But how could I explain the problem to a literal-minded computer? Well, see, there’s someone lying on the ground nearby who’s just been shot by laser beam, and I’m the next target, so I want you to try to figure out which building on this grid the sniper was firing from … and, by the way, the cops are closing in, so make it snappy. That means quick, right away, pronto, haul ass …
Yeah. Fat chance … but it was better than nothing. I would have to dumb-fuck my way through this. “Given that the coordinate I just designated is five-point-five feet tall …” I said slowly.
“Pardon me, Gerry, but I have received an instant message for you.”
Joker’s voice was maddeningly calm. Here I was, trying to think through a complex problem to save my life, and it wanted to deliver e-mail to me. I winced and swore under my breath. “This is not a good time, Joker.”
“I’m sorry, Gerry, but the IM has a priority interrupt. The sender has identified itself as Ruby Fulcrum.”
What the …?
“Gimme the message!” I snapped.
The screen bisected into two parts; the map remained intact on the upper half, although reduced by fifty percent, while the lower half displayed a message bar:
›Laser beam fired from 1010 South Central Avenue, floor five‹
At the same moment, a red line traced itself from the coordinate I had registered on the map to the condemned five-story office building directly across the corner from the courthouse.
I stared at the screen. How the hell could …?
“Freeze, mister!” a voice yelled. “Get your hands in sight!”
The courthouse cop I had spotted earlier was standing directly behind me. His feet were spread wide apart, his service revolver clasped between both hands and pointed at the back of my head. He had snuck up on me while I was paying attention to Joker.
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to calm him down. “I don’t have a gun, see?” I held up Joker in my right hand, keeping my left hand where he could see it. “Look, it’s not a gun, all right?”
The cop wasn’t impressed. “Yes sir, I can see what it is,” he said evenly. “I want you to put it down on the ground, stand up and put your hands behind your head. Now, sir.”
I carefully placed Joker on the concrete and wrapped my hands around the back of my head, but I didn’t stand up. “Officer,” I said as calmly as I could, “the woman over there was shot from the top floor of that building.” I nodded toward the condemned building across Central from Government Center. “I had nothing to do with it, but-”
The officer’s eyes darted once toward the building, then back to me. He wasn’t buying it. “Get on your feet, mister.”
“Look, I’m telling you, if I stand up now, he’s going to shoot-”
His attention was fixed solely upon me. “I’m not kidding, buddy!” he demanded. “Get up with your hands behind your head!”
The sirens were much louder now, probably only a block away, racing down Central Avenue toward the courthouse. The officer was waiting for his backup to arrive, and he wasn’t about to give me any slack. There was a dead woman on the sidewalk, and his suspect was giving him a song-and-dance routine. His right forefinger was wrapped around the trigger of his gun. This was a young rookie, still in his twenties and fresh out of the academy; he wanted to be a Good Cop, but I was only too aware of the fact that some members of the force had a bad rep for being trigger-happy under pressure.
As the first police cruiser howled into sight and screeched to a halt in front of the plaza, I took a deep breath. The cavalry had arrived; maybe they had scared off the sniper. “Okay,” I said, “just stay cool. I’m standing up.”
The second cruiser arrived, stopping behind the first one; two cops had already jumped out of the first car and were rushing over to check on Beryl Hinckley. I slowly began to rise out of my squat, but as I did I kept my eyes fixed on the empty windows of the building Ruby Fulcrum had pinpointed.
I had barely raised my head and shoulder above the height of the urn when I glimpsed vague movement in a corner window on the fifth floor: a brief, dull reflection, like sunlight reflecting off something metallic …
“Duck!” I yelled, then threw myself to the ground.
“Don’t … AWWWHHHH!”
A small black hole appeared in the cop’s chest, just below his neckline. He dropped his gun as he grabbed at his collarbone, screaming in agony, then his legs collapsed beneath him and he fell backward to hit the pavement. He was still alive, but the laser beam had cut straight though his body.
Two more cops from the second cruiser, who had been running over to assist him, stopped dead in their tracks. They had seen the whole thing; judging from the expressions on their faces, they couldn’t figure out what the hell had happened. They glanced first at their buddy, then at me, then back at him again.
“I didn’t do a thing!” I yelled as I lay flat on the ground, my arms spread out before me. “I’m just lying here … get him an ambulance!”
The cops unfroze. Instead of rushing me, they hurried to the rookie’s side. He was writhing in pain, his legs thrashing against the pavement. His colleagues kneeled beside him; one of them grabbed his beltphone and flipped it open. “Mobile Charlie-Five, answering call at the courthouse!” he snapped. “Code ten-three, officer down!”
The other two cops ran over to assist them. For the moment, they were entirely concerned with the injured officer. No one was paying attention to me. I rose to my hands and knees, carefully picked Joker up from the concrete and shoved it in my pocket …
And then I jumped to my feet and took off running.
Not away from the scene, though, but straight toward the abandoned building.
18
(Friday, 1:07 P.M.)
One thing to be said for knowing that a sniper is trying to kill you: it makes you run faster.
Even as I sprinted across the intersection, I knew that I had less than thirty seconds-if even that-to reach cover before the laser’s batteries recharged. On the other hand, if I could make it to the building itself, then the gunner upstairs wouldn’t be able to shoot me. A clean vertical shot would be nearly impossible from up there, or otherwise he would have fired at Beryl before we had jaywalked across the street.
I heard cops shouting behind me as I made a beeline for the building, demanding that I halt. The thought crossed my mind that one of them might open fire on me, but I wasn’t about to stop and lie down in the middle of the intersection. I was screwed if I did and screwed if I didn’t, and all I could hope for was the notion that a well-trained police officer wouldn’t shoot a running man in the back …
So I kept running.
A laser beam didn’t punch a hole through my head, nor did I heard the crack of a gunshot as I reached the opposite side of the intersection and dashed toward the building’s front doors. Although its nineteenth-century facade was largely intact, official condemnation notices were pasted across the plywood nailed over the windows.
I ducked into the recessed doorway and took a deep breath. I was safe for the moment, but I still had to get inside before the cops followed me. The narrow door, itself covered with plywood, had been secured with a padlock; when I looked closer, though, I saw that the lock’s hasp had been severed as if by a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters, then carefully rehung to make it look still secure.
The door’s pneumatic hinge wheezed as I tugged it open and stepped into the narrow entranceway, cautiously avoiding the shattered glass that lay on the floor of the foyer. The door closed behind me. Faint sunlight penetrated the gloom through cracks in the plywood, making it possible for me to read the dislodged building register resting on its side against the walclass="underline" lawyer’s offices for the most part, although the second and fifth floors had been vacant at the time of the quake.