Page 7 of Split Screen Scream
“Right,” the officer said.
Mr. Tindal waited in silence as the officer disarmed him and looked at the gun.
Reed facedthe wall and waited for the officer to follow procedure. Now that the police were here, he could stand down. He waited as the officer disarmed him and thoughts of Christie ran through his head.
As Reed had watched Christie appraisingly, he’d reassessed his first impression of her. It was always a make or break moment, especially for civilians who’d never seen this kind of thing before. Most people were much more capable than they thought, and it always cheered him to see them realize it. This petite, throwback blonde had done better than many sailors he’d seen reacting to carnage their first time. She listened well, didn’t question what had to be done, and did it to the best of her ability.
Maybe she isn’t as much of a “take care of me” type female as she appears to be. She hadn’t fallen apart. She’d followed directions without getting emotional. Though not the “Step up, I’ll take care of things myself” type of female, perhaps there’s more to her than just her looks and femininity.She’s willing and capable of taking care of others.
Now she intrigued him. He wanted to get to know her better, find out more about her. However, this wasn’t the time. He waited for the officer to finish.
His Sig Sauer P229 had been properly decocked, and the hammer was down. The officer had only to unload it. “I’ve also got a knife on my ankle,” he said, knowing a pat down was the procedure and it was best to tell where any weapons were so he could be disarmed.
“Thank you,” the officer said after patting him down and removing the knife. “You can turn around now.”
“Thanks,” Reed said. He’d expected all this and wasn’t concerned by it. Now they’d have to wait for detectives and crime scene investigators to arrive and then he’d have to answer a lot of questions. He didn’t look forward to that part and what would turn into a long night.
He glanced over to where Christie was to see how she was doing. She was sitting quietly while a female officer spoke to her. The bottom of her dress and her hose where her knees had met the bloody seat cushion were stained with blood. Too bad that sexy dress had been ruined. She looked hot in that dress.
The EMP’s were here now, bringing in stretchers for the wounded men and everyone made way for them. Wasn’t much room in a theater for two stretchers and the men were in theater seats but they made it work and soon the two men were out of the theater. Now the detectives would really get to work and the questioning would begin.
Christie never remembered much more than a blur of color and sound after it was all over. Uniformed police, white-shirted EMT’s and paramedics, detectives in business casual suits—all of them asking questions.Are you all right? Where were you sitting? What happened next? What did you hear? Did he say anything? How many shots…
She mumbled out what she could remember. There was a big gap where she’d later realize she’d been too petrified with fear to move or think.
Then after, she remembered Mr. Tindal asking for her help, handing her his phone, and the tourniquets. Following what he told her and copying what he was doing to save a life. She’d done that. She too had saved a life.
It all seemed surreal now. Hard to believe it had happened, though it had.
When there was nothing left to tell, and she’d been wrung completely dry, a detective finally gave her a business card.
“Go home and get some rest,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Christie numbly took the card, said, “Yes, sir,” and turned to leave. Someone holding the basket with all the patrons remaining cell phones held the basket out to her and asked her to find hers.
It was the only one with a pink cover. She picked it up. “That’s mine,” she said before dropping the phone in her purse without looking at it. She moved as if through a foggy night.
As she passed Mr. Tindal being questioned, she heard the detective thank him for helping. “Way I hear, it could a been a lot worse. You saved a lot of people here tonight.”
“Just doing my job.” Mr. Tindal shrugged as if this was the kind of thing he did every day. But then, maybe it was.
* * *
Christie gotbehind the wheel of her car and sat still for several minutes before moving. Inside the pale blue Chevy, it was quiet. No one was talking; no one was moving about. There were no flashing lights or people who’d been shot and needed tourniquets. There were no women screaming and no gunshots being fired. There were no more men shot and nearly dying.
The quiet in the car calmed everything in a way quiet never had, but she only briefly registered what it was doing.
She simply sat. And then, after a while, she started the car without really thinking and began the drive toward home. The red light, which reminded her to get gas, was still on.
Gas. That’s right. I need gas. Now. Won’t make it home.
She drove until she saw the first gas station on her route, one she’d never been to before, and pulled in.
Pulling up to the pump, she parked and turned off her car. Her purse had fallen off the seat onto the floor, and she unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned down to get it. Taking her purse, she reached in for her wallet, found her credit card and then got out of the car. She moved to the back of the car and opened the fuel door, then unscrewed the fuel cap and let it hang by its cord. She turned toward the pump and stopped in front of it to insert her credit card, but with her hand shaking, she missed and dropped the card on the ground.
Driving down the street,Reed saw Christie’s white dress with the red polka dots as she stood on those high red heels at the gas pump, getting ready to put gas into her car. A pale blue Chevy. She bent down to pick up something on the ground, and he got a good look at her in that dress and high heels.
What is she thinking? This is a bad area of town for a woman alone to pump gas, especially wearing an outfit like that. Every man in the gas station parking lot is watching. Damn. Didn’t she see the graffiti on the fence beside the gas station? This is the wrong station for her to be stopping at to get gas at any time of day, but especially at this time of night.
He pulled into the station behind her and turned off his car to get out.
She’d attracted the attention of a group of men who hovered at the edge of the building near a parked black mustang with dark windows and a beat-up old white van.
One man with tattoos on his neck and face gave a whistle as she bent down, and another, a tall, thin, bald-headed man with tattoos who wore a tattered jean jacket, moved toward her.
She seemed focused on the credit card, trying to insert it into the machine and failing. She didn’t seem to notice the men watching her while nudging each other, laughing as their man moved toward her.
