She hesitated at the junction of two gloomy streets, ears straining for any hint of a pursuer. A scrape from behind her, no more than twenty yards, reaffirmed her worst fears before she forced them away and slowed her breathing. That could have been anything. A cat. One of the heaping garbage bags she’d passed rustling in the breeze. Something shifting inside them, or a rat burrowing for buried treasure. Anything at all.
When she rounded the corner she sprinted for the parking lot, all pretense of calm gone as she ran on tiptoes to avoid the sound of her heels alerting whoever was behind her that she was in full flight. Because now, in spite of her inner dialogue, she was sure someone was tailing her.
Visions of serial killers played through her imagination as she reached the waist-high concrete wall that encircled the lot. She pushed through the gate, wincing at the groan of its corroded hinges, and made her way to her car as she fished in her overcoat for her key ring. God, she hoped it would start on the first try. She cursed silently at how she’d been putting off taking the old Buick to the dealership for months.
A decision she prayed wouldn’t prove her undoing.
Patricia fumbled with her keys and got the door open. She wasted no time sliding behind the wheel and throwing her purse on the seat beside her before twisting the ignition. The doors locked automatically as the starter ground.
“No. Oh, God, no. Come on. Come on!” she murmured.
Two black-gloved hands slammed against the driver’s side window. Patricia screamed and wrenched the ignition again. With a phlegmy roar, the engine coughed a cloud of black exhaust. She shifted into gear and floored the accelerator just as she registered the unmistakable shape of a pistol in her side mirror. Patricia swerved toward the street, ducking in panic as she saw the orange blossom of a muzzle flash and her rear window blew out in a shower of safety-glass fragments.
The old vehicle bounced over the curb with a jolt as she cut the driveway too tight, and then she was speeding down the empty street. Behind her, a pair of headlights blazed to life and grew frighteningly large. She gazed in spellbound horror in her rear view mirror as the shooter’s vehicle pulled after her, and she spun the wheel, hurtling toward the highway that led to the safety of her modest home ten minutes outside town.
Patricia blew through the red light at the base of the onramp. Panic replaced her momentary relief when the glare of headlights reappeared behind her, gaining on her even as she strained to drive the gas pedal through the floorboard, pulse pounding in her ears, a band of pressure tightening around her chest.
“Come on. Come on…” she hissed, willing the aging Buick to greater speed as she raced by the old gas station that marked the town periphery, the arched windows of its fifties-era building as dark as the night sky.
A cold wind tore at the trees along the highway as the speedometer needle inched past eighty, faster than she’d ever forced it, but insufficient to pull away from the vehicle closing on her. Her gaze darted to the mirror again, where she could see the other car a hundred yards behind.
Patricia was doing ninety-six miles per hour when she missed the curve just before the river bridge. Her tires screeched like a wounded animal, and then she was sailing through space in a graceless arc.
The sedan chasing her slowed until it rolled to a stop halfway across the bridge’s span. The passenger reached up with a gloved hand and flipped the interior light off, and then opened his door and stepped out into the freezing gloom. His head swiveled right, then left, verifying that he was alone. He approached the edge of the bridge and peered into the darkness at the inky rushing water of the river hundreds of feet below. There, at the base of the gorge, was the Buick, partially submerged, mangled beyond recognition.
He shook his head and pulled his overcoat around him, slim protection against the chill wind as he returned to the waiting car.
“Nobody could have survived that,” he said, swinging the door open.
“Now what?” the driver asked, hands loose on the wheel.
The passenger glanced at the moon grinning crookedly from between the clouds.
“Now it gets hard.”
Chapter Three
Drake Simmons peered over the dashboard of his Honda Accord at the row of clapboard homes across the street and took another sip from his lukewarm can of cola.
He hated stakeouts. Endless hours watching and waiting for the perp to appear, which often never happened, rendering for naught his patient vigil living off caffeine and peeing into a Gatorade bottle. He ran a hand over the dusting of dark beard on his lean face and wondered again how he’d wound up in this business rather than using his journalism degree.
