The Dead Have A Thousand Dreams by Richard Sanders

to the world, the Lord
is come
    Let earth receive her
KING
    “The fucking people in
this fucking town,” said Wooly. “Could this day get any
worse?”
    You had to ask.
    Way down the street I saw
an SUV going in reverse against the traffic. Doing 25-30 miles per
hour. Jerk of a driver, I thought, and kept walking. Moments later
I heard some nerve-jump sound and the entire plate glass window of
Wings ‘N Things behind us turned to frost.
    Nickie whipped her head
around so fast her face was blurred. I followed her eyes to the
SUV, a Grand Cherokee, stopped in the road now. I saw someone
standing next to it, saw a muzzle flash. The whole restaurant
window shattered and fell, the people inside starting to go to the
floor like puppets whose strings had suddenly been cut.
    “Get down!” Nickie yelled, pushing Wooly
to the pavement. I dropped too. We did spider scrambles to the car,
using the Lexus loaner as a shield.
    The sniper shots scattered
everywhere, hitting the glass in other stores, grazing the roof of
the car. People on the sidewalk were running and tripping, jumping
for cover, screaming and shouting. Drowsy heat had turned into a
white nightmare.
    Wooly was face down, hands
over his head. “What is this, like the town sport? Some frucking
fruit opens fire?”
    He couldn’t even
say fucking right. Bad sign.
    I edged my head an inch
past the bumper. The Grand Cherokee was maybe 200 feet away, the
guy with the high-caliber rifle standing there like a hawk, all in
black. A ski mask?
    More shots. I slipped
back, my heart thrashing like a fly trapped in a closed window,
wings beating against the screen.
    Nickie took her Smith
& Wesson out. I dittoed with the Glock. We started returning
cautious fire. No chance of reaching him at this distance, but at
least we could show him there was some defense here.
    “Too bad,” said Wooly, “I
don’t have my gun.”
    “Shut up!” said Nickie.
    We heard a door slam, an
engine going into hard rev. Nickie held her breath and raised her
head. The Grand Cherokee had left a trail of exhaust on the
street.
    Wooly rolled over on his
back. “I got a lot of depression,” he said, “to catch up
on.”
     
    >>>>>>
     
    MONDAY JUNE 18, 2:35
p.m.
    THE MORE THE
MERRIER
    Like real estate, the value
of Wooly-shooting depends on location. You try it in his front
yard, or on a side road, or in the parking lot of his lab, that’s
one thing. But when it happens in the middle of town, that’s
something else. Even the two Hidden Lake cops didn’t seem bored any
longer. They actually looked studious and attentive as they checked
the crowd for injuries and took statements, though they were still
moving cow-fast.
    “What are you doing to this town?”
Alex Tarkashian said.
    “You’re asking what I’m doing?” said Wooly,
so jumpy he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. “I think you got
it vighsa-versa.”
    Onlookers were still
mobbing both sides of the street, staying back but remaining
curious. One shaken Wings ‘N Things customer was doubled over in
the doorway, throwing up on the steps.
    “So no Ford Fusion this
time?” said Alex.
    “A Grand Cherokee,” said
Nickie.
    “Color?”
    “Black.”
    “Or maybe dark blue,” I
said.
    “Plate?”
    “Too far away,” said
Nickie.
    “About 200
feet.”
    “A ski mask
again?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Maybe.”
    “This is just
brilliant.”
    One of the cops came over,
lighting a cigarette. “Nobody saw more than shit,” he
complained.
    Alex looked back at us.
“So what’s the thinking? Your perp’s switched vehicles?”
    “Or there’s more than
one,” said Nickie.
    “Kidding.”
    “She could be right,” said
Wooly. “There could be more than one. It could be a plot . It could be a
fucking conspiracy .”
    Alex let out a sad,
long-day sigh. “Does it ever stop with you? Ever?”
     
    >>>>>>
     
    MONDAY JUNE 18, 3:25
p.m.
    JUST LIKE THAT—SHE’S
DEAD
    Genevieve took one look at
him—lost, out of it, repeating the words time