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More foul language and ethnic slurs in this one.

Chapter 20:

Joe looked down from the top of the cliff and saw Reggie stretched out on the big, flat rock below him. He saw the sniper rifle, its long nose poking out through the screen of bushes that clung to the edge of Lookout Rock. He couldn't see who the guy had a bead on, but he knew it must be someone down in the village or the park.

For the briefest moment one of his childhood fantasies flickered through his mind, and he pictured himself flying through the air and landing on Reggie's back, knocking the rifle aside and wrestling him into submission. The impracticalities of that scenario were pretty plain, so he settled for the more mundane version: he swung his shotgun up to his shoulder, aimed it squarely at Reggie's back, and called out, "This is the police. Put your hands in the air; you're under arrest."

Reggie jumped. His shot went wild.

"God fuck it!" he swore. A split-second later he was rolling to one side and swinging the Barrett round. He wasn't going to go down without a fight.

The shotgun jerked against Joe's shoulder as he fired; there was a sharp retort and the Barrett spun away across the rock with a clatter. Reggie howled and clasped a hand to his arm.

"Don't even think about trying to pick it up again," Joe said. "Don't try to go for another gun. And don't try to run. I was the best shot in my class at police school. And I've been hunting all my life. No, I warned you!" And the shotgun jerked again.

Reggie collapsed, blubbering and pawing at his leg.

Joe figured the guy wasn't going anywhere now. There was a decent-sized ledge halfway down the small cliff, so he jumped to that, then to the rock below. He set his gun down where he could reach it easily if he had to, took the strap off, and used it to tie the guy's hands behind his back. Then he untied Reggie's bootlaces and tied them tightly together. He didn't actually think Reggie would be able to do much at this point, but there wasn't any sense in taking chances.

Joe's grandfather had taught him his woodsmanship, so he had a small first-aid kit in his pocket. There was enough gauze in it to take care of Reggie's leg. The man was pale and sweating and obviously in pain, but he was going to live. Birdshot at twenty feet could make a real mess, but Joe hadn't hit an artery. He was secretly relieved: he'd never shot another human being before, and really didn't want to kill anyone, even someone who'd clearly been planning to commit murder himself.

"Got any more bandages?" Joe asked, when he finished with the leg. Reggie groaned and shook his head. Joe shrugged.

"Gimme your scarf, then." Reggie lifted his head to let Joe unwrap it. Joe looked at it with distaste. "Don't you ever wash? Oh, well. I doubt you'll get blood-poisoning from this, but if you do, it's your own fault."

Reggie turned his head and spat. Joe dodged the spittle, and went on bandaging up Reggie's arm. He wasn't particularly gentle about it. The man grimaced in pain.

"Godfuckit, that hurts," he moaned.

"Funny about that. You didn't mind the thought of dishing it out, did you?"

"I'll sue you."

"Like hell you will. You shot that Barrett into a town full of people. Who were you after, anyway?"

Joe had pulled out his cell phone by now, and was punching a couple of buttons. The first was to give his location and ask for help. The second started the recorder.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Nah, I can guess." In spite of the nonchalance he was trying to affect, Joe felt his stomach tighten and the bile surge up. "The President?"

"He's the one I came for," Reggie acknowledged with another grimace. Red dots swam before Joe's eyes. It was all he could do to keep himself from smashing the monster's face in. "But the yellow coward never showed."

For all his anger, Joe's breathing slowed a little and his stomach unclenched. Thank God. Josh hadn't overruled the Service and come into town after all.

"So who were you firing at?"

Reggie's eyes narrowed.

"Why're you asking all these questions? If you're a cop, aren't you supposed to be reading me my rights?"

"Nope. Miranda rights get suspended for up to two days for terrorists. You don't have any right now."

"Terrorists?" Reggie seemed to ignite at the word. "I ain't no fuckin' terrorist! I'm a God-fearin', church-goin' American, that's what I am, not some motherfuckin' foreign trash! All I was tryin' to do was make this country safe again for good white Christian folk like you 'n me. Terrorist? You go to church, boy? You carry a gun? You should be callin' me a patriot. You should be callin' me a fuckin' hero. You shut your mouth and don't give me any more o' that fuckin' terrorist crap, you hear me?"

