to

time.
“Damn.” The woman was obviously dead. The young man behind the counter must have died ­almost instantly—a bullet had caught him in the throat. He had a surprised look frozen on his face, a look he'd carry with him to the city morgue.
A few feet away, Anne Houston knelt next to the man in the leather coat, touching his throat for a pulse. Two kids were sprawled on the floor beside him. Walker swallowed painfully; the kids couldn't have been older than fifteen, maybe sixteen. Too young to be caught up in whatever had happened here tonight.
He crouched down next to the kids, checking them quickly. Both were covered with blood, and the boy . . . there was a wound in the boy's leg and a bullet hole in the boy's jacket, and a lot of blood stains, but no apparent wound there. That doesn't make any sense, he thought. Maybe the kid moved after the first shot, fell into his own blood from the other wound, but it's ­unlikely. . . .
He pushed that thought aside, concentrating on his work. The leg wound was bad but not life‑threatening, and could wait until EMS ­arrived on the scene in a couple minutes. He turned to the girl, hearing the sirens as the ­ambulance pulled up in the parking lot outside.
As he leaned over her, the girl opened her eyes, blinking up at him. “You'll be all right,” he said, smiling reassuringly. She looked up at him, dazed and uncomprehending.
“Dale,” Anne Houston said, her voice sounding shaken, “This is too weird for words . .