The Twelfth Card (44 page)

Cocking the gun to single action, so the trigger pull was more sensitive, she aimed and squeezed off two rounds, one slightly higher than the other.

The slugs zipped under the garage door and at least one punctured the right rear tire. As the car lurched to the right and collided hard with the brick wall of the alley, Sachs rose and sprinted toward the wreck, wincing from the pain. At the garage door she paused and looked around it. It turned out that
both
right tires were flattened; she’d hit the front one
as well. Boyd tried to drive away from the wall, but the front wheel was bent and frozen against the chassis. He climbed out, swinging the gun back and forth, searching for the shooter.

“Boyd! Drop the weapon!”

His response was to fire five or six shots toward the door. Sachs responded with one shot, which struck the car body inches from him, then she rolled to her right and rose fast, noting that Boyd was fleeing from her into the street beyond.

She could see the backdrop this time—a brick wall across the far street—and squeezed off another round.

But just as the gun fired, Boyd turned aside as if he’d been expecting this. The slug sailed past him, also inches away. He returned fire, a barrage of shots, and she dropped hard to the slimy cobblestones again, her radio shattering. He disappeared around the corner, to the left.

One shot left. Should’ve used only one on the tire, she thought angrily, as she rose and hurried after him as best she could on the painful leg. A pause at the corner where the alley met the sidewalk, a fast glance to the left. She saw his solid form sprinting away from her.

She grabbed the Motorola and pressed transmit. Nope, it was gone. Shit. Call 911 on the cell? Too much to explain, too little time to relay a message. Somebody in one of the buildings had to’ve called in about the shots. She continued after Boyd, breath rasping, feet slapping on the ground.

At the far intersection, the end of the block, a blue-and-white rolled to a stop. The officers didn’t climb out; they hadn’t heard the shots and didn’t know the killer and Sachs were here. Boyd looked up and saw them. He stopped fast and leapt over a
small fence then ducked underneath the stairway of an apartment building leading to the first floor. She heard kicking as he tried to break into the basement apartment.

Sachs waved toward the officers but they were looking up and down the cross street and didn’t see her.

It was then that a young couple stepped out the front door of the apartment directly across from Boyd. Closing the door behind them, the young man zipped up his vest against the chill day and the woman took his arm. They started down the stairs.

The kicking stopped.

Oh, no . . . Sachs realized what was about to happen. She couldn’t see Boyd but she knew what he was going to do. He was sighting on the couple now. He was going to shoot one or both, steal their keys and escape into the apartment—hoping again that the police would divide their forces to look after the wounded.

“Get down!” Sachs shouted.

Nearly a hundred feet away, the couple didn’t hear.

Boyd would be drawing a target on them now, waiting for them to get closer.

“Get down!”

Sachs rose and limped toward them.

The couple noticed her but couldn’t make out what she was saying. They paused, frowning.

“Get down!” she repeated.

The man cupped his hand behind his ear, shaking his head.

Sachs stopped, took a deep breath and fired her last bullet into a metal garbage can about twenty feet from the couple.

The woman screamed and they turned, scrabbling
up the stairs into their apartment. The door slammed.

At least she’d managed to—

Beside Sachs a block of limestone exploded, pelting her with hot lead and bits of stone. A half second later she heard the loud pop of Boyd’s gun.

Another shot and another, driving Sachs back, bullets striking feet from her. She stumbled through the yard, tripping over a foot-high wire edging fence and some plaster lawn ornaments, Bambis and elves. One slug grazed her vest, knocking the breath from her lungs. She went down hard in a planting bed. More slugs slammed home nearby. Boyd then turned toward the officers leaping out of their cruiser. He peppered the squad car with several rounds, flattening the tires and driving the officers to cover behind the car. The uniforms were staying put but at least they’d have called the assault in and other troops would be on the way.

Which meant of course that there was only one way for Boyd to go—toward her. She hunkered down for cover behind some bushes. Boyd had stopped firing but she could hear his footsteps getting closer. He was twenty feet away, she guessed. Then ten. She was sure that at any minute she’d see his face, followed by the muzzle of his weapon. Then she’d die . . .

