* * *
—
Trooper Mike Dale heard about the incident at the Owen Mann residence over his radio. A female victim, in her mid-thirties, shot in the chest. A witness claimed that a middle-aged man in a dark-blue Chevy SUV had fled the crime scene. The witness had a license-plate number. Dale drove to the Mann residence. A police car and ambulance were already on the scene. The victim was being strapped to a gurney. Owen Mann, the guy he’d seen wearing a bathrobe in Dover Cemetery not two weeks back, was standing in front of his house, still in a bathrobe, now covered in blood.
Dale approached an officer on the scene and asked the name of the victim.
“Luna. Luna Grey,” the officer said, checking his notes.
That was the name of the woman who’d found Irene Boucher, Dale thought. He didn’t know what the hell was happening. A paramedic closed the doors to the van. Lights swirled. Dale phoned Detective Burns.
* * *
—
Gregory Wells saw the police cruiser in his rearview mirror before the sirens blared and the lights flashed. He calmly clicked his right turn signal and pulled over, cutting the engine and keeping his hands visible at all times. He followed instructions as best he could, exiting the vehicle, clasping his hands behind his head. Some of the maneuvers were hard to accomplish with his hands intertwined. He lost his balance, lowering to his knees. The police told him to lie facedown on the ground. That seemed unsanitary. He tried to hover his face above the asphalt, but it hurt his neck. He told the cops that the gun was in the glove compartment. He was apprehended just fifteen minutes after the shooting.
* * *
—
Noah watched Margot answer the call. At first she seemed annoyed. Then confused, stunned, and finally angry.
“Fuck,” she said, dropping her phone to her side.
“What happened?” Noah said.
“Oh my god.”
“Margot,” Goldman said, trying to get her attention.
“Shit,” she said. “I didn’t see it.”
She was so stuck in her head, she couldn’t even see her partner.
“Margot, what the hell happened?”
“We had it wrong from the start,” Margot said.
* * *
—
Owen stood in the hospital bathroom, washing Luna’s blood off his hands. He caught his reflection in the mirror and saw more blood, red streaks on his face and T-shirt. His pallor was vaguely green. The combo had a sick yuletide feel about it.
Owen had been in the waiting room for more than an hour when those cops showed up. Burns and Goldman. They had the same inscrutable expressions. Did they teach that at the police academy? They were walking toward him. What now? he thought. It wasn’t déjà vu this time around; it was Sisyphean. He really wasn’t sure whether he could go through this again. The endless questions, the taped interviews, the murky status of not knowing if he’d be arrested or cleared or remain in limbo for an indeterminate amount of time.
Detective Burns asked Owen if he’d mind stepping outside. Owen told her that he wasn’t going to the station. He was staying with Luna. Goldman explained that they just wanted to talk in a less crowded area. Owen followed the detectives outside.
The trio huddled together in the loading zone, under an awning. The air smelled of cigarettes, gasoline, bleach. Owen didn’t want to look either cop in the eye. He was too worn out to deal with their suspicion, their judgment. He’d had enough.
“What?” Owen said.
“We got him,” Noah said.
“Who?” Owen said.
Owen never saw the gunman; he didn’t hear the car peel away. He just saw Luna on the ground, bleeding out.
“Your neighbor saw the shooter, wrote down his license plate. We got him right after that,” Burns said.
“His name is Gregory Wells,” Noah said.
“I don’t understand. Am I supposed to know that name?” Owen asked.
“His sister was Lila Wells,” Noah said.
Burns couldn’t tell if Owen registered the name or not.
“Do you know who that is?” Burns asked.
“Yes,” Owen said. “She was John Brown’s second victim.”
* * *
—
When Luna woke up, she didn’t know where she was. There were bright lights. A cloying antiseptic smell. So much beeping. What an evil alarm clock, Luna thought. A nurse leaned over her and smiled. The nurse asked a lot of stupid questions.
“What year is it?”
“It’s 2019.”
“Who is president?”
“No.”