Jesus! This guy’s as good a sprinter as me and I run regularly on the levee. My knee’s pinching a little now, but I can’t fall back. At least my breathing’s still coming evenly, although I’m sucking in a lot of air. I feel a surge in my warrior blood and increase my pace. Can’t let this fucker get away.
The Wolf crosses the street and I see umbrellas ahead. It’s an outdoor café, tables covered in wide Cinzano umbrellas. I get up on the sidewalk as the Wolf skirts the first table and grabs the next one, crashing it and umbrella to the sidewalk. I cut between the parked cars back into the street.
A woman screams and a gunshot echoes. The picture window of the café explodes and I spot the Wolf jumping behind a parked car. The window of the car to my left shatters and I see yellow flashes as he fires at me. I leap behind a van across the street, take to the far sidewalk, and go belly down as more slugs hit the van. I crawl forward and slip behind an SUV. It’s big enough for me to look under, but I can’t see the Wolf’s position from here.
Six more shots ring out.
Jesus, I hope he’s not shooting people in the café! I tell headquarters where we are, steeling myself as I get up and move forward as fast as I can, the parked car shielding me.
When I reach the vehicle directly across from the Wolf’s position, a marked police car skids to a stop at the far corner, lights flashing, siren wailing. I take in a deep breath, let half of it out, and peek from between the cars.
The Wolf’s on his haunches, looking at the police car. I raise my Beretta as he lifts his weapon, sticks it in his mouth, and shoots himself. He falls face forward, half in the street.
The cops alight from their car. I wave at them as I cross the street.
“He shot himself!” I call out as the patrol officers approach, guns drawn.
“Check the people in the café,” I tell them. “Make sure no one’s hurt and make sure no one leaves! They’re witnesses.”
The two move off as another police car screeches up. I put out a code four on my radio, then ask to have the homicide supervisor, the crime lab, the coroner’s office, and Jodie Kintyre join us.
As I holster my Beretta, the Wolf’s body twitches and I yank out my knife, then laugh at myself, which draws curious looks from the two cops. I feel someone move up behind me and turn to see Juanita Cruz’s wide eyes. She’s in T-shirt and jeans too, her hair down. Her lips tremble as she stares at me and says, “You are the Raven.”
I stop myself from snapping at her when I kneel next to the Wolf and check his throat, trying to find a pulse in his carotid artery, not that it’ll do him much good with most of his brains on the sidewalk. I find no pulse and calmly slice off a chuck of his hair to slip into my pocket. Juanita’s eyes are huge and I see I’ve nicked the Wolf’s forehead with my knife. I feel his warm blood on my fingers.
Slipping my knife back into its sheath, I rub my eyes with my clean hand. When I blink them open, I spot several uniformed men whispering to one another, nodding toward me.
Jodie comes on the air asking me, “Is the subject 10-7?” (Out of service — permanently.)
“10-4. 29-S.” I make sure to tell her he killed himself.
“I’m in route.” She sounds relieved that I didn’t have to shoot anyone.
I call out to the first officer who’d arrived, asking if anyone in the café was hurt. He shakes his head as I turn to the sound of running feet behind me. Lt. Merten lumbers up, sees the body, and looks at me, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath.
I raise both hands and tell him, “I never fired a shot.”
He nods and leans both hands against the nearest car.
“You... all right?”
“Yeah.”
Juanita stands stone-stiff above the Wolf’s body, staring down at it. I lean close and ask if she’s okay.
“This doesn’t make me feel any better,” she says.
Boy, do I know that feeling.
She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I can feel the emotions raging through her tight face. Suddenly, a gust of wind washes over us from the river, a warm summer breeze that rustles Juanita’s hair. She peers up at the sun, closing her eyes as it touches her face.
When she opens her eyes, I ask, “How’d you get here so fast?”
“I remembered how he’d broken into Kim’s and decided to check on Bessie’s apartment.”
“Me too.” I reach over and spread the Wolf’s blood on Juanita’s face in two stripes, painting her like a good plains warrior, the obsidian knife suddenly heavy on my belt. Her eyes grow wide with comprehension. I nod and repeat, “Me too,” adding the word she’s been looking for, “partner.”
Juracán
by R. Narvaez
San Juan, Puerto Rico
There must be more dead dogs on the side of the road in Puerto Rico than anywhere else in the world. The strays must go out of their way to kill themselves there. Or maybe Puerto Ricans just don’t like dogs. I was in a cramped rental car, driving my three aunts to my cousin’s wedding in Ponce. It was a ten-minute ride, and I’d already seen four dog carcasses. Tongues hanging out. Guts. Blood. It took some of the buzz off.
“Qué pasó con los jodios peros en la highway?” I asked.
“Se dice perrrrros,” my Titi Juana said.
“Perrrrrros,” I tried.
“Perros,” Titi Gloria said.
Then Tía Nidia said, “No sé, mi amor. Toda la gente maneja como loco aquí.”
I could see how the roads in PR could drive you crazy. There wasn’t always a traffic light where you needed it. A lot of the blacktop hugged the sides of mountains and were crazy-narrow so that your sideview mirror hung over a thousand-foot drop into nothing but jungle. Still everyone on the island seemed to drive fast.
But no one honked. They might not like dogs in PR, but they sure as hell were polite.
“Por favor, mi amor, maneja más rápido,” Titi Juana said.
My aunts giggled about something I didn’t follow. I wondered if the reception would have an open bar.
The church was dark, big. Polished pews. Bleeding Christ. The ceremony in Spanish. I spent the time shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
At the reception, I went right to the bar. The drinks weren’t free, so when the bartender poured, I told him, “Más. Chin más,” and he was cool about it. I tipped him a couple of bucks.
At the table, my aunts gossiped, and I tried to listen, nodded a lot, and laughed when I thought I should. I knew everyone at our table except one woman. She had black hair cut straight across the forehead. Copper skin, broad cheeks, thick, dark lips. She sat alone, except for a gift bag in the seat next to her. It was decorated with a coquí wearing a straw hat. I got up and walked around to her side.
“Quieres que yo lo puse ésto con los otros regalos?” I asked, standing over her.
“Qué dices?” she replied, looking up with her eyes.
I gestured to show what I meant. Gift bag. Gift table.
“Grácias, pero es algo diferente,” she said and looked down at her manicure.
“No sweat,” I said and took a seat next to her. “Me manejó aquí esta noche y vió una cosa... rara. Vió, como, cuatro perros en la highway — muertos. It was crazy.”
She laughed, covering her teeth like some women do, then shook her head to herself. I hadn’t been trying to be funny. She looked completely away from me. I got the hint and so I bounced and went back to the bar.
Some people gave some speeches. I went outside for a smoke. The moon looked like my grandmother’s glaucoma eye.