“Shithead!” she screamed. She saw him race through the back door, heard the popping sound of gunshot. She staggered over to the back door, felt cool air fill her nostrils, but knew she was losing it. A moment later, Benko was helping her down.

“Chrissakes!” he was yelling. “Stay put, Detective.”

“Did they get him?” Marge cried out.

“Got away,” an officer told her. “He fired shots, Detective. They’re after him—”

“Get him, Charlie!” Marge was sobbing, holding her palms against her head. Blood was oozing from her fingers, seeping out of her hands. “Get the fucker!”

“Just as soon as help—”

“Go get the fucker!” Marge demanded through tears. The pain was searing through her head. “Now!”

Benko ran outside.

Officers on foot scouring the block. Above came the crackle of helicopter blades—a giant flashlight from above. Dawn was adding color to the pepper-tinted sky. People were milling outside their houses, covering pajama-clad bodies with worn terry-cloth bathrobes, feet stuffed into slippers. Unshaven men with messy hair looked confused, the women gossiped. The approaching wheeeee of an ambulance cut through the early morning air as shrilly as an alarm clock.

Benko scratched his head and wondered in what direction Miller had taken off.

“Sunnabitch,” he heard himself mutter.

A shriek came from his right. The front yard of the house next door. “Over here!” yelled one of the officers.

Benko charged in that direction. “Where?” he asked.

“In the bushes,” the officer said. He had his weapon drawn, but stood at a safe distance. “I thought I saw something move in the Eugenias.”

“Careful, he’s got a gun,” Benko said.

“I know that,” the uniformed officer said. His name tag said Van Horn.

Benko took a step forward, a big enough step to feel the wind of a bullet whiz by his temple. He hit the ground and swore. “It’s over, Miller!” he shouted.

“The fuck you think!” a gravelly voice shouted back.

“Charlie!” screamed a feminine voice. “Charlie, are you okay?”

Benko picked his head up, saw the outline run toward him.

“Dotty, get the fuck down!” he hollered. “He’s hidden in the bushes, and he’s got a gun.”

“You asshole!” Dotty stood, shrieking at the bushes.

Another pop of the revolver.

Benko cursed as he crawled toward her, tried to yank her down, but she pulled away.

“You fucking son of a bitch, bastard asshole!” Dotty jackrabbited forward, diving into the shrubbery.

“Nooooo!” Benko screamed, running after her.

Leaves burst into the overcast air, a cloud of foliage, as if someone had punched a hole into a feather pillow. Another pop, followed by high-pitched shrieks.

“Dotty!” Benko shouted.

“Son of a bitch!” Dotty screamed. “I’ll kill you!”

A cluster of men volleyed into the shrubbery, bodies piling on top of one another. Benko felt some arms flail on his chest. Grabbing the limbs, he pulled them upward, saw what he’d fished out and grinned.

Grand-slam homer.