Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

and then gasped. “Life’s funnier than shit. You know what I’m saying? My mother’s going to be all over your ass, Fonesca. Jesus, it hurts. Am I going to die?”
    “Yes, but so am I. You’re not going to die for a while.”
    “You know how to make Christmas come early, don’t you Fonesca?”
    “Ambulance is on the way,” I said.
    “You ever been shot at, Fonesca?”
    “Yes.”
    “When?”
    “A few times.”
    “Last time?”
    “This morning.” An actor took that pellet in the eye.
    There was no doubt where the pellet had entered Darrell, just below the left shoulder blade. The hole was small, the T-shirt was definitely ruined. There was blood dripping from the wound, but it didn’t look as if anything vital had been hit.
    Police headquarters was, at maximum, a five-minute drive from where Darrell lay bleeding. Viviase made it in three, and somewhere in the distance an ambulance siren cut through the twilight.

 
     
     
     
     
4
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    T HE EMERGENCY ROOM TRIAGE NURSE , a wiry thin woman with wiry thin straw-colored hair, looked up at me and said, “You’re back, Mr. . . .”
    “Fonesca.”
    “Are you . . . ?”
    “I’m fine. I’m here about Darrell Caton. He was brought in here by ambulance a few minutes ago.”
    “What’s your relationship to him?”
    “I’m his big brother,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
    She looked from me to Ames to Victor and said, “He’s being ta k en care of by a doctor. His mother is on the way. Just have a seat.”
    We had a seat.
    That was when Victor told his story.
    “I took your bicycle from under the stairs,” he said.
    “Okay.”
    “I went after the shooter, who I saw running from behind the house across the street. He was carrying a rifle.”
    “What were you planning to do?” asked Ames.
    “I don’t know.”
    In a seat across from us, a drunk cradled a limp arm with his good arm like a baby. He snorted in half sleep.
    “You chased him,” I said, getting Victor back on track.
    “He ran down Laurel. When I turned the corner onto the street . . .”
    “Laurel,” I said.
    Victor knew almost nothing about Sarasota geography. He had spent most of his time in town squatting in my two former rooms.
    “What’d he look like?” Ames asked.
    “I don’t know, it was starting to get dark. He was a block away. He opened a car door, threw the rifle inside, climbed in, and started to drive away when I was about forty yards from him.”
    “He got away,” said Ames with a touch of disapproval.
    “He drove west. I followed him. I don’t know where we went. North, I think, then west again. He ran a light on Oxbay . . .”
    “Osprey,” said Ames.
    Victor nodded.
    “Ran a light and then went way over the speed limit. I would have caught him on Fruit Street.”
    “Fruitville,” I said.
    “He went right through without stopping, almost hit a couple,” said Victor. “I stopped.”
    “Why?” asked Ames.
    I knew. Victor had killed my wife in a hit-and-run accident. He didn’t want to be the cause of another hit-and-run.
    “You get a license plate number?” I asked.
    The drunk across from us snorted louder than he had the first time. He was definitely asleep when he grunted, “Can there be any doubt in the mind of the jurors?”
    Then he slumped over on his left side.
    “No,” said Victor. “I think it was a dark-colored Nissan. Late model. As he crossed Fruitville, he went under a streetlight. I’m sure he gave me the finger.”
    “When we find him,” said Ames evenly, “I shoot him.”
    “Ames . . .” I began.
    “He shot the boy,” said Ames. “Could have killed him if Victor here didn’t keep him from tumbling down the stairs.”
    “He was aiming for me.”
    “More’s the reason,” said Ames.
    “No,” said Victor. “No killing.”
    “I’ll not kill him,” said Ames. “I’ll just give him some sense of what it feels like to get shot in the eye or the back.”
    “No,” said Victor.
    The drunk roused