Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

Clint didn’t see the guy’s pistol and didn’t feel compelled to look for it. It’s not as if he would ever use it
again. There was no sign of anyone around at the moment, and Clint didn’t think that there would be anyone
peeking right now. Virtually no one lived in this part of Dallas, and anyone who might have been lurking about
probably hit the ground and covered up at the thunderous ka-BOOM! of the .44. Clint got in his truck, quickly
stowed his sidearms and holsters, and drove himself toward the emergency room at Parkland Hospital.
On the way to Parkland, Clint continued applying pressure to the wound, and he tried to figure out why this
had happened. A man was dead, and that is no small matter. Regardless of circumstances, no matter the
justification, anyone who can cause the death of another human being and not feel some ambivalence about it is
one sick bastard. Normal, compassionate people just can’t feel good about killing and dying, even when killing
and dying are necessary.
This was textbook self defense, excusable homicide. The dead guy drew first; in fact, he’d gotten off the first
shot. Clint’s only choice was between the snub-nose .38 on his ankle and the .44 mag in his shoulder holster, and
that was only a choice in the most technical sense. Clint had been reaching for the big six-inch revolver when he
felt the small slug hit him in the chest, and he’d gotten off his only shot after he realized that he’d already been
shot. Could there be a clearer case of self defense?
Why had this guy come after Clint? Was it a simple robbery attempt, and had Clint merely been in the wrong
place at the wrong time, a seemingly random victim chosen by virtue of convenience alone? Or was it something
else, and had Clint himself set the wheels in motion? The more questions Clint asked, the more he realized that it
was likely that this man had been sent to kill him. If so, it had to be Mike reaching out from behind bars to exact
his revenge.
Clint’s body count was now up to five—six including the vegetable. Killing was becoming a habit, and Clint
realized that it was starting to bother him less each time. He feared that he was becoming desensitized to death,
too accustomed to killing.
As Clint neared Parkland, he wondered if his buddies would be able to make this go away as they had before.
Clint was certain that he would never be prosecuted, much less convicted, except for maybe a weapons charge.
Even so, aside from the sheer hassle of having to defend oneself in a criminal investigation and perhaps
prosecution, this was the type of problem that could derail his plans just at the time when he was beginning to
get himself together. Besides, there are certain details of one’s personal life that should remain private. Clint
hoped that those details would never come to light, his skeletons ever to remain locked away securely in some
hidden closet.
Clint parked his truck in the designated area outside the Parkland emergency room and went inside. The ER
was always pretty busy, and this night was no exception. It was a zoo. There were people all over the place,
though no one seemed ready to die. It was cold out, and many of the patients and their obvious symptoms
seemed consistent with the weather. Mostly folks were just hanging around waiting to be examined by one of the
doctors or nurses, none of whom seemed to have any sense of urgency despite the backlog.
Clint worked his way through the obstacle course to a counter behind which a nurse sat writing in a chart
and refusing to look up. After several minutes, the nurse—still writing and not looking up—finally spoke.
“May I help you?” she asked disinterestedly.
Clint answered matter-of-factly, “I seem to have a bullet in my chest.”
The nurse abruptly stopped writing and looked up for the first time. An ER nurse at Parkland would never
be surprised by a gunshot wound, but she did seem genuinely shocked that a gunshot victim could stand in front
of her and calmly mention it as if talking about the weather with a buddy.
“I think it’s a .22 or .25,” Clint continued. “It’s not very deep, but I figured I’d better keep some pressure on
it. I don’t think it will take much to fix. I’m sure one of the docs can pop it out of there and get me on my way in
no time.”
The nurse was excited but controlled as she shouted, “Doctor! Doctor! I have a gunshot over here! And
someone find that cop. Where’d he go? Is he asleep again? Someone find that cop!”
“Ma’am, there’s really no need to involve the police,” Clint said. “This was just an accident, no big deal. Just
take the bullet out, give me a tetanus shot, an antibiotic, and a Band-Aid, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Are you kidding me?” she said. “You’ve been shot! It may not be that simple, and I have to cover my ass
anyway. Where’s that cop?”