If enough heads turned, I told myself, maybe Noehring would think twice about taking his hands out of his pockets. In the meantime, running was always a good idea. It’s harder to shoot a moving target.

I tightly gripped the handle of the dolly and half-turned toward the trail leading to the exit. Before I could move, before I could scream, Noehring’s hands jerked out of his pockets. His arms flew open and his back arched and twisted to his left as if he had been punched in the shoulder. He stumbled a few feet toward me. His head snapped violently forward, his chin bouncing off his chest, and he collapsed to his knees. His body kept twisting to the side as he fell against the ice, sliding a few feet.

The dark shape that had been following close behind Noehring quickly pivoted and went off in the opposite direction, not running, but not strolling either.

I had not heard a sound.

My instinct was to hasten to Noehring’s side. I fought against it. I was responsible for the money, and this could have been a diversion in an attempt to take it away from me. Instead, I looked around, never letting go of the dolly’s handle. No one was running, no one was behaving oddly; there were no neon arrows pointing at anyone and flashing KILLER. I started jogging toward the park’s exit, pulling the dolly and its weighty cargo behind me. I slipped several times going up the hill. I heard a woman make a low scream as if she were loosening up her throat for a much louder one. When it came—and yes, it was loud indeed—I glanced briefly behind me. A small group of people was gathering around Noehring’s prone body. I continued climbing the hill.

I paused when I reached the exit. It was much brighter there. Cars cruised through the intersection of Willow and Fifteenth Street. Pedestrians crossed at the stoplight. I glanced behind me. No one seemed to be following, yet that didn’t convince me to slow down. I jogged across Willow, dodging traffic. I rolled the dolly to the Audi, maneuvering between my rear bumper and the front bumper of the vehicle parked behind me. Once there, I hit the button on my remote. The trunk popped open; the inside light flared.

I did not realize anyone had been lurking there until a man appeared on the narrow path that cut through the mound of snow pushed up against the boulevard.

“Don’t move,” he said.

A gloved hand seized the handle of the dolly.

“I’ll take that.”

I saw the gun first. The trunk light reflected off a lightweight 9 mm manufactured by FN Herstal in the good ol’ USA, if that means anything to you. I always thought of it as a girl’s gun but kept the opinion to myself. Next I saw the grinning face of Tommy, Heavenly’s muscle, the one who had insulted me in the van. Screw it, I thought, the FNP-9 is a girl’s gun.

Tommy shook the handle of the dolly.

“Let go, McKenzie,” he said. “I’ll shoot you. I will.”

When I didn’t release my grip he raised the gun so that it was pointed at my face.

I released the dolly and slapped his hand to the left so the gun was pointing at nothing. I punched him in the throat just as hard as I could. He made a gurgling sound as I followed with an elbow to his mouth. I grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. He fell against the dolly, knocking it over. Dropping his gun, he brought one hand to his throat and tried to punch me with the other. I ducked under the blow, grabbed his upper arm, twisted to my left, and used his momentum to heave him over my hip and throw him into the street.

He never saw the car that hit him, that drove his head against the ice-packed asphalt.

The 911 operator was confused. I tried to explain that I needed both police and an ambulance at Willow Street across from Loring Park. I gave her the address of the brownstone apartment building. I even told her where I was in relation to the coffeehouse. She kept insisting that someone else had already called about the incident in the park and police had been dispatched. I told her that this was a different matter and that it occurred outside the park. She didn’t seem to believe me. Possibly she was flustered by the young woman screaming a few feet away from me, the one who kept repeating, “It was an accident. He fell in front of my car.” Or perhaps it was the deep baritone of the brother on the sidewalk who was telling the woman—and anyone else who cared to listen—that it wasn’t her fault. “He didn’t fall. He was pushed.”

Finally, “Let’s try this,” I said into the mic of my cell phone. “An officer is down.”

“What?” the operator said.

“The man who was shot in Loring Park was a police officer. The man who shot him is lying in the middle of Willow Street.”

“Shit,” the operator said, which might not have been a very professional thing to say but hardly something you’d hold against her.