As soon as he believed he was out of her line of sight, he sprinted. There was no overpass at the top of the hill because Washington became a three-block tunnel. He hurried east. Once he’d gone far enough that he was sure he’d passed over the tunnel below, he cut south through the low, trimmed bushes. He had to get to the east side of the overpass below before she did. That would be the best place.
The bushes became larger as he continued south. The neatly trimmed standard fell by the wayside, with chaotic natural growth taking its place. He scrambled through them and around a few trees. This would be a better place, but how was he supposed to get someone into this thicket? He could see the river below, but not the overpass yet.
She couldn’t have made it through yet, could she?
He looked further along the eastbound path below and saw no one.
She had to still be coming. Had to be.
He ducked beneath a tree limb and around a thick shrub. He was definitely on a downward slope now. The few trees gave way again, leaving only bushes in his way. He continued forward.
The steep set of stairs came into view, thirty or forty yards ahead, by his reckoning.
No sign of her.
He smiled. He was going to make it. He was going to peek around the corner into that dark underpass and see her shadowy form coming toward him. Her clicking heels would echo under there. He’d wait until she was three quarters of the way to him, then he’d charge her. One crack in the mouth and she’d be quiet. Then he’d push her face into the wall and nail her.
And then—
The natural growth gave way to manicured bushes again. Right at the edge of the bushes, his foot struck something heavy and he tumbled forward onto the grass with a grunt. He was able to get his hands out to break his fall. The damp grass was slippery enough to cause him to slide several feet.
“What the hell, dude?”
He looked up. A tall, thin young man sat near the edge of the bushes. The kid was a flurry of movement, which took him a moment to understand.
He was pulling on his pants.
The smaller, shadowy figure beside him drew the blanket up to cover herself.
“What’s your problem, perv?” she asked in a shrill voice.
“I’m gonna to kick your ass,” the young man said, kicking his feet through the bottom of his pants.
He sat still for a moment. Down below, he recognized the distant echo of clicking heels on asphalt.
The young man pulled the trousers over his hips.
“I’m just out for a jog,” he told the young man, disguising his voice slightly.
“Bullshit,” the kid said, scrambling to his feet.
“I was.”
“Bullshit. Who jogs through the bushes with all these open paths?”
“Yeah,” the girl said. “And at night? You asshole pervert.”
He looked down at the overpass. The secretary or whatever she was emerged from the underpass and started up the steep stairs. To safety.
Goddamn it.
He’d missed her.
“I’m gonna kick your ass,” the young man told him again.
He turned back toward the skinny little bastard, anger coursing through him. He stood up and growled, “You ruined everything.”
“I’m going to ruin your face, asshole.”
The young man stepped toward him confidently, his fists balled at his side.
The anger turned cold inside. He had to be smart. He didn’t need any attention.
The tension in the young man’s body was obvious, even in the moonlight. He bounced with every step he took forward.
He waited patiently for the punch to come.
When the young man loaded up his punch and prepared to throw it, he was ready. Hell, he could have been ready three times over, it took the kid so long.
The punch came and the kid’s whole body behind it. If it landed, he’d probably be knocked out. But it wasn’t going to land.
As the punch neared his head, he slipped to the side, ducking out of the way. The young man’s fist whipped past his ear, but did not connect. The forward momentum carried the young man past him, causing him to slip on the grass and tumbled several yards down the hillside.
He didn’t wait for the kid to recover. Like a jackrabbit, he bolted back up the hillside, cutting through the bushes and around the few trees. Behind him, he heard a shout, but he kept on. When he broke through the brush and onto the path, he turned sharply to his left. The path yawned out in front of him. He took off, running with long strides that ate up the ground.
Even with a head start, he wondered if the kid might catch him. He was tall and thin, so he was probably a good runner. Still, he had no shoes on. That’d slow him down, whether he chose to run barefoot or paused to pull on some shoes.
As he reached the bottom of the sloping hill, the path split into three directions. He glanced over his shoulder for anyone in pursuit. No one.
He cut to the right, making for the footbridge that led off the island and into the parking lot where his car was safely parked.
Even if the kid was still chasing him, he didn’t know which way was the right way to turn. And he had the girl to get back to.
To finish with.
Like he should have finished that office bitch.
He pushed the thought of failure out of his mind and kept a steady run. His throat still burned with the after-effect of the mace. It seemed like his own body was mocking him. Calling out to him.
You’re nothing.
You’re worthless.
You’re like your father.
He glanced over his shoulder again. Still no pursuit. Maybe he was away clean. He slowed to a loping jog. His breath rattled in his ears.
He
was
like his father, at least in one way.
He knew how to treat women.
His father may not have taught him anything else worth a damn, but he sure taught him that.
He taught him about the whammo.
He taught him plenty.
When he reached the edge of the bridge, he cast another backward glance. Nothing. He let himself fall back to a trot as he veered to the left. Ahead, the trail led to the parking lot where he’d left his car.
Frustration gnawed at him. The pressure in his chest made his hands tremble.
Bitches ruin everything.
He would have to hunt again another night.
TEN
Saturday, April 20th
Graveyard Shift
2126 hours
Katie MacLeod adjusted the strap of the purse on her shoulder. The bag hung awkwardly at her side, an uncomfortable add-on that she couldn’t get used to. She found it both amusing and frustrating that it would matter what kind of purse she carried. But she became familiar with her purse when she was off duty in much the same way she became familiar with her police equipment on duty. Now, she was melding the two and it was all wrong. The strap on this one was too wide, but not long enough. The weight of the fake leather was off. The heavy police contents of the purse made it even worse. Unlike her own purse, which felt snug against her side when she gripped it, this one seemed to sway even when she tried pinning it with her elbow.
