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spots behind pillars. Helms made
the scene first, came around the ball delivery and eyeballed the
limp body. Male, just shy of six feet, probably over 200 pounds.
Lying face down, not moving, no blood or signs of serious injury.
Likely just unconscious. The priority here was Jackson and his
assailant.
     
    The attacker was straddling Jackson, his
back to Helms, one hand locked on Jackson’s throat, the other
fighting off Jackson’s frantic grabs toward his face. Jackson tried
to kick out of the hold, and the pair rolled into the gutter,
shifting position so Helms could see the assailant’s face.
     
    Shit, it was Joe Greene.
     
    He was a troublemaker and a bit of a prick,
sure, but he never took an argument beyond a little dust-up, and
usually apologized by buying the other guy a beer afterward.
Besides, he always cowed like a scolded schoolboy when the cops
showed up. But he wasn’t just resisting arrest here – Jackson was
pouring blood from his left eye, teeth smashed through his lips –
this was attempted murder .
     
    “Police!” Helms tried, knowing it was
pointless.
     
    Helms looked to Hughes. He was trying to
back up the stairs to the concession stand, but he couldn’t take
his wide, unfocused eyes off the fight long enough to get his
footing. He had his gun drawn, but pointed in the air, weaving back
and forth above the commotion.
     
    Shellshocked.
     
    She called out ‘police’ and ‘on the ground’
one more time, then let off and focused on moving into position to
cover Price. If she’d been alone, she would have had to try to
wrestle Joe Greene off, but she knew Price was stronger, and he
knew she was the better shot. It didn’t need to be said. Price had
holstered his weapon and was running in low, hoping to use the
momentum to knock Greene loose from Jackson’s throat. He caught
Greene hard around the waist, and they rolled into the next lane,
freeing Jackson, who immediately started crawling away, down the
lane toward the pins.
     
    Greene didn’t seem to understand that he’d
been grabbed from behind. He was making no effort to break out of
it, his eyes still locked on Jackson and the ragged trail of blood
he left in his wake. Greene was kicking his legs, thrashing and
clawing wildly at the air, but making absolutely no effort to pry
Price’s hands from around his midsection. Price scooted backward
across the lane until he reached the far side of the alley, then
levered Greene up and swung him face first into the wall. He pulled
one of Greene’s arms down around his back, but couldn’t get a hold
of the other. Helms holstered her gun and ran to help. She put her
weight into Greene’s shoulder and twisted his free arm downward.
She held it in place while Price finished cuffing him, then made
the mistake of looking into Greene’s face.
     
    His eyes were beyond bloodshot. Dried white
flakes ran down each cheek, like he’d been crying for days. He
bared his teeth and snapped at Helms over and again. He screamed
gibberish, a raging staccato bark that seemed to be trying to form
words, but never quite made it.
     
    “RAAAH,” Greene gnashed his teeth and beat
his own face against the wall, “RAH GRA HEM NO IMHE HOA RAAAA!”
     
    Price grabbed him by the hair and held his
head back so he wouldn’t bash his own skull in; Greene spasmed and
struggled harder. Together, Helms and Price managed to trip him up
and bring him down. She ziptied one ankle, then the other, and then
the two together. Price held a knee in his back and hauled on his
shoulders so she could hook the handcuffs and the ankle zips
together, leaving Greene hogtied. She knew it was dangerous to bind
a person like that for long, but Jesus – look at him. He was still
snapping at anything that came near his face, though his eyes never
left Jackson.
     
    Shit. Jackson.
     
    Helms jogged down the lane and ducked her
head under the pinsetter, where Jackson’s blood trail led.
     
    “Jackson!” She called out. “Jackson,