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the gas. It slowed speed but kept going, across the street, up over the curb, and then—bang—went right into the side of another abandoned warehouse.  
    I stood still for a couple seconds, breathing hard. I looked down at the shotgun in my hands, tried to remember how many shells I’d put into it. But I knew it didn’t matter. Cashman was dead.
    Still, as I approached the pickup, I did so slowly, keeping the shotgun aimed even though I was now certain it would do me no good if I truly needed it.
    Even though it had crashed into the side of the building, Cashman still had his foot on the gas, making the engine growl.
    Stepping closer, raising the shotgun, I moved into a position where I would come up right beside the driver’s window.
    There was no movement inside. He was definitely dead.
    Keeping the shotgun aimed, I opened the door, reached in, and pulled Cashman out. His body flopped down on the ground with a dry thud. His foot no longer on the gas, the truck’s engine quit its whining and went suddenly silent.
    I stared down at him, this man who had done everything he could to get his hands on the silver ring.
    He was dead and I felt no remorse and I wondered briefly what that said about me, whether I could still be considered a good person.
    I stepped over him, climbed up into the truck, slammed the door shut. The engine had shut off so I had to turn it again and again until it finally caught. Then I backed out, glanced one last time at Cashman, and punched the gas.

 
     
     
    21
     
    I had just gotten off the expressway and was headed downtown back toward home when the police officer pulled me over.
    There was a brilliant flash in the rearview mirror, followed by a whooping siren, and then the rapidly spinning red and white lights.
    I considered my options. Trying to outrun the cop was the first thing that came to mind. But then I remembered I had done nothing wrong. If anything, a cop was exactly what I needed right now.
    Besides, the traffic light at the upcoming intersection was turning red so I had no choice but to stop anyway.
    It was as I pulled the truck over to the curb—the truck that was completely beat to hell, no wonder the cop was pulling me over—that I remembered the shotgun on the passenger seat.
    I looked at it quickly, opened my mouth, and muttered, “Oh shit.”
    “ Shut off the engine and slowly step out of the vehicle .” Apparently the officer wasn’t taking any chances after seeing the condition of the truck. “ Keep your hands where I can see them .”
    I considered my options again. Understood very quickly that I had only one.
    I shut the truck off, opened my door, and with my hands raised stepped out onto the pavement.
    “Now place your hands on the hood and do not move.”
    I stepped to the front of the truck, noticing that the hood was quite mangled. I guess in my haste I hadn’t realized just what kind of target it was going to make me.
    But this was okay, I thought as I placed my hands on the warm metal. The cop would come and I would tell my story and he would get me into protection.
    Except my story would be a problem. You know, what with all the aliens and shape shifters and everything.
    The cop had stepped out of his car, was now slowly approaching me. The radio on his belt squawked.
    Not moving from my position, I said, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”
    The cop didn’t answer. He kept walking, and from the corner of my eye I could see he had his hand on the holster of his gun. When he came within just a few feet, looked inside and saw the shotgun, the beads of shattered glass, he cursed and quickly drew the gun.
    “Get down on the ground.”  
    “What?”
    “Down on the ground!” he shouted. “Do it now!”
    I pushed away from the truck, keeping my hands raised as I turned toward him. “Officer, please, you have to—”
    “Get down on the motherfucking ground, asshole.”
    I wondered briefly how long he’d waited to say that phrase.
    “Okay,