And besides, the purse was ugly as sin.
“This purse is so ugly,” she muttered, “even my Aunt Thea would throw it out.”
She wondered if Battaglia and O’Sullivan could hear her when she spoke that low while moving. When they’d tested the wire, they’d been able to hear her clearly from a block away, but that was with a clear line of sight and while she was standing still.
“It’s even uglier than that,” she muttered again, this time slightly quieter. “Even Batts would have the sense to throw it out.”
She stopped on the wide footbridge near the carousel. Below the bridge, The Looking Glass River streamed past languidly. The water gave off dark reflections of the trees along the bank and the taller downtown buildings just a block or so away. A lamp post behind her threw a yellowish light that cast her shadow onto the water.
Katie took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
I can do this.
She knew she wasn’t alone. Detective Tower was perched at the top of the clock tower, watching with a pair of binoculars. A SWAT sniper with a night vision scope stood by with him, just in case. O’Sullivan and Battaglia were at the pavilion in the middle of the park with a golf cart, ready to respond wherever she needed them. That should make her feel better, she reasoned.
The brick-like transmitter taped to the small of her back should have made her feel safer, too. Tower had a receiver. So did Sully and Batts. They could hear everything she said. Everything that happened around her.
If that weren’t enough, she had a police radio in her purse.
And her gun.
So she was safe.
Then why am I so afraid?
She focused on the question for a moment. She’d been on undercover specials before. They’d done a half dozen hooker special details over her career in which she’d posed as streetwalker and snared prospective johns. Last summer, she went on loan with the dope unit for almost a month and made hand-to-hand buys. Once, there’d been a rash of purse snatchings and she’d been tasked to stroll around downtown with all the other shoppers until the maggots tried to grab her purse, a much nicer one than the ugly bag they’d issued her tonight.
The point was, she’d done these kinds of sting operations before. She’d even been wired before. So tonight shouldn’t be any different.
A slurred, whispering voice from the past answered her question clearly.
Don’t be a goddamn tease!
Katie took in another deep breath and let it out.
This is no different,
she told herself.
No different.
Do your job.
Katie heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She glanced up. A man jogged lightly in her direction from the north. Katie looked away.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered into the microphone taped to her chest.
She kept her eyes averted, hoping to lure him in. A confident woman won’t look away, but a victim would. So she stared into the water, watching him approach on the edge of her vision.
He trotted closer. Fifteen yards now.
It can’t be this easy,
she thought.
Her hands were ice cold and slick with sweat.
Ten yards.
“Nice night,” the man said in a pleasant voice, his breath only slightly quickened from his exertion.
Katie looked up.
His eyes were on her.
She took in his face, his eyes, his frame. She figured he might be a habitual jogger and had great wind. That’s why no exertion in his voice. Or he was the Rainy Day Rapist and only started jogging a block away.
He continued to meet her gaze as he came closer.
Five yards now.
Katie didn’t answer him.
He smiled.
Katie popped the clasp on her ugly purse. She slid her hand inside and wrapped her fingers around the handle of her Glock. The cold, hard plastic gave her little comfort.
Three yards.
Two.
One.
And he whisked past her.
Katie watched him go. She realized that she’d been holding her breath and let it out in a whoosh.
“Goddamnit,” she muttered.
The jogger glanced over his shoulder at her, then shrugged and went on.
“Who tries to pick up women while he’s out jogging at night?” she said, staring after the retreating jogger in amazement. “What is he, Giovanni’s brother or something?”
Katie released her grip on the Glock. She hesitated, then left the clasp unhinged as she turned to walk away from the footbridge. With an effort, she forced herself to walk without any confidence. To accomplish this, she hunched her shoulders forward and shuffled her feet. She picked a spot on the path just a couple of yards ahead of her and stared at it while she walked. Every once in a while, she glanced up nervously, then returned her gaze to the ground.
Where next?
A quick look told her she was at a fork in the path. North led through a wooded area beside the YMCA building. That path eventually flowed out of the park to a parking lot next to the River City Flour Mill, an historic building full of shops that Katie was pretty sure would never sell anything as grotesque as the purse she was hauling around Riverfront Park.
Turning east would lead her toward the clock tower and under the Washington Street Overpass. Beyond that was an area known as the Lilac Bowl, a grassy hillside bordered by bushes and some trees on the north.
Katie paused, shuffling to a stop. She wondered where an aggressive rapist might lie in wait. Where might he strike?
She glanced to the dark path through the wooded area to the north. Images of Phil and the sound of his slurred voice came unbidden into her mind. She tried to brush them aside, but his voice kept whispering in her ear—
You liked it. Don’t forget that.
—accusing her. She felt pressure against her lips, reminiscent of his hand clamped across her mouth.
Katie felt her breath quicken. Sweat dampened the nape of her neck. She breathed in through her nose, but instead of the clean smell of river air and damp grass, the only scent that filled her nostrils was the ghostly aroma of Phil’s rum-coated breath.
She stood at the crossroad, unmoving.
2129 hours
Tower peered through the binoculars at MacLeod.
“If she goes north, my vision will be obscured by those trees,” he told Officer Paul Hiero.
“That’s all right,” Hiero told him, eyeing her through the rifle scope. “I should be able to pick her up with the night vision pretty well.”
Tower picked up his radio and keyed the mike. “Ida-409 to Adam-122.”
O’Sullivan answered immediately.
“-22, go ahead.”
“She’s at the fork just north of the footbridge.”
“Which footbridge? There’s about seven of ‘em.”
Tower frowned, but Sully was right. “Near the carousel,” he transmitted. “If she goes north, we’ll have a limited view of her from here.”