He tried to keep calm. When he got uptight, he tended to do stupid things. Same thing all his life. His big temptation right now was to lose her-to turn the hose on her, light a match, and watch her fry. He had stolen some plates and bolted them on before coming here-he wasn't that stupid. He could lose the van if he had to, torch it as well. Burn, baby, burn. If he had ever had a tattoo, that's what it would have said. Nothing he liked quite so much as seeing something burn. Except of course the sight of money. Cash. Or ass. He liked that a lot, too.
Squeeze goes the handle, poof goes the match. Zoom goes Connie.
Her hair would go first, then her clothes. if she was wearing synthetics-anything stretchy or elastic-they would stick to her skin. She'd be staring at him screaming, bald from the flames eyes beginning to swell in their sockets. "You don't have to worry about that," he said, answering her question. "I'm scared," she replied.
Fifty grand. Fifty! A fucking fortune. A Harley. A trip somewhere. Who knows? "What I want you to do ... " he started, trying to think like the Doc, but losing his train of thought to anger. His temper was the problem. It had always been the problem. It ran away from him. As a kid on the streets-he'd been alone on the streets since he was thirteen-he had learned how to play tough. Tough, combined with a bad temper, meant violence. At fifteen he'd killed his first person-a junkie looking to roll him. He got pissed off and cut the guy with a bottle and then left him to bleed to death. At seventeen he killed a prostitute-after the act, which had been his first because he didn't have the money to pay her. That had been Spokane. He left because her pimp was out to zoom him. In Seattle he'd been arrested for purse snatching. He served six months in a J.D. reform, and the offense was kept off his record. He was eighteen when he got out, and the state arranged vocational training that eventually led to a job with Norwest Power and Light. For nearly two months his life had been real." And then that day doing shit work on the top of a newly installed high-voltage tower-he saw the Doc digging a grave: The Secret. A chance at some real money. Things had been different since then. "Can you take Sharon Shaffer's name out of that database?"
"What about the police?" "I asked you a question." This was how the Doc dealt with him, and it felt good to pass it on. It felt real good. "Can you erase a file? Erase a file for good?" He pulled the hose from his tank and replaced it in the pump, still wondering if it wouldn't be smarter to hose her down. "Erase a record from data processing, you mean? I don't know if I can. I suppose it must be possible. But I've never tried."
"I want you to try. The Shaffer file. it's important.
You understand." He gave her a look then charles Bronson on a particularly bad day. Maybe Brando. How would the Big Man handle this one?
She hesitated. It pissed him off. Her sister was hovering around the candy counter looking impatient. He decided to pay up. He opened the van's door and took the keys. He left the door open because she answered just then.
"I'll try."
"Damn right you will." He gave her one last look and walked away looking tough. I am tough, he convinced himself.
When he reached the station, he looked away as her sister passed because he didn't want her getting a good look at him. You had to keep your options open.
He had to climb a small platform to pay at the cash register.
The gas cost him over twenty bucks. That pissed him off as well.
When he turned around, his added elevation gave him a view of two guys sitting real low in a jeep parked down the street.
Cops! Connie had fucked up; she had led them here! Or was she in on it?
The panic hit him as hard as if he'd been slugged. in the gut.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught some quick movement.
Some punk kid was headed for his van at a sprint. @e reached it, leaned in, and came out with Donle, s laptop computer. The fucking laptop! The Doc had warned him to never let it out of his sight. The database! The kid took off at a run. Donnie shouted after him. He chased after him, one eye on those Cops. if the cops got hold of that laptop it was all over.
The Doc would see to that.
"Trouble," J.C. Adams announced over the radio. Up until that moment, Boldt's full attention had been on the driver of the van, but now in his peripheral vision he caught sight of the juvenile crossing the street to the gas station and, a few seconds later, leaning into the open door of the van. When, on the end of that kid's arm, Boldt saw a laptop computer, he sat up so quickly he hit his head on the downturned visor. The Professor had found carpet impressions that suggested that one of the two men who had abducted Sharon Shaffer had been carrying a laptop computer. With Connie Chi's connection to Bloodlines, and Bloodlines' connection to Sharon Shaffer, this had to be more than coincidence. "Butch, Danny, you grab the kid. He's coming right at you," Boldt radioed immediately. "J.C., you've got the Saturn. John, you take the van driver on foot-I'll play backup. And listen up: I want everybody brought in, including that laptop. Okay. Go!"
As Boldt watched his team spring into action, Shoswitz came on the radio. "Lou?"
"How about a couple of radio cars, Lieutenant? We're losing this thing," he warned, as he saw their bust go south. Butch and Danny sprang out of the jeep, weapons drawn, and took off after the kid. Displaying lightning-quick reactions, the kid veered down a driveway and vanished. Procedure would have had one of them pursue on foot, the other in the jeep, but procedure didn't matter now. In the heat of the moment, they had both run after the kid, and the likelihood of catching him seemed slim. Boldt barked into the radio, "I need those backups now! Suspect proceeding on foot, northbound between 68th and 69th. If he gets into the park, we've lost him."
The dread of further failure choked his throat as he saw the red Saturn drive quickly out of the gas station, with none of his own cars following. Blocked by a recycling truck, J.C. Adams was forced to go around the block. Boldt punched the button on the radio mike to announce he would switch with Adams, but released it as he saw Lamoia going after the van driver on foot.
Misjudging the situation, Lamoia elected to take a shortcut cutting behind the nearest house. But when the driver of the van saw Butch and Danny, guns drawn, he pulled an abrupt aboutface, leaving Lamoia taking a shortcut to nowhere. This, in turn, made Boldt responsible for the van, which roared off, cutting in behind the slowly moving recycling truck and forcing Boldt to follow. Boldt was no fan of highspeed driving. He not only didn't care for it, he was no good at it, and he knew it. At the first intersection he braked for the stop sign, slowing considerably-out of habit. He should have been calling in his position and situation over the radio, but he needed both hands on the wheel. He was sweating; his scalp itched. He should have been all but ignoring stop signs, but his right foot kept betraying him and tapping the brakes.
The van remained in sight, but just barely. It was suddenly making big speed. it ran two lights and negotiated a series of quick turns. Boldt managed to keep it in sight, but at this rate he knew he wouldn't keep up for long. On a brief moment of straightaway, Boldt reached for the radio to call in his position. just as he grabbed hold of it, a skateboard shot out from between parked cars. Fast on its heels was a boy of about twelve. Boldt jerked the wheel sharply to the left and slammed on the brakes. The car swerved in a squealing of rubber. A pencil skidded across the dash and disappeared down the defrost. The driver-side sun visor slapped Boldt in the forehead and forced him to duck beneath it in order to see. The front right tire crushed the skateboard.
The bumper missed the boy by inches. Boldt kept his foot on the brakes. The van continued on up ahead, growing smaller. It turned right. Boldt checked the rearview mirror. The boy was okay. In his right hand he discovered the radio microphone, its coiled wire disconnected and dangling like a stretched spring-he had ripped it out of the radio housing. He had lost all communication with dispatch.