Chapter 31
“Are you okay, Eddie?” he asks, removing the tape from my mouth and cutting my bonds with a pocketknife. He squats down by me and pats my back, his furry eyebrows crinkled together in worry.
“You’re not hurt, are you? Let me see your arms.” He inspects me with the lightest of touches, and then straightens my red cap like a father would for his son.
It’s like I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone.
“My glasses,” I say, pointing to the area where Alisha placed them. He bends down and picks them up. Not even a scratch.
“Who did this to you?” he asks.
“Alisha.” The name hangs there like a big fat I-told-you-so.
“Did you see anyone else?”
“I saw Marco go into the building dressed as a painter. He’s with the other three suspects. The Picasso Gang.” I might as well use their code name. No more secrets, no more lies.
Bovano nods, absorbing the information. “All right, Eddie, this is what we’re going to do. You—”
A noise cuts him off, which stinks because I’m sure the plan would have involved an Evacuation of the Child, which I could truly go for right about now.
Bovano whips around, shielding me with his body.
Alisha is back with her gun raised, but not before Bovano has lifted his own pistol. A standoff, and we’re trapped. It dawns on me that with two guns drawn, things could get very ugly.
I slide behind him, grateful that he is such a large guy. I take back every bad thought I’ve ever had about him. This man wants to protect me, I sense it with every ounce of my puny, shaking body. He will protect me, take a bullet for me, even.
“Drop the gun,” he commands. “It’s over, Alisha.”
She laughs. “Next you’ll tell me there’s a SWAT team waiting down the block. You didn’t believe the kid. Nobody did.”
I hear her gun cock with a click. Petrified, I bury my face into Bovano’s jacket. It smells like spaghetti sauce, I’m not even joking.
“Let him go, Alisha. Then it’s just you and me. Let Eddie leave the alley.”
I peek around his arm just a little bit so I can see Alisha’s reaction. Will she consider letting me go? That would be awesome.
She’s smiling. A very evil, very I-am-not-a-nice-person smile. “Eddie’s my leverage. You don’t want a dead kid on your conscience, do you, Frank?”
Detective Bovano stiffens.
“Drop the gun,” she says. “Or I shoot. The boy.”
I am thrilled that she has to clarify who her target is. Very comforting.
Bovano drops the gun.
There’s the sound of an engine firing up. Alisha hesitates, then takes off running.
Bovano scoops up his gun and sprints after her, yelling, “Stay where you are!”
I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be directed at me or Alisha, but I take him at his word.
Crouching behind a garbage can, I am safe in the alley. Safe-ish, anyway. How ironic.
A shot is fired. Squealing wheels. More shots and then the horrible sound of screeching metal and shattered glass.
I jump up and sprint for the street. I don’t want to, but my feet are in charge, and they zip me out of the alley faster than you can say “Italian in peril.” I know this is not what Bovano had in mind when he said “Always run,” but my partner needs my help.
A van has crashed into a light post, the driver’s door open and abandoned. Alisha and the others are nowhere to be seen.
Detective Bovano is lying on the sidewalk, face-down. I run to him, yelling “Detective! Detective!”
Is he dead? It’s all my fault. I crouch down, managing to roll him over with my adrenaline-spiked arms. He moans. Thank goodness. Dead people don’t moan. Unless they’re zombies, and don’t even get me started on that scenario.
I reach into my pocket for my cell phone but then remember that Alisha took it from me. “Help!” I yell. Where is everyone? I can’t believe there was a loud car crash and no one has come running. That’s city noise for you.
A growing spot of blood under Bovano’s jacket catches my eye. I push the leather coat back to reveal a dark red stain on his right shoulder. Not near his heart, at least. I peel off my top shirt, wad it up and apply pressure like we learned in health class. I check his vitals, counting with my watch. His color is like blanched spaghetti. The blood like tomato sauce. Now I’m thinking like an Italian, and that wigs me out even more.
Focus!
Last year in health class, we went from stop-drop-and-roll and eat-your-veggies boredom to first-aid-for-Jonah-Schwartz in the course of a week. They claim it was time for a new curriculum, but the change came on the heels of Jonah’s piercing his leg with a pair of scissors. So we learned about wounds and pulses and blood flow instead. It’s a good thing, too, because this year Jonah sliced his hand open on a paper cutter (what moron left that sitting out in the classroom, I have no idea).
Bovano moans again. His jacket flops open, revealing something small and silver on the inside pocket. A cell phone. I fish it out with my blood-soaked fingers. This time, I make the call.
It’s hard to talk on the phone and tend to his shoulder at the same time. The blood isn’t stopping like it’s supposed to. After I tell the 9-1-1 operator where we are, I drop the phone to the sidewalk and press on the wound even harder, leaning on it with both hands and all my minuscule weight.
“It’s okay, Detective,” I say, trying to distract him. He’s semiconscious and beginning to thrash a bit. “Stay still. Help is on its way. Try to relax. Think of something nice.” But not my mother, I mentally add.
He groans and shifts his arm. More blood bubbles out of his shoulder. “Detective, don’t move,” I say. “Please just breathe. Relax. Think of happy things. Like ice cream . . . or calzones.”
I am an idiot.