“And catching him with the stuff is no assurance of a conviction,” Liz said, her voice tight.
“We’ve done all we can. We got Lolita arrested so Lewis can’t get to her. Blankenship will make sure her units stay out of sight as long as possible. The four boys will be kept separated once they’re picked up. Everything else is up to Blair’s acting ability, Carey Lewis’s ego, and the court system.”
“Well, that certainly makes me feel a lot better.”
Nick grinned. “And since I’m such a liberated guy, when we wrap this up, I’ll let you buy me dinner.”
“Hope you like take-out pizza. I promised Mother I’d come over tonight. My sister wouldn’t let her husband cut his business trip short. They’re staying with Mother until he gets back.” She straightened. “Play ball.”
A black Jeep Cherokee pulled to the curb in front of the jewelry store. Three young men climbed out and strolled toward the entrance to the apartments. Blair Fitzpatrick slid from the driver’s side and paced back and forth on the sidewalk, finally opting to stand at the back of the Cherokee.
“Just keep cool, Blair,” Nick coached softly. “Keep cool.”
Liz pressed a button on the walkie-talkie. “Number one, bluejeans, green polo. Number two, khaki shorts, red T.”
When she released the button, static popped twice to indicate Blankenship had received and would relay the message. Carey Lewis was wearing jeans; Blair Fitzpatrick, shorts.
The heat and the tension rose. Blair studied the street anxiously. His eyes fell on the white van, lingered, and then jerked away. He had the Jeep open so his returning companions could place their burdens in the rear. A few words were exchanged, and then the three sauntered back. To the uninitiated, they looked like roommates in the process of moving.
Another load came out, and when it was stowed and the other three had retreated once more, Blair quickly checked what was in the Jeep. When his three buddies returned, he stepped aside to let the biggest of the quartet, Keegan Matthias, stow the box he carried. Blair dropped his keys, bent to retrieve them.
“Now,” Liz said into the walkie-talkie.
Blair pocketed the keys and climbed into the back of the Cherokee to reach for the lamp Treynor Russett carried. He took several moments to situate the lamp. Carey said something. Blair took the small box Treynor held under his arm and said something in return. Keegan laughed.
Treynor stepped aside, and Carey Lewis moved to the rear of the vehicle. The box he carried had a couple of cardboard tubes and what looked like rolled posters sticking out of it. He had an air of impatience. Keegan laughed again.
Suddenly, uniformed and plainclothes officers swarmed the scene, and for a moment that was at once brief and eternal everything seemed frozen. Liz held her breath. Nick’s hand went to the door handle.
Carey Lewis broke the spell. He shoved his box into the chest of a startled Keegan. Then Carey sprinted across the street, the smaller Treynor Russett right behind him. They headed toward Nick and Liz’s position.
Nick was out of the van first. “Give it up, Lewis!”
Carey hardly missed a beat and made a right-angle swerve away from the van. Treynor’s reaction wasn’t quite as quick or as agile, but he made up for it in speed.
Liz jumped from the van, glanced toward the Cherokee where officers had Blair and Keegan spread-eagled on the pavement. Blankenship shouted something, but Nick and Liz were racing after the two boys, who disappeared around a comer several lengths ahead of their pursuers. Nick reached behind him and pulled a .38 from a holster.
“We need Carey alive!” Liz shouted.
“Insurance!”
They barrelled around the comer. Carey and Treynor were racing diagonally across the street. A marked cruiser screeched to a halt at the far end of the street, blocking the intersection. Nick and Liz kept running.
“Give it up, Lewis!” Nick repeated.
Carey stopped and pivoted. Treynor matched his motion, but at the end of his outstretched arm was a gun.
“Shoot!” Carey shouted.
Treynor’s response was instantaneous. He fired off two rounds that knocked Liz backward into a gathering of metal garbage cans at curbside.
In an extended slow-motion moment, Treynor swept the gun to the right, fired off two shots that missed Nick. Nick drew a bead on him. Treynor adjusted his aim. Nick’s finger began to tighten. A loud noise whacked Treynor in the back. His face a study in disbelief, he fell to the street. The uniformed officer wheeled his aim toward Carey, whose hands were high over his head.
“Face down! On the ground!” the officer screamed. “Now!”
Carey obeyed, his face devoid of expression. Nick stooped beside Treynor to check for a pulse that didn’t exist. The officer, gun trained on Carey, was talking into the handset at his shoulder. Nick scooted the gun away from the dead boy.
“I’ve got him.” The officer nodded at Carey. “Check your friend.”
Nick raced back across the street. The empty garbage cans had been knocked aside like bowling pins. Liz was sprawled on her back, eyes closed, the baseball cap tossed from her head.
“McGillis?” he shouted. “Talk to me, McGillis!”
She didn’t respond.
He tore at her shirt. “Open your eyes, McGillis!” He put his face close to hers. “Dammit, McGillis, open your eyes!”
He finally yanked the shirt aside. He found the holes where the two bullets had slammed into her, one about three inches below her right collarbone, the other almost squarely in the chest. He fingered the Kevlar, peered closely into the holes. Then he tore at the Velcro straps on the side and lifted the front portion of the bulletproof vest. The only thing that dampened the front of the white tanktop was sweat.
He squatted back on his heels, closed his eyes, and resumed breathing. She coughed and stirred. He opened his eyes. She coughed again, opened her eyes, struggled to a sitting position.
“Oh, hell, Ransom,” she said breathlessly. “This was a good shirt.”
He grinned and tapped the Kevlar. “We’re even, McGillis. This was a good vest.”
Death by Water
by Ashley Curtis
The man was lying flat on the rough sand, his head on a rolled-up sweatshirt just where the dirty grass started to grow. When the wind blew, the grass tickled his face, and he grimaced in his half sleep. Next to his head a little yellow box with a black dial at the top emitted static that was covered over by the noise the river made. It was the third night he had spent like this; the first two had gone perfectly. He turned over and looked at his watch. It was a quarter past three. In another hour he should begin to hear it. He turned back over and tried to sleep again.
He must have succeeded because the high-pitched blips scared him, shaking him awake. He sat up abruptly, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the yellow box. The beeps were getting louder quickly; he turned the dial, and they became softer but soon rose again in pitch and volume. He turned the dial again and stood up.
There was no moon, but he could still see the pale sand at his feet and the white eddies in the water. He looked upriver, trying to pick out the dull shape that was approaching him. He didn’t see it until it washed by right in front of him, then pushed into the sand a few yards farther down. He turned the dial all the way off and tossed the little box onto the rumpled sweatshirt.
He watched as the human form was jolted farther and farther onto the sand. After several high eddies had given it a push, it was securely lodged there; the normal flow of the river ran over the feet and ankles, sometimes reaching up to the knees. A tiny bright red light flashed on and off, illuminating the ghostly face — hot red, then pale nothing, coloring the bottoms of the nostrils and the lips, leaving the eye sockets in a deep, dark mist. The man bent over and untied a yellow box, the twin of his own, that was strapped around the chest of the body at his feet. He turned its dial; the flashing light went off, replaced by a weak static sound; then that went silent, too.