If I kept traveling along this route, I’d reach the church where I rousted Jason Young the morning after Simone Walker’s murder. It’s too bad we couldn’t arrest Bayard there.
Poetic justice.
But driving into a gas station full of cars is one thing. He won’t suspect a trap. A church parking lot at ten o’clock would look a little suspicious.
I cross the intersection and see the gas station up ahead. I drift over into the left-hand lane to make the turn. In my rearview I see him moving over.
I hit my blinker. He doesn’t signal.
Bascombe’s car is right near the entrance, parked in the rightmost space in front of the convenience store. We’ll both have to pass him to reach the pumps. The tac van is in the same position on the opposite side of the store. Once he’s in, Bayard can’t get out without going through them. When Bascombe and the van reverse into the lane, he’ll be boxed in. Cops in front of him and behind him, the store on his right and the pumps on his left.
Aguilar sits with his engine running by the air dispenser on the far side of the gas pumps, ready to cut either way if needed.
I make the turn, coasting past Bascombe’s bumper. Bayard’s car follows, closing the distance a little. I pull toward the pump, rolling to a stop. Any moment the tac van will reverse into position. I loosen my seat belt and pop open the door. I pop the thumb break on my holster.
David rolls by me slowly. I glance over. He comes to a stop, window down.
He looks at me with the same hard eyes from the photograph, a different man than the one I interviewed before. There’s a cruel smile on his lips. An orange glow flickers against the side of his face. But I don’t have time to observe much else.
He raises his hand. There’s a bottle in his fist. Sloshing liquid. A tongue of flame hanging from the neck.
A Molotov.
His arm cocks back and releases.
THINGS ARE ABOUT TO HEAT UP.
Maybe he intends to throw it, but the distance is wrong. I stand there, flat-footed. My hand moving toward the butt of my gun. He doesn’t lob the bottle. He christens the car with it, breaking the bomb against the roof like a magnum of champagne against the hull of a ship.
Tires screech.
A film of gas ignites across the top of the car. A wall of flame rushing toward me with a fatal hiss.
Then I’m on my knees. I’m crawling. I’m dragging myself between the pumps. The fuel pumps. Full to bursting with gasoline. The roar behind me, filling my ears, and in my fevered mind a mushroom cloud on the horizon, a timer ticking down to nothing.
I scramble to my feet.
Shouting, lots of shouting. Across the column of flame that envelops my car, I see David’s car hemmed in by the tac van, a half dozen muzzles ringing him round. A half dozen voices yelling for him to get out.
I draw my gun. I rush toward them.
A shell-shocked station attendant appears from inside, Bascombe on his heels. Both of them wielding fire extinguishers. They step up to my car, releasing torrents of white fog.
“Get out with your hands up!”
“Hands where I can see ’em! Hands where I can see ’em!”
David ignores the stream of commands. His silhouette is visible behind the glass. He’s rolled the driver’s window up. His engine idles.
The last lick of flame goes out. The fog envelops my scorched car. I level my pistol at David Bayard’s head, shouting with the rest of them.
He shifts behind the glass.
“Watch his hands!”
A ball of orange flame engulfs the car’s interior. Bright as the sun behind safety glass. We jump back involuntarily. I see a head, a hand thrashing behind the windshield.
Bascombe bashes in the driver’s window with the butt of his extinguisher, releasing a puff of fire. He sprays into the opening, reaching inside to unlock the door.
I holster my gun and take the other extinguisher from the attendant, following my lieutenant’s lead. The smell of gasoline is sickeningly strong.
We empty the extinguishers into the car. I pull the door open. I reach with my free hand and grab at Bayard’s clothing, pulling him out onto the pavement.
The writhing husk is unrecognizable. Red and black and bubbling. Twitching on the ground. Charred from the waist up, parts of him almost melted. I can’t look.
“March. March!”
Bascombe’s hand on my arm.
“Get yourself together. We need an ambo. Now!”
I stare at him, uncomprehending.
“He’s still breathing, man. Call an ambulance!”
“I’m on it, boss.” Aguilar. Over my shoulder.
I drop the extinguisher. I walk to my flame-blackened car. The top and passenger side are scorched. I pull the door open and strangely my briefcase lies unharmed on the passenger seat. Like nothing happened. I push it to the floor mat, making room, then lower myself down. The sight replaying in my mind. Immolation. He burned himself up rather than surrender.
One, two, three. Four, five, six.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat with my feet on the pavement, inhaling the odor of fuel and flesh. I rest my face in my hands, but all I can see is his face, his hands. I pull them away, and my palms are full of tears.
CHAPTER 29
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18 — 9:43 A.M.
If you play with fire. .
Morning briefing. Then a debrief on last night’s incident-me and Aguilar, the head of the tactical team, Bascombe and Hedges. Everybody’s gonna write on it and, without dictating the course of events, the lieutenant wants to be sure we’re all on the same page. That nobody questions what went down: a well-organized police operation that accounted for everything that could be accounted for. The wild card being the suspect’s reaction.
Next to me, Aguilar takes careful notes. At least it looks that way. On his page, the same line repeated over and over. Cartoon illustrations in the margin.
You’re gonna get burned.
A quip from an action hero, something he wishes he’d said on scene, when it could have earned him respect from the tac boys, and not thought of at the water cooler the next morning, along with everyone else.
If you play with fire. .
Back at my desk, there’s a voicemail from Gene Fontenot. There are four, in fact, left over the course of the last week. He hasn’t tried my cell, though. Maybe leaving messages is what he needs to do. Maybe the last thing he wants is for me to pick up.
Monday AM: “You sure shot out of here fast. You ever heard of leaving a note?” Delete.
Monday PM: “Hey, I just heard about Charlotte. I hope she’s all-” Delete.
Thursday AM: “Is it true what I hear, that you arrested your-” Delete.
Friday AM: “You are not gonna believe what just happened, man. Another notch on your belt, and you didn’t even know it. Call me when you get this, you dog.”
I cradle the phone on my shoulder, fingers poised over the keypad, reluctant to make the call. But I’m a desk jockey today, stuck in the office, killing time before my appointment with the head shrink. It’s just procedure. Another hoop to jump through. The fact that I never discharged my weapon doesn’t seem to matter. My reaction gave Bascombe “cause for concern.”
Like it didn’t concern me, too.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Gene says.
“So I hear.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“All day.”
“Remember that ex-con you chased through the cemetery?”
“Of course,” I say. “Wayne Bourgeois.”
“Guess what? They found him.”
“That’s good.” I know I must sound disinterested, but how much enthusiasm can I be expected to muster? I saw a man burned to a crisp last night by his own scarred hand, and saw him gurneyed, still breathing, into an ambulance. But Bourgeois did assault that young prostitute, so I’m glad he’ll get the justice that’s coming to him. I say as much to Gene.