Just Cause

They saw no signs of Ferguson, though they expected he knew they were there.

'How long are we going to stay?' Shaeffer asked. Streetlights did little to slice the evening darkness. 'He hasn't shown all day, unless there's a backdoor exit. Which there probably is, and he's probably off somewhere laughing at us.'

'Little longer,' Wilcox replied. 'Long enough.'

'What are we doing?' Shaeffer continued. 'I mean, what's the point?'

'The point is to let him know someone's thinking about him. The point is, Tanny told us to watch Ferguson.'

'Right,' she replied. She wanted to add, But not forever. Time seemed to slip away from her. She knew that Michael Weiss at the state prison would be wondering where she was. Knew, as well, that she had to come up with a good reason for still being there. A good, solid, official-sounding reason.

Shaeffer stretched her arms wide and pushed her legs against the fire wall of the car, feeling the muscles ache with the stiffness of inactivity.

'I hate this,' she said.

'What? Watching?'

'Right. Just waiting. Not my style.'

'What is your style?'

She didn't reply. 'It'll be dark in another ten minutes. Too dark.'

'It's dark now.'

Wilcox motioned up at the apartment entrance, but did not connect a comment to the gesture.

Shaeffer glanced about the outside of the car. She thought the street had the same appearance as the raincoats that the two prostitutes who'd accosted them earlier had: a sort of slick, glistening, synthetic sense. It was almost like being caught on a Hollywood set, real and unreal all at the same moment. She felt a sudden shiver run down her spine.

'Something wrong?' Wilcox asked. He'd caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

'No,' she replied hastily. 'Just a little bit of the creeps, you know. This place is awful enough in the daylight.'

He let his eyes sweep up and down the street.

'Sure ain't like anything at home, he said. 'Makes you feel like you're living in a cave.'

'Or a cell' she added.

Her pocketbook was on the floor, between her feet. It was a large, loose leather bag, almost a knapsack. She nudged it with her toe, just pulling open the top, revealing the contents and reassuring herself that all the essentials it contained were still in place: notebook, tape recorder, spare tapes, wallet, badge, a small makeup case, nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol with two extra clips, loaded with soft-nosed wadcutters.

Wilcox caught the motion as well. 'Me, he smiled, 'I still like a three-fifty-seven short-nose. Fits up under the jacket nice. Put in a magnum load, bring down a bear.'

He glanced around at the darkness crawling over their car. 'Plenty of bear around here, too, he added. He patted his coat, on top of his left side.

In the distance a siren started up, like some cat in heat. It grew louder, closer, then just as swiftly faded away. They never saw the lights of whatever it was.

Wilcox put his hand up and rubbed his eyes for an instant. 'What do you think they've been doing?' he asked.

'I don't know,' she replied quickly. 'Why don't we get the hell out of here and find out? Place is starting to make me nervous.'

'Starting?'

'You know what I mean.' Unsettled anger marched briskly in her voice. 'Jesus, look at this place. I feel like it could eat us up. Just gulp and swallow. Those two city cops that brought me down here the other day weren't none too pleased to be here, either, and it was daytime. And one of them was black.'

Wilcox grunted in assent.

It was clear to both of them, though unsaid throughout the day, that their position was precarious: a pair of white southern cops, out of their jurisdiction, out of their element, in an unfamiliar world.

'Okay, Wilcox drawled slowly. His eyes swept up the street again. 'You know what gets to me?' he asked.

'No. What?'

'Everything looks so damn old. Old and used up.' He pointed through the windshield, down the street toward nothing. 'Dying, he said. 'It's like it's all dying.'

He did not amplify the statement. He remained rigid in his seat, staring out at the world surrounding them.

'I don't know how, but I think he's got all this figured out somehow. I think he's just a step or two ahead of us. Had us made from the start.' His voice was whispered, angry.

'I don't know what you're saying,' Shaeffer replied. 'Made what? Figured what?'

'I'd like to get just one more shot at him,' he went on, ignoring her questions. 'One more bite at the apple. I wouldn't let him screw with me this time.'

'I still don't know what you're driving at,' she said, alarmed at the coldness in his voice.

'I'd like to get my face in his one more time. Like to get us alone again in some small room, see if he walks away this time.'

'You're crazy.'

'That's right. Crazy mad. You got it.'

She shrank back in her seat again. 'Lieutenant Brown had orders.'

'Sure. And we've followed them.'

'So, let's get out of here. Find out what he wants to do next.'

Wilcox shook his head. 'Not until I see the bastard. Not until he knows it's me out here.'

Shaeffer put her hand up and waved it back and forth rapidly. 'That's not how to play him,' she said swiftly. 'You don't want him to take off.'

'You haven't got this figured out yet, have you?' Wilcox replied, his teeth set. 'Have you lost one yet? How long you been doing homicides? Not damn long enough. You ain't had somebody do a job on you like Ferguson.'

'No,' she said. 'And I don't mean to.'

'Easy for you to say.'

'Yeah, but I still know enough not to make one mistake into two.'

Wilcox started to reply angrily, but then nodded. 'That's right,' he said. He took a deep breath. 'That's right.'

He settled back in his seat, as if the wave of anger and memory that had beat on his shore was slowly receding. 'Right, right, right,' he said slowly. 'Don't want to play the hand before we see all the cards.'

Shaeffer expected him to reach out and start the car. She saw Wilcox's hand lift toward the ignition. But as his fingers closed on the protruding key, he stopped, suddenly rigid, eyes burning straight ahead.

'Son of a bitch,' he said softly.

She looked up wildly.

'There he is,' Wilcox whispered.

For an instant her view was obscured by the moisture on the windshield, but then, like a camera coming into focus, she, too, spotted Ferguson. He had hesitated just for an instant on the top landing, pausing as almost everyone does before forcing themselves to step into the damp, dark, cold night air. She saw he was wearing jeans and a long blue coat, carrying a satchel over his shoulder. Hunched against the drizzle, he rapidly stepped down from the apartment building, and without even glancing in their direction, headed off swiftly away from them.