Dodie wept. She had a hand across her eyes, the tears coursing down her cheeks. She remained motionless, carefully suppressing any audible sobs. Cappi proffered his good-nights and ambled to the door. He had a thug’s sense of dignity to uphold, and he didn’t want to leave us with the impression he was fleeing the scene. He must have been as relieved as I was that his mission had gone smoothly. Pinky hadn’t moved a muscle and I was holding my breath, conscious the situation wouldn’t be resolved until Cappi was in his car and driving away. He opened the front door and went out, closing it behind him with an insolent smile.
Pinky screamed, “Son of a bitch!”
He was instantly on his feet. He tore out of the living room and into the hall where he yanked open the closet door and hauled items off the shelf in a tumble until he had his gun in hand. He checked the load and smacked the magazine into place while he ran to the door and flung it open, screaming Cappi’s name. I was right behind him, trying desperately to keep him under control. Cappi was halfway across the street, and when he turned, Pinky snapped off three shots, the muzzle kicking up each time. I heard a high-pitched shriek, but it was the sound of outrage instead of pain. Cappi hadn’t been hit but he was shocked at Pinky’s audacity. He was apparently unaccustomed to being a target and the reality made him sound as shrill as a girl. He pulled the gun from the small of his back and fired twice before he turned and raced away down the street, elbows pumping, his running shoes thumping on the pavement. A moment later, I heard his car door slam and the engine catch. In his haste, he banged into the car in front of him before he cleared the space and took off.
Pinky was panting, his own breathing hoarse with rage and adrenaline. I looked back at Dodie, thinking she’d flattened herself on the floor so she could use the easy chair for cover. Then I saw the blood. One of Cappi’s rounds had ripped through the frame wall, which slowed the trajectory of the bullet but not by much. It was my turn to shriek with surprise, but the sound was reduced to one of simple disbelief. Pinky froze, taking in the sight of her. He couldn’t seem to grasp her condition from the evidence in front of him. As with me, it was the blood that finally registered.
He scrambled to her side and turned her over onto her back. She’d caught the bullet in her chest on the right-hand side. It looked like her clavicle was shattered and blood oozed dully from the wound. Pinky pressed both his hands over the area and his face turned up to mine in helplessness and horror. I skittered out of the room and headed down the hall to the kitchen, where I snatched the handset from the wall-mounted phone and hit 9-1-1. When the dispatcher picked up, I gave her the bare bones—the nature of the emergency and the location where the shooting had taken place. I put a hand over the mouthpiece and called to Pinky. “Hey, Pinky. What’s your street address?”
He hollered out the number, which I conveyed to her.
The dispatcher was methodical, repeating her questions in a matter-of-fact fashion until she was satisfied with the information I’d provided. In the background, I could hear a second dispatcher take another call. The woman I was talking to broke off long enough to initiate the emergency response, launching aid and assistance.
When I returned to the living room, the first thing I spotted was Pinky’s gun lying on the floor. With an ambulance on the way to the shooting scene, that was the last thing we needed to be dealing with. I picked up the gun and went out to the hall, where the floor was still littered with the stuff he’d tossed out in his haste to find his weapon. I didn’t have the time or inclination to tidy up, so I did the next best thing, which was to return to the living room and stash the gun under a couch cushion. Pinky saw me doing it, but neither of us wanted to worry about searching for a better hiding place.
St. Terry’s was less than four blocks away, which worked in our favor. I knelt beside Pinky and we did what we could for Dodie, whose chest was heaving. She was already trembling from shock and blood loss. I’m not sure she had any idea what had happened, but her complexion was pasty and her system was reacting with a series of shudders. I patted and coaxed and reassured her while Pinky babbled whatever comfort and encouragement came to mind. It was the language of alarm and stress, hysteria kept under control by sheer necessity. In that one instant, everything had gone wrong. With the photographs burned, I thought the worst had passed, but it had only begun.
I watched Dodie with a curious sense of detachment. She was conscious, and while she had no way to assess her situation, she knew she was in trouble. I believe that in such circumstances a victim can decide whether to choose life or to let it go. Whatever the severity of her wound, we could talk her into staying with us if she accepted what we said, which was she was fine, she was okay, that she’d make it, help was coming, that she was doing great, that we were with her. It was a litany of life-affirming promises, a pledge that she was safe, that she’d be whole again, fully mended, and without pain. She was teetering on the brink, the abyss opening up before her. I watched her look down into the dark hole of death and then her eyes rolled back into her head. I gave her hand a shake. She opened her eyes again and looked from my face to Pinky’s. A message passed between them, silent and intent. If he was capable of calling her back, I knew he was doing so. The question was whether she was capable of responding to his plea.