Dickerson got his foot free. He kicked Ramsey hard in his wounded shoulder. Pain ripped through him and he fell back into the water.
He saw, as if from a great distance, Molly’s white face, saw her raise her sneakered foot, saw her smash her sneakered foot into Dickerson’s face just when he reached the top of the ladder. The force of her kick knocked Dickerson back. He scrambled wildly, trying to keep hold of the ladder, but the ancient rotting wood collapsed, each step crumbling when his weight hit it. Dickerson went flailing into the water, crashing beside him, struggling frantically, choking up water, trying to find the ladder whose rungs now hung down drunkenly. This time Ramsey had him around the neck and he never intended to let go. Dickerson was waving the gun around, yelling, water filling his mouth, still yelling, only it was gurgling now, and Ramsey felt him weakening. It was just a matter of which of them lasted longer now.
Ramsey felt the god-awful pain in his shoulder, the uselessness of his arm. He shuddered with the force of it, felt the pain pulling at him, felt light-headed and dizzy. But he didn’t let Dickerson go. He only squeezed harder. Dicker-son was twisting wildly, trying to turn the gun toward him. He tried to bring up his useless arm, but it just hung at his side, blood streaking down it, plastering his shirt to his flesh, hurting so badly his teeth were clenched. He was squeezing now as hard as he could. Why didn’t Dickerson go down? Of course it was the force of the waves that prevented it. He couldn’t get enough leverage. The gun waved in the air around them.
It didn’t seem at all strange to him when he saw Molly scoot off the edge of the wharf to land in the water next to him. A moment later he thought he’d die of fear. He saw her grab Dickerson’s arm, grab his wrist, and pull with all her might.
Dickerson screamed and yelled, but it didn’t matter. Molly had the gun now. He saw her face was white, deadening fury in her eyes, saw her raise the gun to Dickerson’s face, not a foot away from him. She was going to kill him. He realized in that moment that the last thing he ever wanted in his life was to have Molly kill another human being.
He said, “Don’t shoot him, Molly, you might hit me. I’ve got him around the neck. See? I’ve got him. He’s not going anywhere. It’s all over for him. Please don’t shoot.”
She blinked, the blank rage receding. Dickerson heaved, shoving his elbow into Ramsey’s stomach. The vicious surging water suddenly backlashed, shoving against them, giving Dickerson more power rather than slowing the force of his arm. Ramsey’s hold loosened and Dickerson jerked free. He grabbed for the gun in Molly’s hand.
There was a shot, wild, nearly straight up. Molly was heaving and struggling, but he was still on her. Ramsey kicked forward with his remaining strength to help her. God, he’d been a bloody fool to save the man’s life. He was a fool and he was also losing. He heard Emma screaming his name.
Then there were two men in the water, and all of them were grabbing for that gun. When the gun went off another time, no one knew who had it, who had fired it.
All any of them knew was that there was an unconscious man on his face in the water, red streaked water flowing from beneath his body.
Ramsey said to the two men, “It’s about time you two showed up. I’d just about given up on you.”
LIEUTENANT McPherson, of the MPD, a man whose face had come into focus just a couple of minutes before, said quietly, “Don’t worry about anything, Judge Hunt. You’re in Monterey. You’re in a hospital room. The doctor and nurse just left before you woke up. You’re going to make it, no problem. The only reason I’m here right now is I thought you’d want to know about Dickerson. He’s still in surgery. The docs don’t know if he’ll make it. The bullet got him right in the chest. It’s just too soon to know.”