Thud.

Thud.

Rising on an elbow, she could see the killer, close, kicking at another basement-apartment door, which was slowly starting to give way. His face was eerily calm—like that of The Hanged Man in the tarot card he’d intended to leave beside Geneva Settle’s body. He must’ve believed he’d hit Sachs because he ignored where she’d fallen and was concentrating on breaking through the doorway—the only escape
route left. He looked behind him once or twice, toward the far end of the block, where the uniformed officers were making their way toward him—though slowly since he’d turn and fire at them occasionally.

He too would have to be out of ammo pretty soon, she figured. He probably—

Boyd ejected the clip from his pistol and slipped a new one in. Reloaded.

Okay, well . . .

She could stay where she was, safe, and hope that other officers would get here before he escaped.

But Sachs thought of the brunette lying bloody in the bungalow—maybe dead by now. She thought of the electrocuted officer, the librarian killed yesterday. She thought of the young rookie Pulaski, his face battered and bloody. And mostly she thought of poor young Geneva Settle, who’d be at risk every minute Boyd was free and walking the streets. Clutching the empty gun, she came to a decision.

*   *   *

Thompson Boyd delivered another powerful kick into the basement door. It was starting to give way. He’d get inside, he’d—

“Don’t move, Boyd. Drop the weapon.”

Blinking his stinging eyes in surprise, Thompson turned his head. He lowered his foot, which was poised for another kick.

Well, now, what’s this?

Keeping his gun low, he turned his head slowly and looked toward her. Yes, like he’d thought, it was the woman from the crime scene at the museum library yesterday morning. Walking back and forth, back and forth, like the sidewinder. Red hair, white
jumpsuit. The one he’d enjoyed watching, admiring her. There was a lot to admire, he reflected. And a good shot, too.

He was surprised that she was alive. He thought for sure he’d hit her in the last barrage.

“Boyd, I will shoot. Drop your gun, lie down on the sidewalk.”

He thought a few more kicks at this door should break it in. Then into the alley behind the place. Or maybe the people who lived here had a car. He could take the keys and shoot whoever was inside, wound them, draw off more of the police. Escape.

But, of course, there was one question that had to be answered first: Did she have any ammunition left?

“You hearing me, Boyd?”

“So it’s you.” Squinted his stinging eyes. Hadn’t used any Murine lately. “Thought it might be.”

She frowned. She didn’t know what he meant. Maybe she was wondering if he’d seen her before, wondering how he knew her.

Boyd was careful not to move. He had to figure this out. Shoot her or not? But if he made the slightest motion toward her and she
did
have rounds left she’d fire. He knew that without a doubt. Nothing squeamish about this woman.

They’ll kill you in a kiss . . . .

He debated. Her gun was a six-round Smith & Wesson .38 special. She’d fired five times. Thompson Boyd always counted shots (he knew he himself had eight left in his present clip, and one more fourteen-round clip in his pocket).

Had she reloaded? If not, did she have one more round left?

There are police officers who keep an empty chamber under the hammer on revolvers on the rare
chance that accidentally dropping it will cause the gun to fire. But she didn’t seem to be that sort of person. She knew weapons too well. She’d never drop one accidentally. Besides, if she was doing tactical work, she’d want every round possible. No, she wasn’t an empty-cylinder kind of cop.

“Boyd, I’m not telling you again!”

On the other hand, he was thinking, this gun wasn’t hers. Yesterday at the museum she’d worn an automatic on her hip, a Glock. She still had a Glock holster on her belt now. Was the Smittie a backup piece? In the old days, when all cops had six-shooters, they sometimes carried another gun in an ankle holster. But these days, with automatics holding at least a dozen rounds and two extra clips on the belt, they usually didn’t bother with a second weapon.

No, he bet that she’d either lost her automatic or loaned it to somebody and had borrowed this one, which meant she probably
didn’t
have rounds to reload. Next question: Did the person she
borrowed
the Smittie from keep an empty chamber under the hammer? That, he’d have no way of knowing, of course.

