Witness To Death - Dave White

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elbow to the jaw and went down.

      “John, go!” he barked.

      Frank turned toward the first officer who was still watching his gun skitter across the concrete. John ran behind them and paused for a second to watch. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed one of the onlookers holding out his open cell phone, aimed toward them as if he were taking a picture.

      Oh no.

      “John, the ferry!”

      John’s head snapped up and he started to run again. Frank must have flattened the other cop, because when John turned to glance over his shoulder, he saw Frank sprinting right behind him.

      The ferry horns sounded as John clattered up the metal ramp. He stepped on to the ferry just as it was pulling away from the dock. Frank must have had to jump a few feet, as John heard the thunk of his feet against the floor behind him. It appeared there were only two others on board.

      The boat rocked once to the left, and John felt as if a rubber band had tightened across his chest. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. A deep breath through the nose. In his mind he saw one of Frank’s bullets rip into a trenchcoat’s chest. His saliva tasted sour. John took a few steps to the middle of the boat and collapsed on to a bench.

      He watched Frank lean against the railing, twenty feet away, phone pressed to his ear.

      He heard the water slapping off the sides of the boat. It reminded John of the gunfire. Dark clouds formed at the corner of his vision. His temples throbbed.

      He stared between his knees at the cracked floor. The boat looked like it was in need of refurbishing. He saw Frank’s shoe in between his feet. Frank must have come over from the railing.

      But when Frank spoke, it sounded like he was miles away. “What were you doing back there?”

      John leaned forward and tucked his knees behind his wrists. Rocked once.

      “This was a bad idea,” he heard himself say.

      “Yeah, no kidding.”

      Who was that talking? The ground dissolved into a pool of red washing over his shoes. He imagined Frank killing that guy on the train, blood everywhere, the screaming. The body going limp.

      “This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea,” John repeated.

      “Did you at least see which way the Arab guy went? I needed to talk to him. Did you see where he ran?”

      John didn’t say anything, just rocked back and forth.

      “Okay.” He heard the voice again. “Okay. It’s fine. Come on. You need some air.”

      He felt himself standing again, and looked up. Frank was pulling John to his feet as the floor rocked underneath him.

      John was walking out from the center of the boat toward the starboard side. The ferry canted left and John felt his knees lock. He watched one of the other passengers lose his balance and fall into a pole to keep himself up. John went down like one of the men struck by the bullets.

      So many people dead.

      And now Frank was dragging him to the ferry’s edge. Toward the water. To do what? Dump him in? Get rid of another witness? He could see the dark water sparkle under the lights from the skyscrapers.

      The water.

      John’s muscles went tight and he froze. The slapping of the water against the ferry was louder. The gunshots went off in John’s head. The edge of the boat came closer. John could see water now. The dead men of the night faded into Hannah’s face, eyes open wide in horror.

      More death.

      “No,” John said. “No. Let’s go sit. I need to sit.”

      “Breathe,” Frank said. “It’s going to be okay.”

      “Not here. Not here. This was a bad idea.”

      Frank looked over his shoulder toward the Hudson.

      “Oh,” he said. “The water. Okay. Let’s go sit.”

      He pulled John back to the bench, and they both sat. John bent over his knees again and fought the urge to start rocking. He felt Frank’s hand on his back, not rubbing, just there as if to keep him steady. The sour taste in John’s mouth started to fade.

      “All right,” Frank said. He sounded a lot closer now. “I know it’s hard. Death is never easy to see. Not like that. Listen to me, John, and I’ll get you through this.”

      John closed his eyes again, trying to regain his equilibrium. When he did, the images of death flooded back to him, and he had to open his eyes again. He stared at the floor, looked at a small clump of mud. The smell of salt and garbage from the river crowded the air.

      “I want you to focus on something,” Frank said. “Look at the back of your hand. Focus on your knuckles.”

      John did. He looked at the back of his right hand. The dry knuckles, cracked underneath his middle finger. The small brown mole near his third knuckle. The burning in his cheeks started to cool. He could feel the soft breeze on them. He took a deep breath, and the air finally filled his lungs.

      “You have to realize, John, it was them or us.”

      “You shot them!” John felt the tightness coming back to his chest. He snapped his body straight up against the bench.

      “I know. I had no choice.”

      “What’s going on? Why were you there?”

      The ferry horn blew again. They were pulling into the dock. The ferry was slowly backing into its port. In a few minutes, they’d be back on solid ground. John closed his eyes tight and breathed through his nose. The images of the dead didn’t come this time.

      “You all right, John? You going to be okay?” Frank finally took his hand off John’s back.

      John nodded, trying to breathe like a runner. In through the nose, out through the mouth. His shrink was going to have a field day with this. She might actually call the crazy house on him.

      “Good,” Frank said. “Because as soon as we get off this boat, we’re going to go to a bar and get you a drink.”

      “What about the police? When we dock.”

      Frank blew air out his nose. “I called in a bomb threat across the street. That’ll distract them. Let’s get a drink.”

      A drink sounded perfect right about now.

      “And then, you’re going to tell me why you were following me.”

      Ashley MacDonald’s heart was still pounding as she stared out of her windshield.

      She wrapped her hands around the keys, which were still in the ignition, and pulled a little. Then she lost her grasp on the handle, and the keys fell on to the mat at her feet. She reached down and picked them up. Her hands shook as she restarted the car.

      She remembered the afternoon before she and John took that weekend trip to Philly. How she sat in her car for half an hour before leaving to pick him up. She wanted to look great, she didn’t want to embarrass herself or John in public. It was their first weekend away, and she went over every possible faux pas in her head. Not this time. Now she just stared down the hill, past the Light Rail. Couldn’t believe what had just happened.

      The radio blared in the background, the eleven o’clock news update just starting. “With your anchor…” Some blowhard who acted like he knew everything, but probably knew nothing aside from what the copy said. But someone the radio network thought the general public could trust.

      Can’t trust anybody, she thought.

      She lifted her purse off the passenger

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