I gripped my gun so hard my fingers hurt. Then I began running uphill, too, just as the sniper disappeared into the mist.
The sidewalk was uneven and steeply canted. I stumbled and banged into a car that was parked across it. A couple who were cautiously descending toward the commotion at All Souls saw my face, then my gun, and gave me a wide berth. I ran to the top of the grassy triangle, where I'd last spotted the fleeing figure.
Higher up, the fog was even thicker. It dimmed what lights were on in the surrounding houses, made the familiar terrain alien, confusing. I stopped to get my bearings.
Several narrow streets converged at the top of the park, then fanned off in different directions. He could have strolled down any of them like an ordinary pedestrian, perhaps intending to return as a bystander to the chaotic scene below. The thought heightened my rage, which was already burning dangerously high-directed outward at the sniper, but also inward at myself for failing to protect Hank. I hesitated, damping it down, peering through the shifting grayness.
Diagonally from where I stood was one of those little wooded areas that dot Bernal Heights-a mere strip of land covered with fir trees. I studied it, then moved slowly across the intersection, gun raised.
A tall figure darted from the trees' dark shelter. I shouted for him to stop. Would have fired, but then he vanished again. Lights flashed on in a nearby house; their rays showed him fleeing uphill, on the steepest section of Coso Avenue. I went after him.
The man-he ran like one-took the steps that were cut into the sloping sidewalk three at a time. I raced along on the pavement beside them. I could hear his gasping, wheezing breath now. His feet slapped the concrete in counterpoint to mine. From behind me came excited voices and distant sirens.
He overshot the intersection with Prospect Avenue and kept climbing. Beyond the iron railing bordering the steps were houses; across Coso was a long lot enclosed in a high wooden fence and then a cliff face-some fifty or sixty feet of sheer rock. He kept on climbing the steps, but then two figures appeared at the top of the hill, their outlines blurred by the fog. Their voices carried-young, strong, male. I yelled for them to stop the running man.
He whirled. Hesitated for only an instant, then darted across the street. Looked from side to side, then disappeared into a two-or three-foot gap between the high fence and the cliff face. The young men whirled, too-and vanished over the hill.
Cowards!
I sprinted across Coso. Stopped and flattened my body against the fence next to the opening. My breath came hard; blood roared in my ears. I tried to listen, but could hear nothing from the gap behind the fence.
A trap? Was he aiming his gun at the opening?
After a moment I inched along and peered down there. The fog was trapped in the narrow pocket-waist-high and thick as smoke from a brush fire. It moved sinuously away from me and trailed off into the darkness.
I still could hear nothing, not even a telltale pant or wheeze. Finally I slipped around the corner, staying flat against the fence. The ground was rocky and uneven; I tested it carefully with my foot before I took each step. Ahead was total blackness. It was as if I were entering a tunnel that had no end.
And then I heard something: the snap of a branch. I moved along more quickly, and my foot banged into a heavy object. It rolled and thumped into the fence.
More branches snapped and cracked. Then there were thrashing noises, stumbling footsteps.
I felt along the cliff face with my left hand, moving quickly toward the source of the noise. Now I could make out a stand of brush whose uppermost branches were outlined against the sky. It appeared to completely block the narrow passageway. When I neared it, I smelled the sharp odor of anise.
The thrashing noises were more distant now. I took my hand off the cliff face and parted some branches. The brush was dense, impossible to see through. On the other side of it footsteps slapped on cleared ground. Running again.
I plunged into the brush, batting aside branches, fighting through tall weeds. Vines caught at my legs and ankles; blackberry thorns scratched at my bare hands. I tripped over a rock, caught myself on the limb of a fir tree, my fingers coming away sticky with sap. Then I burst free of the wild vegetation and came out on a cement path.
There was a concrete retaining wall to my right now- perhaps four feet high. Roofs peaked on the other side of it. Several houses away, the cliff jutted out and formed a dead end. The man was scaling the wall down there.
I couldn't see him clearly enough to risk a shot. As I raced along the path he disappeared over the wall. Then there was a loud clanging of metal.
I jammed my gun into my belt, grasped the top of the wall with both hands, and boosted myself up. For a few seconds I teetered on top; then I jumped, landing on the balls of my feet. Pain from the impact shot upward. I staggered, banged into the garbage can he'd upset.
Lights were flaring up in the windows of the houses ahead of me; they illuminated an alley between them. The man was fumbling at the latch of a picket fence that blocked it at the street end. I shouted for him to halt. He got the gate open and disappeared onto the sidewalk.
Gun in hand again, I went after him. A window opened above me and a man yelled something unintelligible. I kept going. When I reached the gate, it was still swinging violently and caught me hard across my lower body; I shoved it open and ran out onto what must have been Prospect Avenue, looking frantically from left to right.
He was going uphill again, to the left, feet pounding. Dogs barked and more people shouted, marking his passage.
On the other side of Prospect was another small wooded area. The sniper sprinted toward it. The porch light of the house next to it shone on him; briefly I made out jeans, a dark windbreaker, and a baseball cap. Then he disappeared into the misty shadows.
I put on speed, throat aching with each breath, pain stabbing at my right side. When I reached the little grove, the odors of eucalypti and conifers clogged my nostrils. I skirted the trees, following the sound of his footsteps.
Beyond the grove lay a bricked parking area full of cars, then one of the little ladder streets that scale Bernal Heights-a wide set of steps, bisected by a waist-high iron railing, that descended to Coleridge Street. The sniper was running down it, his baseball cap flying off and longish gray hair blowing free. If I lost him here, he would be only a block from crowded Mission Street, where buses ran at all hours.
I started down the steps, yelling hoarsely at him, threatening to fire. He looked over his shoulder. Turned and raised his gun.
I squeezed off a shot. It went wild, but the man stumbled, smacked into the iron railing. Dropped his gun. It clattered on the steps, bounced into the bordering vegetation. He righted himself, glanced over there, turned and fled.
I shouted again. He kept going, leaped over the last few steps, and thumped onto the sidewalk. The impact jarred him; he went down on one knee.
I stopped, bracing myself. Brought my gun up in both hands and fired again.
The shot knocked him the rest of the way to the pavement. He landed face down, then tried to crawl forward. I jumped off the steps and grabbed one of his arms. Pinned it behind his back. Sat on him.
All up and down the street dogs barked and people peered from their windows or front porches. Voices babbled. I glanced along the block, panting, and realized we'd made a rough circle, were on the other side of the park that fronted All Souls. I couldn't see the house clearly through the trees, but they were backlit by the red and blue pulsars of the police cars. The mutter and squawk of their radios was plainly audible.
Beneath me, the man struggled. I yanked upward on his arm and he lay still. A woman was staring at us from the yard of the nearest house; she seemed incapable of speech.