He locked eyes with the man behind the wheel. A man who believed he was above everything. Who wrecked the lives of those around him with a solipsistic abandon.
No. A tie isn’t good enough. You need to beat him. For Sarah. For Rosemary.
For yourself.
He dove aside. The car was huge and breathing hot as it blew past. He hit the ground on his shoulder, managed to hold on to the gun. Brakes squealed as Thomas fought against his own velocity. The Aston Martin slid sideways, skidded, knocked trash cans like dominoes. Then the transmission ground, an ugly sound, and the car lurched forward.
Nunn was on his feet and running for the Mercedes.
He hauled himself in, tossed the gun on the seat, started up the car, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The valet stood frozen as the Mercedes smashed through a brass luggage cart, sending designer bags flying. A horn screamed from behind. Nunn ignored it, yanked the wheel back to fight the fishtail. Ahead of him, Thomas streaked between two cars.
Now what?
The Aston Martin was probably faster than the Mercedes Nunn had stolen.
Then find another way.
Union Square was a shopping district, the lanes wide, the intersections marked in clean paint and smooth pavement. Logos blurred outside his windows, Urban Outfitters and Apple and Diesel. The sidewalks were almost as wide as the-
Wait a second, think about this before you-
Nunn jumped the curb, took the Mercedes up on the sidewalk. Beat out a warning on his horn without taking his foot off the gas. Late shoppers stared with cow eyes. Rich women clutched bags that held his month’s salary. A longhair in a dashiki leaped aside, yelling curses. Nunn gritted his teeth and rode the edge, made it to the corner, blasted off the sidewalk, spinning the car as he went, south on Fourth now. Ahead, the Aston Martin wove between cars, the traffic slowing it. Until he got a clean run, Christopher Thomas’s expensive toy wasn’t going to help him much.
So he’ll be going for a clean run. You need to beat him there.
But how?
As he crossed Mission, he saw the answer.
When Christopher had seen the ex-cop at the top of the garage ramp, he’d thought for a moment it was all over. Artie’s body was flopped on the floor of a hotel room with his fingerprints all over it-no explaining that. But good old Jon Nunn remained as predictable as he had been when he’d worked the case. Instead of coming with an army of police, he was here alone on some sort of revenge mission. Still underestimating Christopher, still not realizing whom he was playing against. No, it didn’t matter that he’d let Nunn live. The man wouldn’t be a concern. Christopher just had to get a little space. Then to the Oakland airport, where a private jet waited, creamy leather upholstery and chilled champagne and a phone to begin arranging his final disappearance.
A Volkswagen Beetle stopped dead in front of him for no discernible reason. Christopher jerked the wheel, managed to squeeze the Aston Martin between the Beetle and a utility truck parked halfway up the curb. Stupid sheep with their stupid little cars. Ridiculous vehicle. He had to get some space. But where? The next street was Howard, five or six lanes running one way the wrong way, and after that another slow block…
There comes a moment in the work of any painter when he stops thinking and begins to operate on instinct. When he goes with his impulses. It’s the thing that turns a good artist into a great one.
Christopher turned left onto Howard, found himself staring at staggered headlights like accusing eyes. His heart beat harder, and he was conscious of the feel of the steering wheel in his palm, of the cool of the air-conditioning. A movie theater rushed by his side window. He swerved to miss a delivery truck. Let’s see that son of a bitch keep up with this. He smiled, wove the Aston Martin to one side, then the other, the howl of horns almost symphonic. Yerba Buena Gardens on his left, trees and tourists, and-
No. It couldn’t be.
Those lights smearing across the park, weaving between the trees, getting larger, they couldn’t be-
Nunn squinted out the window, concentration whitening his knuckles. Driving right through Yerba goddamn Buena, he must be losing it, it was crazy, he could hurt someone-
How’s this for not passively letting things happen around you?
Someone shrieked. His headlights caught nightmare images, young lovers leaping aside, a juggler staring as his bowling pins plummeted, a family pushing a stroller, Fuck, Nunn swung hard the other way, an oak forty feet tall, he pulled back, the side of the Mercedes scraping against the trunk, the side mirror snapping off with a pop, and then sidewalk, the tires gripping hard-What now, Jon?-and the staircase opening up like an answered curse; he grit his teeth and held down the horn and hurtled down the steps and saw the Aston Martin tear by, Christopher Thomas’s eyes no longer arrogant and certain.
Nunn whooped, forced the Mercedes left to follow. One car length behind, maybe two. Thomas wove back and forth across the lanes, the oncoming traffic keeping him from opening the car up, and Nunn rode him down, closing the distance an inch at a time. Thomas went right and gained himself a quick twenty feet, until Nunn cut across the corner and took it back. He felt his lips curling in a smile unlike any he’d known in ten years.
Until the Aston Martin made another turn, and Nunn realized where Thomas was going.
No, no, no!
Nunn held the accelerator down, rocked back and forth in his seat, willing the car to go faster. He had to catch the man. Had to catch him soon.
The Bay Bridge was straight and broad and four and a half miles long. Thomas’s pretty little car would practically set it on fire.
Come on, come on.
Thomas hit Essex, spun the car hard, and started up the bridge. He began to widen the distance immediately, the roar of his engine louder even than Nunn’s heart.
No. It couldn’t be, not now. Not after all of this. It wasn’t fair.
Fair? Ask Rosemary about fair.
Because just like her, he was going to lose.
Christopher thrilled at the sound the engine made, the way the Aston Martin responded to his command. He dodged between cars, easier now that he was going the right direction. When the RPM needle was deep in the red, he upshifted, felt the car leap ahead.
Something in the moment was quite lovely. For years he and Nunn had been collaborators of a sort. True, the cop hadn’t known he was alive, but even so, together they had created a work of art. The canvas had been spun of human lives, the paint mixed of blood and tears and semen, the subject wealth and desire and betrayal. And now it ended.
Collaborations don’t last, Jon. One man is always the greater artist.
Christopher felt something tighten deep in his belly, a feeling that reminded him of the one he’d had as Artie crawled across his carpet. That sweet, stretched feeling of complete victory. He grinned, brushed his hair back from his eyes. Looked into the rearview mirror, savoring the image of Nunn’s car shrinking. What the man must be feeling! It might be Christopher’s masterpiece, even better than Rosemary. To take so much from a man, not just his marriage, but his career, his faith in justice, even his hope, then simply leave him behind, powerless to do anything but watch, it was-
Bright fire bloomed in the Aston Martin. The light seemed to flare right in front of Christopher, as though he were snapping a lighter.
A metallic thunk, meaty and clean.
Another flash from behind, and his rear window spiderwebbed.