He sang the words over and over. All the while his mind was on the sniper. A shaved head with broad shoulders. Was he doubling back to finish his night’s work? McCabe imagined himself lit in the green of the man’s night-vison scope, crosshairs steady on his skinny Irish face, an easy target, even distorted by the fractured windshield. He imagined the man squeezing the trigger. The bullet traversing the distance between them. His head exploding. McCabe scrunched down lower and rolled up the driver’s side window.
The rational side of his brain knew the man was more likely running away. He’d have to know his bullet hadn’t killed Sophie immediately. Have to know McCabe would call for help. He probably saw Sophie move as he fired, and saw the bullet strike her arm, not her head. Yet he couldn’t know how badly hurt she was. She might have died from loss of blood. Or he might have simply nicked her and she was lying low to stay out of sight. McCabe kept singing.
She’s got freckles on her butt,
She is nice.
He heard sirens. First in the distance, then closing fast. Less than a minute later, two state police cars and an ambulance screamed onto the quiet road. The ambulance and one of the cars pulled up next to the Bird. A young trooper sporting a Marine Corps-style buzz cut swaggered over, picked up the Mossberg, and signaled McCabe to roll down the window. He did.
An EMT pushed past the trooper and opened the door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’
‘I’m fine. She’s shot in the upper arm. Arterial bleeding. A lot of it.’
‘If you can slip out of the car without letting go of her arm, I’ll lean in and we’ll trade places.’
McCabe did as he was told. The EMT slid by McCabe in the opposite direction, reaching into the car until his hands could join McCabe’s on the wound. McCabe slipped out. The EMT and his partner slid Sophie onto a stretcher and hurried her toward the ambulance.
McCabe turned. The trooper had his service weapon out and pointed at McCabe. ‘All right, sir. Please turn around slowly and place both hands on the car.’
McCabe did as he was told. ‘I’m a cop,’ he said to the trooper. ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’
Pause. ‘Where’s your shield and ID?’
‘Back pocket. Left.’
McCabe felt the trooper’s hand enter his pocket and extract the wallet. The man opened it and looked it over.
‘Okay, you can turn around,’ the trooper said. McCabe did, and he handed the wallet back. He holstered his weapon. ‘You’re a little off your turf, aren’t you, Sergeant? What’s the story?’
McCabe gave a weary sigh. He wasn’t in the mood to explain his presence in Gray or discuss jurisdictional issues with a gung-ho ex-marine. ‘Just call Colonel Matthews and tell him I’m here in conjunction with the Katie Dubois murder investigation. It’s a Portland PD case. And get reinforcements. There’s a skilled sniper with a rifle and probably a night-vision scope fleeing this area. On foot, for now.’
The medics were sliding Sophie into the back of the waiting ambulance. ‘I’m going with them,’ McCabe announced.
From the driver’s seat of the Bird, McCabe retrieved his cell phone, as well as the bloody jacket that had been covering Sophie and the .45. He turned and trotted toward the ambulance. ‘By the way, take care of that Mossberg for me,’ he shouted to the trooper. ‘It’s a fine weapon, and I want it back.’
The EMTs already had Sophie’s good arm hooked up to an IV when McCabe hopped in behind the stretcher. ‘I’m riding with you,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question. The medic looked up and nodded but said nothing. McCabe closed the door and squeezed himself into a corner against lockers filled with medical supplies.
McCabe looked out the back door. He could see the trooper hesitate for a moment, then pick up the shotgun and walk to his car, no doubt to start the radio calls that would work their way up the chain of command to Matthews. The ambulance took off, its lights flashing and siren screaming an unmistakable urgency to the quiet countryside.
Somewhere in the dark, the shooter watched and listened and began planning his next move.
30
Tuesday. 10:30 P.M.
McCabe watched the EMT work from his perch in the back of the ambulance. The man placed an oxygen mask over Sophie’s nose and mouth. He wrapped what looked like an Ace bandage as tightly as he could around Sophie’s wound and resumed applying pressure against the artery above the wound. He looked competent. There was no conversation.
Up front, the driver radioed the ER dispatcher at Cumberland Medical Center. ‘Cumberland, this is Gray Emergency. We’re coming in, lights and siren. We’ve got a woman. Gunshot wound. Left arm. Arterial bleeding. Kind of shocky. We’ve got one line normal saline, wide open. Hundred percent O2. BP soft.’