Jericho's Razor (23 page)

Lose your head?

My eyes snapped open. No way, I thought. He couldn't be hiding there. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. It was crazy and daring and, in a weird way, the only reasonable option.

I got back on my bike and drove to Sean Booker's house. There was the same broken window as last time. Somebody had taped a sheet of plastic over it. I could have easily cut an opening large enough to crawl through and get inside, but somebody beat me to it. I took a step closer, looked though the opening in the plastic, and saw nothing but shadows. Stepping in, I flipped the light switch, confident that nobody would notice or bother calling the cops if they did. The apartment was in the same state of disorderly chaos I had seen before. But now there were added elements. A green sleeping bag in the corner of the room. A Styrofoam cooler. Several empty cans of Mountain Dew. Eli was gone, but he had clearly been using Booker's old place as a safe house. His choice of a hideout was smart and outside the box and completely in line with the brother I remembered.

Along with the other belongings was a black backpack. I riffled inside and found a thick folder. There were yellowed newspaper clippings of the raid at our family compound. I stared at my picture, years younger, looking haunted. More clippings detailed the aftermath. The ruling that my actions had been in self-defense, and the state's attorney's decision not to press charges. There was an article about and a picture of Peter's final victim, Sheila Kerrigan, the woman I had been unable to save. Her daughter was with family services until her relatives could be tracked down. There were newer articles from the local press. Me at book signings. An exposé about me after
Black as Night
was released. There were photos of me walking downtown, smoking, drinking coffee. Eli had been in town a while. Following me. Biding his time.

Eli also had files on Preston Masters. He had financial records and poll numbers. Articles detailing his efforts to relocate low-income housing and use the land for the regentrification initiative spearheaded by Masters and his father, the former governor. There were pictures of Preston talking on a cell phone outside the courthouse. Eli had been close. Close enough that Preston should have taken notice of the strange man taking his picture. But the look on his face explained why my brother's presence had escaped Preston's attention.

He looked scared.

On the bottom of the picture, Eli had scrawled the question ‘
Who is he talking to?
”

When I was finished at Booker's place, I went outside and called the hospital, knowing that Torrez would probably still be there.

“You're getting more annoying than my ex-wife. And that is really saying something.”

“I found where Eli has been hiding.”

Torrez was silent, no doubt weighing the possibility that I had somehow managed to succeed where the entire Peoria police force had failed. It was so unlikely as to be laughable. But Torrez, however much an asshole, was also a good cop. He wouldn't dismiss a promising lead just because he hated me.

His voice was cautiously receptive. “Oh yeah? Where is he this time?”

“Sean Booker's place.”

“Booker's place? That's … pretty brilliant, actually.”

“That's exactly what I thought,” I said, too tired and frustrated to keep the satisfaction from my voice. Torrez was silent for a moment. Outside of the interrogation room, it was the longest I had heard him not say anything. His ego was most likely needing quick triage. But he quickly regrouped.

“You've probably trampled all over the place, haven't you?”

“I looked around. I wouldn't call it trampling.”

“Don't touch anything else before I—”

Torrez was cut off by a crash coming from behind me. I turned just in time to see the garage door explode in a thunderstorm of flying debris. A black Cadillac Seville burst through the door directly toward me, broken boards flying off its hood. I hurled myself off to the side quickly enough to avoid being hit dead center, but I still slid off the side of the hood, catching air and doing a flip before slamming into the asphalt. I looked up to see the Seville racing down the block. Torrez's voice screamed from my phone, lying in the grass. I grabbed the phone and ran for my bike.

“Sands! Sands! Can you hear me?”

“I'm here.”

“What the hell was that? It sounded like a goddamned bomb.”

“Close. Eli was hiding in the garage. He torpedoed Booker's car right through it. Right at me.”

“Are you hurt?”

“My ass is going to look like moldy blueberry pie. But I'm okay.” I hobbled to my bike and started the engine.

“No way, Sands. You are not going after him!”

“Like hell I'm not.” I tucked the phone in my jacket and sped off, just in time to see the tail end of the Seville make a turn three blocks up.

Chapter Nineteen

I raced through the lowlands. Rainwater created deep puddles in streets that were designed decades before city engineers discovered efficient methods for drainage. The conditions were no problem for Eli, who sat behind the wheel of a big, sturdy ride that was low to the ground and hugged the blacktop. But my bike threatened to hydroplane every time I cut through a puddle, muddy water splashing in my face. It felt like I was doing seventy miles an hour on a Slip'N Slide.

I rounded the next turn to see Eli blow through a red light at over sixty miles an hour, slicing the big Caddy though oncoming traffic like a scalpel. A minivan swerved to avoid him and fishtailed. It slid through the intersection, spraying water from tires that lost their contact with the road, and crashed into a light pole. Debris exploded from the taillights and struck me in the arm as I raced past. I felt skin tear open and blood seep down my arm, but I blocked it out.