So the question came down to what kind of person she was. Boyd thought back to the museum, seeing her searching like a rattlesnake. Thinking of her in the hallway outside the Elizabeth Street safe house, going through the door after him. Thinking of her coming after him now—leaving Jeanne to die from the bullet wound in her thigh.

He decided: She was bluffing. If she had a round left she’d have shot him.

“You’re out of ammo,” he announced. He turned toward her and raised his pistol.

She grimaced and the gun slumped. He’d been
right. Should he kill her? No, just shoot to wound. But where was the best place? Painful and life-threatening. Screaming and copious blood both attract a lot of attention. She was favoring one leg; he’d shoot the painful one, the knee. When she was down, he’d park another round in her shoulder. And get away.

“So you win,” she said. “What is it now? I’m a hostage?”

He hadn’t thought of this. He hesitated. Did it make sense? Would it be helpful? Usually hostages were more trouble than they were worth.

No, better to shoot her. He began to pull the trigger as she pitched her gun to the sidewalk in defeat. He glanced at it, thinking, Something’s wrong here . . . What was it?

She’d been holding the revolver in her
left
hand. But the holster was on her right hip.

Thompson’s eyes returned to her and gasped as he saw the flashing knife cartwheeling toward his face. She’d flung it with her right hand, when he’d glanced at her gun for a second.

The switchblade didn’t stick into him, or even cut—it was the handle that collided with his cheek—but she’d tossed it directly at his poor eyes. Thompson ducked away instinctively, lifting his arm to protect them. Before he could step back and draw a target, the woman was on him, swinging a stone she’d picked up from the garden. He felt a stunning blow on his temple, gasped at the pain.

He pulled the trigger once, and the gun fired. But the shot missed and before he could fire again the rock slammed into his right hand. The gun dropped to the ground. He howled and cradled his wounded fingers.

Thinking she’d go for the gun, he tried to body-block
her. But she wasn’t interested in the pistol. She had all the weapon she needed; the rock crashed into his face once more. “No, no . . . ” He tried to hit her, but she was big and strong, and another blow from the rock sent him to his knees, then his side, twisting away from the blows. “Stop, stop,” he cried. But in response he felt another blow of the rock against his cheek. He heard a howl of rage coming from her throat.

They’ll kill you . . .

What was she doing? he wondered in shock. She’d won . . . . Why was she doing this, breaking the rules? How could she? This wasn’t by the book.

 . . . in a kiss.

In fact, when the uniformed officers sprinted up a moment later, only one of them grabbed Thompson Boyd and cuffed him. The other got his arm around the policewoman and struggled to wrestle the bloody stone from her grip. Through the pain, the ringing in his ears, Thompson heard the cop saying over and over, “It’s okay, it’s okay, you got him, Detective. It’s cool, you can relax. He’s not going anywhere, he’s not going anywhere, he’s not going anywhere . . . . ”

Please, please . . .

Amelia Sachs was hurrying back to Boyd’s bungalow as fast as she was able, ignoring the congratulations from fellow officers and
trying
to ignore the pain in her leg.

Sweating, breathless, she trotted up to the first EMS medic she saw and asked, “The woman in that house?”

“There?” He nodded to the house.

“Right. The brunette who lives there.”

“Oh, her. I’ve got bad news, I’m afraid.”

Sachs inhaled a deep breath, felt the horror like ice on her flesh. She’d captured Boyd but the woman she could have saved was dead. She dug a fingernail into her thumb’s cuticle and felt pain, felt blood. Thinking: I did exactly what Boyd did. I sacrificed an innocent life for the sake of the job.

The medic continued, “She was shot.”

“I know,” Sachs whispered. Staring down at the ground. Oh, man, this would be hard to live with . . .

“You don’t have to worry.”

“Worry?”

“She’ll be okay.”

Sachs frowned. “You said you had bad news.”

“Well, like, getting shot’s pretty bad news.”

“Christ, I
knew
she was shot. I was there when it happened.”

“Oh.”

“I thought you meant she died.”

“Naw. Was a bleeder but we got it in time. She’ll be all right. She’s at St. Luke’s ER. Stable condition.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I’ve got bad news . . . .

Sachs wandered off, limping, and found Sellitto and Haumann in front of the safe house.