Midnight Haul

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Neighbors on either side heard the shots. They called the police, but Ray Turner, who was one-fourth of Greenwood, New Jersey’s P.D., had heard the shots too and was running across the grade-school playground, barren in the moonlight, his gun drawn.

It was just after midnight. Turner, tall, thin, twenty-six, was walking around the school, checking doors, poking in windows with his long-beam flash. He was moving a little slow tonight; the day had been hot and humid and the night was no better: moving through air like this was like walking underwater.

So he was a little behind schedule tonight, not that it mattered. Things in Greenwood didn’t move fast. No pressure, here. That’s what he liked about it. That’s why he’d come home to Greenwood, after an unpleasant few years as a Newark cop.

Only now he was running across the playground, the thick air grabbing at his lungs, goddamn cigarettes, gun in one hand, flash in the other, and what the fuck was that? Another shot?

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