Years ago, in another life, Eli and I used to play this game. We would hop on dirt bikes and tear ass through the Montana badlands, two reckless teenagers addicted to speed and danger, pushing the limits of our bikes and ourselves the way only teens convinced of their immortality can. We would arrive home hours past sundown, covered in mud, and get beaten by Peter for missing dinner and abandoning our chores. His hatred of our motor cross mayhem only furthered our desire to go back out. Now, so many years removed from those daredevil races, I still recognized Eli's habits. For however much my brother had changed since those days, he hadn't changed how he drove.

I followed Eli through city streets, matching him move for move, racing through red lights and stop signs. With every run through a red light, I heard the squealing of tires, the blaring of horns, and the crash of metal. Within minutes we were joined by three police cars. The lead car pulled alongside me. The cop riding shotgun rolled down his window and waved to the side of the road.

“Pull the fuck over right now!”

I gave him the finger and pulled ahead of him, hoping the driver would be hesitant to execute a PIT maneuver on a bike. The Caddy was six car lengths up, shifting from side to side like a NASCAR driver trying to warm his tires.

Fucking with us, Eli could have lost us anytime he wanted, but he was having too much fun. He used to do the same thing to me when we raced the dirt bikes, spraying dirt and rocks and mud at me to blind me and keep me from pulling ahead.

Fifty yards from the next intersection, Eli swung the car hard to the left. The tires of the Seville hit the divider, and the car hopped into oncoming traffic. Cars slammed their brakes and slid. While Eli managed to continue unscathed, several more accidents ensued from his lunge into oncoming traffic. Two of the police cars abandoned the pursuit. I steered the bike in a long swooping arch, cut through the intersection and reversed course, keeping my eyes focused on the taillights of the Caddy.

Eli hit the onramp for the interstate. I followed, fighting to keep the bike from spinning.

We were heading east toward the bridge that spans the Illinois River, squad cars breathing down our necks. I pressed harder, pulling alongside the Seville's fender, daring him to knock me off. Eli held the car steady, avoiding the concrete K-rail that separated the east and westbound lanes of the interstate.

He looked over and met my eyes.

He was smiling. Having the time of his life.

The bridge approached. We raced toward it, side by side, like two stock cars fighting for the inside on the final lap at Talladega. As we crested the bridge, I saw scores of flashing red and blue lights. The road was completely blocked off with rows of cars. Eli wouldn't be able to get through it with a tank.

The Seville screeched to halt, and I flew past him. My own brakes locked down and I looked behind me, expecting to see Eli racing back the way he had come.

But he just sat there.

Finally, Eli stepped out of the car. I hopped off the bike and looked at my brother. His hair was long and unkempt and it blew in the breeze. A beard covered most of his face. He looked like a deranged madman and almost nothing like the picture being circulated.

“You're out of moves, Eli! There's nowhere to go!”

“There's always somewhere to go!”

I saw him glance at the rail.

“Don't even think it!”

But he was more than thinking it. Eli raced toward the edge and jumped. I hurried over, feeling my heart thumping as I looked down over the side. Ripples ran over the surface of the water. I searched for the spot where he would surface. Officers appeared behind me.

“He jumped? You gotta be shitting me.”

I spent the rest of the night in jail. On the other side of the bars were a dozen officers who pleaded for five minutes alone with me. Their anger was a living thing. The entire world had watched them let Eli escape. Viral videos flooded YouTube, uploaded by people who had captured bits and pieces of the chase on their cell phones.

The chase had resulted in over a dozen auto accidents, three of which involved police cars, and an estimated $100,000 in property damage. And of course, the escape of the River City Slasher. Boats from the Peoria and East Peoria police departments, along with the Coast Guard, were on scene minutes after Eli hit the water. Divers searched ten miles up and ten miles down the river. But Eli was gone. Vanished. While I cooled my heels in the holding cell, I overheard murmurs from the inmates that he was some kind of ghost. He had become a legend, a phantom with the ability to appear and disappear at will, leaving death and mayhem in his wake. They left me alone. I was the devil's kin, son of two of the most notorious killers ever to walk the earth, brother to a man who seemed determined to make his parents proud. They looked at me like I might erupt at any second and attack them all barehanded. It was a belief I was happy to let them have.

Torrez walked down to tell me I was being released. He ushered me through the process of returning to free society and walked me to the parking lot. My bike was parked in a handicapped spot up front. There was a ticket taped to the seat.

“So we are clear, if the decision were left to me, you wouldn't be going anywhere.”

“No shit. Who was the one who made the call to let me out?” I asked. I didn't think Gus Tanner had enough pull to manage it.

“Preston Masters. He was the one who led the charge for your freedom.”

Torrez read the look on my face. “Think about it,” he said.

Once the initial shock wore off, his motives became clear. “He wants me out so Eli can have another shot at me.”

“That's my take on it, yeah.”

“How is Alyssa?”

Torrez gave me a look to communicate that he did not appreciate me asking.

“Lucky to be alive. The doctors did a good job with her. She gets out tomorrow morning.”

“Am I going to have to fight you to see her?”

“Unfortunately, that's another decision that isn't up to me. Alyssa can do what she wants. But you better tread carefully.”