From two feet, the shooter had to be planning to fire, committed, already depressing the trigger. Because now his weapon was within reach, and the target might move faster than the shooter’s ability to adjust his aim.
Peter moved fast.
He snapped his hand up, grabbing the pistol body and shoving the muzzle sideways to keep his body and June’s from the line of fire. Then he twisted the gun a half turn counterclockwise, breaking the tattooed wrist of the idiot who hadn’t begun to consider that Peter might not be scared to death.
The pistol fell to the asphalt.
The tattooed man howled and clutched his wrist.
Peter kicked the pistol sideways, hit the man hard with his elbow on the side of his head, then punched down on the side of his tattooed neck as he fell into a boneless sprawl.
June scooped up the gun at the edge of Peter’s vision as he eyeballed the getaway driver, motionless behind the open door of the shitbox Dodge. “We done here?”
“Shit.” The driver was shaking his head, disgusted. But he had more sense than his partner, because he slid back into the car, threw it into reverse, and got the hell out of there, leaving the other man heaped on the worn wet asphalt.
Peter turned to look at June. She lowered the gun back down to her side, her finger still on the trigger. She took a deep breath, then let it out.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Not everyone would have picked up that gun,” he said.
Her eyes gleamed in the sodium lights. “I had an interesting childhood.”
She looked like she might be having fun.
Jesus Christ, she was something else.
16
JUNE
The hospital was in Eugene’s sister city, Springfield. It was a big modern building, brick and glass and lit up like a UFO had landed in the parking lot.
June found the emergency entrance, pulled the car into a short-term spot, and turned off the engine. Her lip was throbbing, but she was still wired from the near-robbery. The gun was in her lap.
Peter hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “Are you going to take that into the hospital?”
She pretended to consider it. “I don’t know, what do you think?”
“I think you’re astounding,” he said. “Where have you been all my life?”
She tucked the gun under the seat. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, and got out of the car to hide her smile. She’d never been called astounding before.
Emergency reception was the usual antiseptic anteroom, with easy-mop floors and vomit-proof chairs. A scattering of people waited for their turn or for friends or family, focused on their own problems, uninterested in the newcomers. A fresh-faced young woman in pink scrubs and pigtails sat at the intake desk, flirting with an ambulance driver, but she quickly turned her attention to June and Peter.
“We were in a car accident earlier today,” said June. “We went off the road. My friend’s a little banged up. His leg and his ribs, and he cut his head, too.”
The intake nurse was looking at June’s fat lip, now black and blue. “You look a little beat up yourself,” she said. “Anything else other than the lip?”
June held out her arm, starting to bleed again from the cuts of the window glass. “This probably needs a look,” she said. “Plus I’m sore all over.”
“That’ll happen,” said the nurse. “Insurance cards?”
“We don’t have insurance,” said Peter.
“How about some ID?”
June and Peter had talked it through, how they would navigate the questions. Peter thought it was possible that the hunters would have people checking the hospitals. He’d come up with a plan to make it harder for the hunters to gain information.
“We don’t have that, either,” he said. “We were robbed, hitchhiking back from the accident.”
The nurse looked at June, her face devoid of expression. June figured she’d worked the night shift long enough to have heard all kinds of excuses. They hadn’t fooled this woman one bit.
“Names?”
Peter jumped in before she could say anything. “I’m Peter Smith. This is my friend Marian. Last name Cunningham.”
June gave him the hairy eyeball. The mom from Happy Days was a long way from Debbie Harry.
“We’ll pay our bill,” he said. “I promise.”
“I sincerely hope so,” the nurse said politely. “Although federal law requires us to treat everyone, unpaid emergency room charges raise the cost of treatment for everyone. Billing address?”
Peter gave them the address of the motel where they’d showered.
Typing, the nurse nodded, then pressed a button under the counter. The door to the treatment area popped open. “Ma’am, I’ll take you back now. Sir, someone will be out to help you in a moment.”
The nurse escorted June to a seat in an open exam area, then stepped to a nearby workstation and spoke to another woman in blue scrubs, who came over and pulled up a rolling stool.
“Hi, I’m Sandra. I’m a nurse practitioner. I’m just going to take a look at your lip and your arm, okay?”
“Listen,” June said quietly. “I’m in trouble and I need your help.”