The job market had gone from bad to worse since he’d graduated five years ago. Finding criminals who’d skipped out on their bond wasn’t quite in the same league as being an investigative reporter, but it required many of the same attributes: patience, dogged determination, research skills, and a certain crazy recklessness that had defined his character since childhood. It was just a lower-rent version of how he’d imagined himself, playing out his Woodward and Bernstein fantasies as the star of a major newspaper.
The door to one of the squalid houses opened and a tall man with the jaundiced pallor of an addict sauntered down the stairs, eyes scanning the street. Drake slumped down behind the steering wheel and pushed a long lock of dark brown hair off his forehead, and then adjusted his Oakley sunglasses before sliding up just enough to see.
No question that was his boy. Alan Cranford, two-time B&E loser up for his third count, a junkie, a thief, a cheat, and now a fugitive after he failed to appear at his arraignment last week. But most importantly, Cranford meant five thousand dollars in Drake’s pocket as his fee – ten percent of the bond’s value, which the scumbag had allowed his aging mother to post before kicking her, and the bail bondsman, to the curb.
Cranford had a rep for being violent, Drake knew from Harry Rivera, his sometimes employer and longtime friend.
“Be careful, kid. He’s mean as a reservoir dog and twice as dangerous,” Harry had warned in his distinctive gravelly voice, tempered by two packs a day of unfiltered Pall Malls and an affinity for Jack Daniels. “Last time he was in the joint he almost killed his cell mate. You don’t wanna play him wrong.”
“Sounds like my kind of fella,” Drake had said as he’d studied the photographs Harry handed him. “A sweetheart, really. I’ll just ask him politely to come in with me – that should do the trick.”
“Drake, don’t go overboard. I can’t afford any more complaints. Do you read me?”
“Complaints? Of course they’re going to complain. I drag their asses back to justice. What do you expect?”
“No unnecessary force. I’m still taking heat over Jarvis.” Mel Jarvis had been a drug dealer who’d skipped on an eighty-grand bond. He’d tried to remove most of the top of Drake’s skull with a two-by-four when Drake had caught up with him after a three-day meth binge at one of his girlfriends’ houses. Drake had tackled him and Jarvis had hit his head on the sidewalk when he’d fallen, resulting in a concussion and more than a few stitches. Of course the girlfriend had lied and said Drake had beaten her boyfriend unconscious. The police were still looking into the matter, although no charges had been filed – they had slim patience for dope dealers who skipped on bail.
“Jarvis was a fecal spec. He tried to brain me. What was I supposed to do? Frown? Give him one of my scary looks? Guy was trying to kill me.”
“That’s not what his squeeze said.”
“I love it when you use that old time talk. I think they call ’em ‘shorties’ now.”
“Just bring him in without any broken bones. All right? You don’t want the contract, I got guys knee deep begging for work.”
“I’ll bring him in soft. I promise. Maybe I’ll use passive aggression. Perps looking at their third strike respond well to that. If he gets snotty, I’ll scowl disapprovingly or something.”
“Okay, smartass. Just go find him and stop breathing my air.”
Drake was pulled back to the present as he watched Cranford return to the door. Someone inside handed him a backpack. Cranford threw the street another predatory glare and began walking toward the main boulevard two blocks away.
Drake reached over the passenger seat and grabbed the bulky pistol grip of his stun gun, and then exited the car, the weapon’s bulk hidden in the oversized gray hoodie he favored for stakeouts. Patting the steel handcuffs in his pocket, he locked his doors with a chirp and sauntered across the street, pretending to talk on his cell phone as he bee-lined for Cranford.
It was looking like an easy takedown until some part of Cranford’s reptilian brain sensed he was being followed. He broke hard right across a ramshackle house’s brown lawn, accelerating with surprising agility for a dope fiend. Drake gave chase, his Converse Chuck Taylors pounding the ground as he turned on the speed. Cranford vaulted over a four-foot-high chain link fence and into the home’s yard, and Drake hesitated, but only for a second, any worries about trespassing overshadowed by the five grand Cranford represented.
He landed on the far side of the fence in time to see his quarry darting across the back lawn, which was littered with dog droppings and trash. Cranford threw his hands over the top of a wooden fence at the rear of the lot and pulled himself up and over. Drake was just about to follow him when the back door of the house creaked open and an old woman’s sandpaper voice called out.
