Then she was gone, her hand trailing over the edge like she was waving goodbye.

He was frozen. He couldn’t move.

Blood on the floor. Her blood. Taylor’s blood.

Something inside him broke in two.

Nothing mattered now. Nothing.