Moroconi threw the truck into first gear. Gunfire erupted almost immediately. Travis shoved the paper into his pocket and dove away from the truck. The hell with attorney-client loyalty; he was getting out of the line of fire.
Travis rolled back onto his feet and surveyed the action. Whatever else he might say about Moroconi, he couldn’t accuse him of being gutless. Instead of trying to escape, he was careening straight toward the shadow men on the sidewalk, who continued to fire off shot after shot. One of them hit the windshield, shattering it into a million pieces. Moroconi kept on coming.
At the last possible moment the men leaped away. The man on the right got clear of the truck; the other one didn’t. He screamed, his terror-stricken face transfixed in the headlights. The truck crushed the man against the red brick wall of the Butcher Shop. The impact was loud and sickening, a horrifying crunch of metal and flesh. Travis wondered if Moroconi had killed himself as well.
He didn’t have to wonder long. The truck jerked into reverse. It separated noisily from the brick wall and did an about-face in the cul-de-sac.
Travis rose to his feet and saw the remaining shadow man do the same. He was groping around on the pavement—must have lost his gun.
Suddenly Moroconi swerved around and aimed the truck at the gunman. The man plunged into the darkness, making a beeline for a narrow alley between buildings. Moroconi couldn’t possibly follow him. He reversed the truck and headed back toward the sidewalk café he had trashed on his way in.
Just as Travis thought the worst might be over, he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet whistling by not more than a foot from his head. Guess the man located his gun, Travis thought; he must be firing from within the alley. And Travis was a sitting duck.
In the split second during which Moroconi’s truck approached, Travis realized it was his last chance to elude the gunman. He could hardly outrun him, and recent events had indicated he wasn’t likely to overpower him in hand-to-hand combat either. He watched the truck carefully, concentrating on its speed, its direction. As the truck swerved around him Travis jumped onto the back bumper and clutched the tailgate for dear life.
Moroconi blasted through the café again. Naturally, he was too stupid to follow the path he’d cleared before. He had to annihilate more tables and chairs, making the ride good and rocky. Travis glanced back and saw the gunman run to the center of the cul-de-sac. The gunshots sounded like distant claps of thunder. They weren’t even close. It was too dark, and the truck was moving too quickly.
Moroconi took a sharp curve, flinging Travis sideways against the tailgate. He held on desperately, gripping the back of the truck with all his might. Moroconi hit another curb, and Travis felt the full impact shoot through his arms and shoulders. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. But he also knew he had to get farther away. If that goon with the gun had a car nearby, he could easily drill Travis before he got back to his own car.
The wind blasted through Travis’s hair and stung his eyes. His arms were beginning to ache. Travis saw Moroconi glance into his side-view mirror, then grin from ear to ear. He knew Travis was hitching a ride.
Moroconi began to swerve back and forth for no reason, sending the truck lurching over the road. Travis gritted his teeth and held on tight. His hands were sweating profusely, making it even more difficult to maintain a solid grip.
Moroconi hit the railroad tracks flying. The impact knocked Travis into the air. His hands slid crossways, then his chin struck the tailgate. He was practically horizontal across the back bumper, hanging on by his fingertips. Moroconi took another sadistic swerve, and it was over. Travis flew off the bumper and smacked down onto the gravel.
He lay motionless for a long moment, taking a physical inventory. He knew it was only a few feet from the tailgate to the ground, but he felt as if he had fallen off the top of the Statue of Liberty. He hurt like hell, but all his extremities were still attached. He opened his eyes in time to see Moroconi leaning out the truck window, laughing hysterically as he drove off into the distance.
Travis forced himself to his feet. His chest ached. The pain was so sharp he could barely catch his breath, but he made himself jog the rest of the way to the parking lot. He had to reach his car before the man with the gun did. From there he could try to determine what was going on.
And what the hell he was going to do next.
23
2:00 A.M.
TRAVIS WHEELED HIS CAR onto Walnut Hill Lane, passed his apartment building, and parked his car on the far side of the block. Maybe he was being overcautious, but he wanted to play it safe. After all, he might be slow, but he wasn’t stupid. Those goons had known him by name, and they hadn’t shown up at the West End just then by coincidence. They might have followed Moroconi—God knows he was making enough noise—but if so, how did they get into position with that searchlight so quickly? It just wasn’t possible. And that left two scenarios. Either they had followed Travis, or they had eavesdropped on his phone conversation with Moroconi.
Travis didn’t have to be an ex-cop to know how painfully simple it was to bug a telephone line. Any fool with the right equipment and a vo-tech course in electronics could accomplish it. And based on recent experiences, Travis didn’t think he was dealing with fools.
Travis spent the drive to his apartment considering his choices. He could go to the police—but men, the goons behind the searchlight had claimed to be police. They sure as hell didn’t act like the police, but someone must’ve helped Moroconi break out of jail. He couldn’t have done it without inside help. If the police department was tainted, going to them would be risky—possibly suicidal. No, he had a better, safer plan, at least for starters. But to exercise it, he needed to get inside his apartment.
He eased out of his car slowly, checking both sides of the street. He started jogging down the block, wincing at the sharp stabbing sensations in his chest, then he decelerated to a brisk walk. He just hoped all this stress didn’t trigger his ulcer. That was the last complication he needed now.
Travis cautiously rounded the corner and peered down the street outside his apartment. A green four-door sedan was parked about ten feet north of the entrance. Exactly where he would be, Travis reflected, if he were staking out the building. Travis spotted two heads slumped low in the front seat.
He turned back the way he’d come, careful not to attract any attention. He couldn’t risk being spotted while he was so far away from his car.
His head ached. What was he going to do now? He couldn’t possibly go through the front door without being seen. And the back entrance was boarded up.
He had to get in there, though. Otherwise he didn’t stand a chance.
24
7:45 A.M.
TRAVIS WAITED FOR STACI at the corner where he knew she met the bus every weekday morning. As soon as she appeared, he stepped out from behind a cluster of elm trees and whistled.
“Travis!” Staci ran to him. “Omigosh! What happened to you?”
Travis hadn’t even considered his appearance. After his beating in the men’s room, his pummeling on the back of Moroconi’s pickup, and being up all night, he realized he must look awful. “Nothing serious, honey.”
“Travis, your clothes are torn, your face—”
“It’s nothing. Really.” A yellow school bus pulled up to the corner. “Look, I need your help.”
“Oh boy! Are we going to work on your big case?”
“Well, in a way. I was wondering … do you know where your two friends from the basketball court are?”