“You. What are you doing in my yard? Filthy punk. Brutus! Get him!”
Drake gripped the fence and cursed under his breath at Cranford for making this hard. He was scrambling up, feet trying for a grip as he hoisted himself, when Brutus made all hundred and ten pounds of his Rottweiler presence known with a chomp on Drake’s left leg. Drake screamed and kicked at the monster as he boosted himself over the fence, his ankle radiating pain.
He tumbled into another yard and winced. After confirming that the dog’s teeth hadn’t penetrated his skin, Drake took off after Cranford, who was fumbling with a tall iron gate at the side of the house. He reached him just as Cranford was turning toward him, a sneer on his face, the metal trash can by his side emanating the telltale stink of a recent fishing expedition on the bay.
Drake pulled the stun gun from his pocket and held it aloft.
“It’s over. Only question is if you want to do this the easy way, or the way that zaps the crap out of you. All the same to me.”
Cranford responded by ducking to the side and lifting the garbage can in front of him to block Drake’s shot. Then he charged him, using the can for cover. Drake dodged to the left, but not enough to completely avoid the container, and found himself covered in fish guts and beer dregs as it struck his ribcage, knocking him backward. He landed on the ground with a grunt, and by the time he’d rolled and gotten the stun gun aimed, Cranford was swinging a leg at him, trying to kick his teeth in.
Cranford’s work boot struck him a glancing blow on the side of his head. A starburst exploded behind his eyes, and then he had the punk’s foot in his grip and the gun pointed at his crotch. He fired and heard a howl of agony as he shocked Cranford, who dropped like a sack of twitching rocks. Drake sat up and shook his head, trying to clear it, and zapped Cranford again, just for good measure.
“There. You like that? That what you had in mind?” Drake stood unsteadily and tossed the cuffs at Cranford. “Put those on. Try anything and you get another dose.”
A man’s voice boomed from the rear of the house. “What’s going on? I’ve got a gun.”
Great. Just what he needed. Drake looked over his shoulder.
“I’m apprehending a criminal, sir. Please don’t shoot me.” Drake returned his attention to Cranford. “Put the cuffs on or I push the button. Now.”
All the fight had gone out of Cranford, and he grudgingly snapped the cuffs in place. The man approached carrying a shotgun and stood a safe distance away.
“Why are you in my yard?” he demanded.
“This scumbag jumped the fence and was trying to get your gate open. I followed him over.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”
Drake shook his head. “No, he’s a bail skip.”
“So you’re a bounty hunter?”
“I much prefer fugitive recovery agent.”
“Well, Mister Fugitive Recovery Agent, my brother’s in the joint doing hard time, and I don’t like the law. Especially bounty hunters. So I’m gonna call the cops while you two wait, and then I’m filing trespassing charges. Now don’t you move,” he ordered, and pulled a phone from his pocket. Drake swore under his breath. He wasn’t supposed to trespass. That was one of the cardinal rules of his trade and a very real legal issue. Harry would be livid, and worse, the charge was likely to stick, if the man couldn’t be dissuaded from pushing it.
“Yes, sir. Of course, I wouldn’t have had to enter your property if this dangerous felon hadn’t been there first.”
“Shut your pie hole. You play this way for a living, you take the hits.”
A small voice called out from the open doorway. “Ew. You got fish guts on you, mister.”
Drake sighed, trying not to gag at the reminder of the rotting leavings soaked into his hoodie.
“I know, kid.”
The man snarled over his shoulder. “Shut up. Bailey, go back into the house. Git. Now.”
“I ain’t outta the house.”
“You want a strapping? Talkin’ back like that? Get back inside. Now.”
“You gonna shoot ’em?”
The man grinned, an ugly display of marginal dental work that chilled Drake’s marrow. “Never know, son. Now git.”
Sirens greeted them several minutes later, and Drake stood by patiently while the disgruntled homeowner insisted on swearing out a complaint. A second squad car arrived and carted Cranford back to jail as the officer finished filling out the form and had the owner sign it.
“All right, Simmons. You know the drill. We gotta take you in and book you.”
Drake shook his head. “Tell me this is a joke.”
“Wish it was. Sorry. Let’s go. Oh, and I need your Taser.”