Chase: Roman

Judge said. As he spoke, he began to turn, and on the last word he grabbed something from the top of the television set.
        Too late, Chase saw that it was the pistol. He did not see how he could have overlooked something like that. He must have gotten far more out of practice than he had thought. Or he had chosen to ignore it for some reason that escaped his conscious mind. He stepped forward as Judge brought the weapon up, the grey tube of the homemade silencer still attached, but he did not move quite fast enough. The bullet took him in the left shoulder and twisted him sideways, off balance and into the floor lamp.
        He fell over, taking the lamp with him. Both bulbs smashed when they struck the floor, plunging the room into near total darkness that was relieved only by the weak light from distant streetlamps that managed to filter through the heavy drapes.
        ‘Are you dead?’ Judge asked.
        His shoulder felt as if a nail had been driven into it, and his entire arm was numb. He could feel blood running down his side, but he did not want to reach over and explore the seriousness of the wound - first, because he did not want to know if it was a bad one, and second, because he preferred that Judge think he was either dead or dying.
        ‘Chase?’
        Chase waited.
        Judge stepped away from the television, bent forward as he tried to make out Chase's body in the jumble of shadows and furniture. Chase could not tell for certain, but he thought the man was holding the pistol straight out in front of him, like a teacher holding a pointer toward the blackboard. That was good. That made him more vulnerable
        ‘Chase?’
        Chase forced his wounded arm off the floor as if it were a dead weight of some size, bent it at the elbow and laid the palm flat against the carpet as he had already done with his other hand. He felt weak, shaking all over, his stomach like a knotted rag, perspiration pouring from his face and along the length of his spine. He knew that most of the problem was shock, and that when he made his move he would have the necessary strength to overcome that.
        ‘How's our hero now?’ Judge asked. Apparently he had stopped crying, for there was low, pleased laughter in his voice. ‘Are you planning on getting your name in the paper again?’ He laughed out loud now and took another step forward.
        Chase pushed himself up and launched forward at Judge's feet, ignoring the scream of pain in his shoulder. He came in under the barrel of the pistol that Judge still held out before him like an old woman searching for a burglar.
        The pistol fired, the whoosh of the silencer clearly audible in such close quarters; the bullet shattered something at the other end of the room but came nowhere near Chase.
        They went backward into the television set, which Judge caught with his hips and knocked from its stand. It struck the wall and then the floor with two solid thumps, though the screen did not break. Unable to complete the backward fall because of the obstacles, Judge was overbalanced the other way and crashed down on Chase. The pistol flew from his hand and rattled against the wooden feet of the easy chair. He tried to scramble after it, but Chase had a good hold on him and did not intend to let go.
        Chase rolled and carried Judge over with him, assumed the top position and quickly drove his knee into Judge's crotch. Linski cried out, though his scream settled abruptly into a strained gasp of pain. He attempted to heave up and throw Chase loose, but he could not manage more than a weak, fluttered protest. He was crying again.
        Chase's wounded shoulder throbbed from his having rolled on it, and it felt as if the bones must have rotted beneath the flesh. Despite the pain, he reached forward with both hands, found the correct pressure points on Judge's neck and bore down with his thumbs long enough to be certain that the killer was unconscious. When he stood up, swaying back and forth like a drunkard, Linski remained on the floor, his hands still spread at his sides, now like a bird that had fallen out of the sky and had broken its back on a thrust of rock.
        Chase wiped at his face, flicked the sweat from his fingers. His stomach, knotted only minutes ago, had loosened too quickly, like a greased rope curling on itself, and he felt as if he might be sick. He could not afford that luxury.
        Outside, a car full