Joe stared stonily into the man's porcine, bloodshot eyes.

"I'm calling you a terrorist," he said, "because that's what folks around here call someone who tries to shoot down innocent, law-abiding people as they're going about their business down there in their own village on Christmas Eve. Or someone who comes here to try to shoot the President their country elected-whether they voted for him or not. You're damn lucky I am a cop. If anyone else in this town, in this county, in this state had found you gunning for President Lyman, there'd have been a little hunting accident up here on Lookout Rock, and you wouldn't have lived to tell the tale of it. Don't you ever call Josh Lyman a yellow coward around here; folks will smash your face in for it. He's our guy. But even if he wasn't, even if we couldn't stand the sight of him or anything he stood for, he'd still be our President, and we'd still fight to the bitter end for his right to be our President, 'cause he got it in a fair and free election, and that's what our country's all about."

Reggie stared at him, and shook his head in disgust.

"What's the matter with folks around here?" he said. "You oughtta be with us."

"If you couldn't get President Lyman, who did you have a bead on?"

The corners of Reggie's mouth twisted upwards in an eerie, yellow-toothed grin.

"His curly-haired little brat that looks just like him. And the brat's brown-faced little girlfriend, the spic."

Joe always thought afterwards that it must have been divine intervention that caused Special Agents Rawlings and Catalano to appear at that moment, their guns drawn. They weren't the reinforcements he'd called for just a few moments before; they'd been sent back from Ocean Front Drive to check out Sabrina's story, and had found Noah's tracks in the woods and followed them up the hill. If they hadn't appeared when they did, Joe knew, he'd have done murder.

And he'd have done it in slow and ugly ways that had never even entered his mind before that moment, but flooded into it in a tumult of hatred and rage that left him shaken and unsure of himself-of who he really was and what he was really capable of-for a long time afterwards.

000000

Noah ran forward when he saw Cat fall into Sid's arms. There was a loud ping as Reggie's second bullet ricocheted off one of the iron pillars of the bandstand. Sid scooped Cat off her feet and ran.

He moved quickly for a man his age. The family who had been waiting behind Noah and Cat stared after him with their mouths open. "Where's Santa going?" one of the twins yelled. "I want Santa!" the other screamed in chorus. The baby started to howl. Sid just kept running.

Nobody saw Noah jogging after him.

Sid hurried down Main Street, then up a side street that ran up the hill. A minute later he turned onto a smaller side street lined with old houses, all of them with beautiful views of the darkening harbor.

He stopped in front of one of the larger houses and banged on the door. No one came at first. He was raising his hand to knock again when the door opened, and a grey-haired woman looked out at him.

"Come in, come in," she said, apparently unfazed by the sight of Cat in Sid's arms or the blood on her coat. "Benjamin!" she called out. "Sid Baker's here. He's got a child who's hurt her arm."

A silver-haired old man appeared beside her. He was quite elderly-he couldn't have been a day under ninety, Sid knew-but he looked and moved like a much younger man. No one in Crabapple Cove had any doubt that he was still ten times sharper than any of the wet-behind-the-ears young things who staffed the clinic three days a week. Most of the long-time locals preferred to go to him with their problems even when the clinic was open.

"Bring her in, Sid," the doctor said. "I'll get my bag."

Noah, panting down the road behind them, saw Sid and Cat going inside. The door was closed by the time he got there. He stood in front of it, wondering if he should knock. He thought about the fuss everyone would make as soon as he was recognized, and decided to put it off a little longer. He sat down on the icy step, and wondered how Cat was doing.

What could have happened to her? His arm was hurting more than ever, but he was the one who'd touched the pillar. He couldn't figure out how Cat could have got more of the shock than he had; she should have had less.

His head felt strange and light, almost dizzy. The cold was seeping through the seat of his pants, down his legs and up his chest and back. He shivered, and rubbed at his throbbing, burning arm. How could he have gotten such a bad shock, just from touching the bandstand's pillar?

In the yellow light of the lamp above the door, he didn't notice the dark stain soaking into his red sweater and rubbing off on his glove.