Tail Spin

see Dane fire at nearly the same time that Perky did. The world slowed to a crawl. Dane’s bullet slammed hard into her right shoulder, knocking her sideways onto the down escalator. Perky grabbed for the railing but her fingers couldn’t make purchase. Dane watched her slowly sink down onto the moving steps. He ran up to her, grabbed the long flowy black sleeve of her dress but it ripped off in his hands as her body spilled out onto the floor, her black skirt twisting around her thin body, her long black wig pulled half off her head, long blond hair spilling out. She lay motionless. Savich knew she must be covered in blood from the wound in her shoulder, hut he couldn’t see any. The blood soaked into the black. Black on black.
    Her gun, where was her gun? “Dane,” Savich yelled. “I don’t see her gun! She’s dangerous. Everyone, stay put!”
    Dane jerked back, but Perky was fast. She twisted up onto her back, gun in hand, to fire up at him. Ollie, coming at her from the other side, shot her in her gun arm. The gun went skittering down the science fiction aisle. She cried out, then fell onto her back and was quiet.
    “Okay, okay,” Savich said, “it’s over. Everyone stay back.”
    Sherlock was on her knees beside Perky, flattening her hand against the wound in her shoulder. “She’s alive, but we’ve got to get the bleeding under control. Give me your tie. Let’s knot it tight over the wound. Come on, Perky, don’t you dare die on me!”
    Dane said, his words coming fast, tripping over themselves, “Backup is here. Ollie, you take care of that. I’ll call an ambulance. Oh yeah, that was a great shot, thanks for saving my very grateful self”
    Savich said, “Keep calming everyone down, help get them out. The manager, Steve Olson, is a friend, and he’s solid. Help him, but let him handle what he wants to; it’ll help focus him if he’s in charge. Assure him it is indeed over. Sherlock, keep everyone back from this area.”
    Sherlock was now wrapping Dane’s tie over the wound in Perky’s arm.
    Her black Goth shirt was soaked in blood, so much of it and she was so thin. How much blood could that thin body have in it? All bones, Sherlock thought, she is all bones.
    Savich turned to look down at Perky. He realized the girl he’d thought was maybe twenty, twenty-two at most, hadn’t seen twenty in a couple of decades. This was Perky, and she was forty, at least. He came down on his knees and tightened the tie around her wound. Okay, the blood was beginning to slow. He pressed on the wound though it was bleeding only sluggishly. She had a chance.
    Where were the EMTs? She would be all right, she had to be. She was the only one who could tell them who hired her to kill Rachael.
    When the paramedics arrived two minutes later, the FBI had the customers in pretty good control, but the EMTs still had to weave their way with their equipment through a crowd of people, some of whom were now crying.
    Savich tried to keep the area clear, but some people were trying to crowd close, see the blood and gore, because that’s the way some people were. More’s the pity, there was plenty to see. He told the paramedics about her wounds.
    An older woman, brisk, calm, her breath smelling of lemons, fastened an oxygen mask on Perky’s nose. Then she studied Perky’s shoulder, removed the tie, and wrapped a pressure bandage around it. “Bad,” she said, “but with what you guys have done, she should make it.” She jumped to her feet. “Okay, guys, let’s get her onto the gurney.” Savich had to smile because all the paramedics on this crew were female. Perky’s black wig fell off when they lifted her.
    The paramedics were soon out the front door with Perky strapped down on a gurney, her black skirts hanging down on either side, her black boots hanging free of the white sheet. Steve was directing his clerks to take care of the customers. One young girl, who looked pale and shocky, was wandering around the first floor, pausing to pick up a fallen book and trying to reshelve it.
    The customers were walking slowly out of what would become a famous bookstore for the next three months. Savich walked over to Steve Olson, the manager, but he couldn’t shake his hand, his were covered with Perky’s blood. He turned to look around the bookstore. “I’m sorry about this, Steve, didn’t mean for this to happen. You did good, thank you. Sherlock is calling our boss, and he’ll send FBIpeople down here to