“No! You’re not railroading me for this.”
“Nobody’s railroading anybody. All right, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Out to the cruiser.”
“You’re arresting me, is that it?”
“Move.”
“You’ve had it in for me ever since I got to this paradise of yours. You and two thirds of the people I’ve run into. I’ve taken as much as I can stand, Novak. I won’t be your fall guy for this.”
“You’ll do as I say, or I swear I’ll put a bullet in your leg and add resisting arrest to the charges. Move!”
His eyes flashed at me a couple of seconds longer, flicked again to my revolver, and then he moved — jerkily, his arms flat against his sides. I backed around to keep a distance between us as he passed through the doorway into the hall. I made myself glance once more at Storm; the image of her was like a burning thing in my mind as I followed Faith outside. I felt sick and torn up inside and half crazy. I loved her, I knew that now. Not the way I loved Eva, but still a fire-in-the-blood kind of love. And now her blood was all over the room in there...
The bar flashers on the cruiser were still going, painting the night and the dark lake water with streaks and glints of red, as if the night were also bleeding. I watched Faith’s back and the palm of my hand began to sweat around the revolver’s handle. No! Not that way! My head ached and there was a grittiness in my eyes; the lids felt stuck down at the corners.
“Stand there in the headlights,” I said to him.
When he obeyed I circled around behind him, transferring the revolver to my left hand, and leaned in through the driver’s window to unhook the radio handset. Verne Erickson had arrived early to relieve Della Feldman; I said when he came on, “I’m at Storm Carey’s house. She’s dead, murdered. Skull crushed, two blows with a glass paperweight. Suspect in custody — John Faith.” My voice still had that wounded sound; it cracked a little once or twice.
Verne said he’d have a backup unit and an ambulance there in a hurry. Calm, professional — and why shouldn’t he be? Nothing personal in it for him.
I replaced the handset and said to Faith, “Come around here, lean against the hood. Weight on your hands, legs back and spread.”
He did what he was told. I patted him down with my free hand. No weapon of any kind.
“All right. Left hand behind your back.”
He did that, too, without hesitation or argument. The revolver was still in my left hand; I reached around with my right to take the handcuffs off my belt.
That was when he made his move.
He shouldn’t have gotten away with it; I knew all the tricks and how to counteract them. But I wasn’t as alert as I should have been — too badly shaken, the image of Storm’s crushed and bloody head still searing my brain. So when he kicked back with his foot he managed to hook my ankle, even though I hopped and sidestepped the way you’re supposed to. Before I could fire he jerked the foot, spinning off the cruiser, and I spun and staggered the other way, off balance but not getting my feet tangled, staying upright.
He came after me, clawing for the gun. I squeezed off a wild shot close to his face, the report like a blow to the eardrums, and then we were in tight together and grappling. He had size and weight and strength advantages, but I wouldn’t let him pry the weapon loose. Never give up your piece. Drummed into our heads at the academy. If a perp gets control of it you’re dead meat. Even when he clubbed me in the face with a rocklike fist, smashed my nose, sent me reeling backward and down and skidding on my ass, I kept possession of the revolver.
I scrambled around, up onto one knee. Blood spurted from my nose, warm and slick and salty on my mouth; some of it got in my eyes, so I couldn’t see him except as a looming figure backlit against the red-swirled sky. I managed to shift the weapon into my right hand, raked my left over my face to clear off some of the blood; still couldn’t see him clearly. I leveled the gun and fired anyway.
Missed.
He was running by then. In a low, stumbling crouch, past the cars and into the tree shadows.
I heaved to my feet, ducking my head against my uniform jacket, blinking furiously. By the time I could see well enough to give chase, he was out of sight. Heading for the lake, I thought, on the lawn toward the lake. I ran that way, sucking in air, and when I got to where the lawn began its gradual downward slope, he was visible again, at an angle to the right of the pier. Nothing in that direction but the black water, a section of rushes, a series of low rock shelves that rose to fifty yards of high ground and then fell away again to the waterline. He’d trapped himself.
I pulled up and steadied my arm and fired another round.
Hit him with that one. He reared up, staggered — but he didn’t go down.
I triggered a third shot. That one was a clear miss: He kept right on running. But he had nowhere to go except up onto the shelves, and when he did that he’d be silhouetted against the sky. I’m a good shot; I wouldn’t miss that kind of target at fifty yards.
Down the lawn, taking the same angle he was. The grass was night-damp and I slipped once, almost fell. When I had my balance I saw him start onto the first shelf... and then at the last second he changed his mind. His only other option was the lake, frigid at night this time of year, too cold for any kind of distance swimming, but either he didn’t realize that or he was consumed by panic. He went straight off the rocky sliver of beach and into the lake in a flat, running dive.
It took me less than a minute to get to where he’d gone in, but as dark as it was I couldn’t make out any sign of him from the water’s edge. I climbed onto the first shelf, then the next, and the next, and I still couldn’t spot him anywhere. Sank to the bottom, dragged down by the weight of his shoes and clothing? Drowned? I climbed higher; as far as I could see the lake’s surface remained unbroken except for wind-made wavelets. With the bullet I’d put into him he couldn’t have made it all the way around the rocks yet, be hidden among the cattails farther down, not unless he was an Olympic-caliber swimmer. He had to’ve gone down.
But I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t make myself believe it.
Sirens had begun to wail in the distance. Or maybe they’d been wailing for some time and I hadn’t been hearing them. The backup unit and the ambulance, close now. Go up and meet them. But I didn’t do it. I stayed put on the rocks, the blood still pouring out of my busted nose, barely even aware of the pain. Thinking of her up there in the house with her skull crushed in, scanning the black water and the muddy shore and not seeing any sign of Faith and still not believing the son of a bitch was as dead as Storm, Storm, Storm, Storm...
Part III
Saturday
Verne Erickson
It’s been a zoo around here all night. Just a damn zoo, ever since the Chief radioed in with the news about Mrs. Carey and John Faith. My wife and I have lived in Pomo eleven years and I can’t remember another time that even comes close to the past few hours. But then, there’s never been a homicide in Pomo County like this one — prominent citizen bludgeoned to death, chief of police beaten up in a fight with the alleged perpetrator, the suspect an outsider with a cloud over him anyway, shot trying to escape and either drowned or dead of hypothermia. Or maybe not dead, if Dick Novak’s right in what he thinks. Anyhow, no sign of Faith or his body has turned up so far, and it’s been more than six hours since he disappeared into the lake.