Colleen grabbed the .38 from the ground, reset the hammer, stood up in the hollow of the trees. Her head spun like the merry-go-round that jangled nearby. Then the blur began to ease. She staggered forward, regaining her balance.
She stared down at Kieran Skinner. He lay flat on his back, arms clutching himself, wheezing through bloody lips. His mustache was sopping with blood on one side. His glasses had come off. One lens was shattered. The irony of the broken glasses filled her with a mixture of horror and dark satisfaction.
This time there would be a different outcome.
Hunched over, one hand on a knee to brace herself, she waved the gun at him.
“Stay down,” she panted, “or I will … put a bullet in your leg.”
He rolled over onto his side and vomited. A sick stench filled the air.
She forced herself to stand up straight. She heard the girl choking, crying.
Colleen stepped back, the gun on Kieran. She focused.
The girl had fallen trying to get out the enclosure. Clambering up, she slipped, fell back on her butt. Her denim jacket and checked pants were smeared with mud. But she was coming to. A sense of relief overwhelmed Colleen. She didn’t know how much chloroform the girl had been given but she also knew that a little went a long way.
“How are you feeling?” Colleen gasped, eyes darting over to Kieran every few seconds.
“My head …” The girl put a hand up to her disheveled blond hair.
“I bet it hurts like sin. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“I … I don’t think so.”
“Good. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Robyn. Robyn Stiles.”
“I’m Colleen. In a minute, when your head clears, you’re going to go over to the carousel, find someone who works there. Tell them what happened, call the police. Think you can do that, Robyn?”
“I … think so. What about you?”
“Right behind you. Go. Call the police.”
Colleen had reservations about calling the cops. With the connections Kieran’s father no doubt had, and the way the police had been harassing her, calling them filled her with apprehension.
But what choice did she have? And, from what she saw, Frank Madrid and his crew were a few renegades. She had to bank on it. She’d call Moran as soon as she could.
Robyn nodded slowly, looking over at Kieran, then back at Colleen. Colleen noticed that Robyn wore a wide white belt on her hip-huggers.
“Before you go, Robyn,” she said, “give me your belt.”
When Robyn left, Colleen stood up fully, the belt in one hand, the gun in the other. Kieran sat up, puke glistening in the corner of his mouth. She zigzagged over, pushed him back down with the bottom of her sneaker.
“On your stomach,” she panted. “Hands behind your back.” Her head was returning to normal, albeit with a wicked headache. “Any bullshit and you get a dose of chloroform.”
“My father will sue,” Kieran said, but rolled over onto his stomach on the crumpled newspaper. “My father will sue.”
“Hands behind your back, Kieran.”
“You won’t get away with it,” he muttered. But his hands went behind his back.