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.