Split Second
Page 2
He called 911 and asked for two ambulances and the police. He looked over at the father, still covering his children on the floor. Both children were quiet now, their father murmuring against their heads, “It’s okay, kids, everything’s okay now—”
Savich looked back at the wounded man, saw he wasn’t moving or making a sound. He came down on his haunches, laid his hand lightly on the man’s shoulder. He was a big guy, pretty fit, his face less ashen now that he realized they’d all survived. “Don’t worry, I’m FBI. You did great; you kept your kids safe. Everything’s under control now. The police will be here soon. You’re a very brave man; it’s a pleasure to meet you,” and Savich stuck out his hand. “I’m Dillon Savich.”
The man slowly stood, bringing the children with him, still pressed against his legs. He straightened his glasses and gave Savich a shaky grin. He started to say something, then lost the words, the wild adrenaline rush choking them off. He took Savich’s hand, shook it really hard, and at last he managed to say, “I can hear my own heart beating so heavy, it’s like it’s going to fly out of my chest.”
“It’s the adrenaline. Believe me, in a couple of minutes you’re going to crash.”
“No, I can’t do that, not with the kids here. Hey, I’m Dave Raditch. Thank you for coming in like that, so sharp and fast. I don’t know what the guy was going to do; he might have shot all of us. It sure looked like he was going to kill Mr. Patil. Hush, Michael, everything’s okay. Hold Crissy’s hand, okay?”
Savich prayed Dave wouldn’t bottom out completely after the adrenaline snapped out of him and fall over. He’d seen it before. He looked closely at Dave Raditch, saw he was occupied with stroking those small shuddering bodies, keeping them very close. Savich smiled at him. “You’ll do fine,” he said, and smiled down at Michael. Then, because it could have been Sean, Savich hugged him. As Savich pressed Michael’s face against him, he thought, how would he deal with this violent terror? With the shock of sudden bloody death? As he rubbed his big hands up and down Michael’s back, he said, “Michael, I really need your help. The police will be here soon, and I’ll have to speak with them. I want you to hunker down with your dad and sister and talk about what happened, because the police will want to speak with you, too. Do you think you can keep them calm? Can you do that for me?”
Michael hiccuped, wiped the back of his hand over his running nose, and slowly pulled back in Savich’s arms. He looked over at the man moaning on the floor, holding his shoulder, his blood everywhere. Then Michael looked at the woman Mr. Savich had covered with his leather jacket. Michael knew she was dead, knew dead meant she wouldn’t wake up. And there was Mr. Patil, and he was hurt, too, that woman had shot him, but because he’d heard Mr. Savich tell Mr. Patil he was going to be okay, Michael didn’t think he’d have to worry about him. He tried to straighten his shoulders and said, “I can do that, sir,” in the most convincing imitation adult voice Savich had ever heard. What was he? Five years old? Sean’s age. Thank God Sean hadn’t been with him.
“Crissy, it’s okay now,” Michael said as he patted his sister’s back. “Dad, Mr. Savich said the police are coming and we’ve got to get our stories straight.”
Well, close enough. Savich smiled.
Dave Raditch’s left eyebrow shot up above his glasses. He didn’t know where it came from, but when he met Savich’s eyes, he grinned, nodded, but only for an instant, because Crissy’s face was leached of color and she was shuddering like she had a fever. He cleared his throat. “Okay, Crissy, Michael’s right, we’ve gotta tell the police exactly what happened before Mr. Savich came in. How about the three of us go over there by the potato chips and talk about how this went down, okay?”
Crissy Raditch turned to stare at the woman, and then licked her lips. “Did Mr. Savich shoot her dead?”
This is the big one. Savich said, “Yes, I had to, Crissy. I couldn’t take the chance she would hurt any of us. Now go with your dad and Michael and work this all out.”
Savich watched Dave Raditch herd his children behind the chip stand, out of sight of the devastation.
He looked at the dead woman, at the trail of blood seeping from beneath his leather jacket. Had she ever considered she might die at 8:27 on a Tuesday night?
He heard sirens.
He looked over at the kids’ two ice-cream bars melting on the floor, and then at the big round clock behind Mr. Patil’s counter. He watched the minute hand reach 8:28. Only a couple of minutes had passed, a couple of minutes that determined who would live and who would die.
