There Was a Little Girl

Начало книги

The first bullet hit Matthew Hope in the left shoulder.

The second one hit him in the chest.

He was a lawyer, and therefore subject to a deep-seated American animosity for the legal profession. But he was not normally a target for shooters. Well, he’d been shot once before, but this time hurt more than the last time. People who make movies should tell a person how much it hurts to get shot.

The last time he’d got shot, he had just shoved himself off the fender of a car and was trying to intercept a person being chased by a detective. This time, he was just coming out of a bar, in the same section of town, come to think of it, just stepping outside to see if he’d gotten the telephone message wrong — were they supposed to meet inside the bar or outside, on the sidewalk? — when all at once the shots erupted.

The last time he’d dot shot, he was still conscious when the ambulance arrived. This time there was first the searing pain and then a feeling of complete helplessness, his shoulder leaking, his shirt wet with blood, legs going weak, arms flapping, mouth gasping for air as he flailed backward through the swinging doors that led into the bar, everything swimming out of focus like in a cheap detective novel, everything getting darker and darker, and somebody screamed. People who make movies should tell a person that getting shot is so painful it causes you to scream aloud.

Читать дальше →