Savich looked back at the wounded man, saw he wasn’t moving or making a sound. He came down on his haunches, laid his hand lightly on the man’s shoulder. He was a big guy, pretty fit, his face less ashen now that he realized they’d all survived. “Don’t worry, I’m FBI. You did great; you kept your kids safe. Everything’s under control now. The police will be here soon. You’re a very brave man; it’s a pleasure to meet you,” and Savich stuck out his hand. “I’m Dillon Savich.”
The man slowly stood, bringing the children with him, still pressed against his legs. He straightened his glasses and gave Savich a shaky grin. He started to say something, then lost the words, the wild adrenaline rush choking them off. He took Savich’s hand, shook it really hard, and at last he managed to say, “I can hear my own heart beating so heavy, it’s like it’s going to fly out of my chest.”
“It’s the adrenaline. Believe me, in a couple of minutes you’re going to crash.”
“No, I can’t do that, not with the kids here. Hey, I’m Dave Raditch. Thank you for coming in like that, so sharp and fast. I don’t know what the guy was going to do; he might have shot all of us. It sure looked like he was going to kill Mr. Patil. Hush, Michael, everything’s okay. Hold Crissy’s hand, okay?”
Savich prayed Dave wouldn’t bottom out completely after the adrenaline snapped out of him and fall over. He’d seen it before. He looked closely at Dave Raditch, saw he was occupied with stroking those small shuddering bodies, keeping them very close. Savich smiled at him. “You’ll do fine,” he said, and smiled down at Michael. Then, because it could have been Sean, Savich hugged him. As Savich pressed Michael’s face against him, he thought, how would he deal with this violent terror? With the shock of sudden bloody death? As he rubbed his big hands up and down Michael’s back, he said, “Michael, I really need your help. The police will be here soon, and I’ll have to speak with them. I want you to hunker down with your dad and sister and talk about what happened, because the police will want to speak with you, too. Do you think you can keep them calm? Can you do that for me?”
Michael hiccuped, wiped the back of his hand over his running nose, and slowly pulled back in Savich’s arms. He looked over at the man moaning on the floor, holding his shoulder, his blood everywhere. Then Michael looked at the woman Mr. Savich had covered with his leather jacket. Michael knew she was dead, knew dead meant she wouldn’t wake up. And there was Mr. Patil, and he was hurt, too, that woman had shot him, but because he’d heard Mr. Savich tell Mr. Patil he was going to be okay, Michael didn’t think he’d have to worry about him. He tried to straighten his shoulders and said, “I can do that, sir,” in the most convincing imitation adult voice Savich had ever heard. What was he? Five years old? Sean’s age. Thank God Sean hadn’t been with him.
“Crissy, it’s okay now,” Michael said as he patted his sister’s back. “Dad, Mr. Savich said the police are coming and we’ve got to get our stories straight.”
Well, close enough. Savich smiled.
Dave Raditch’s left eyebrow shot up above his glasses. He didn’t know where it came from, but when he met Savich’s eyes, he grinned, nodded, but only for an instant, because Crissy’s face was leached of color and she was shuddering like she had a fever. He cleared his throat. “Okay, Crissy, Michael’s right, we’ve gotta tell the police exactly what happened before Mr. Savich came in. How about the three of us go over there by the potato chips and talk about how this went down, okay?”
Crissy Raditch turned to stare at the woman, and then licked her lips. “Did Mr. Savich shoot her dead?”
This is the big one. Savich said, “Yes, I had to, Crissy. I couldn’t take the chance she would hurt any of us. Now go with your dad and Michael and work this all out.”
Savich watched Dave Raditch herd his children behind the chip stand, out of sight of the devastation.
He looked at the dead woman, at the trail of blood seeping from beneath his leather jacket. Had she ever considered she might die at 8:27 on a Tuesday night?
He heard sirens.
He looked over at the kids’ two ice-cream bars melting on the floor, and then at the big round clock behind Mr. Patil’s counter. He watched the minute hand reach 8:28. Only a couple of minutes had passed, a couple of minutes that determined who would live and who would die.
