been driving the streets,” I said, “Silva’s not out walking the streets. He’s looking for cover. His trail is very clear. He went that way.”
Traffic cleared and Michaels and I trotted across Elm.
“I don’t like the feeling I’m getting off this trailer park,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
“I know. That’s what makes me think he’s in here.”
The black and white pulled into the park.
Silva’s trail got messier after he crossed the street. He’d stop and turn, presumably to check for occupants in the trailers. He’d stop outside a trailer, pause, then run on to the next one. All the trailers he stopped at had lights on. They were better off, too. Some had skirting around the bottoms. Silva’s trail turned when he got to an old silver trailer. It couldn’t be called a mobile home. The back of it was surrounded by sheds offering dark hidey-holes underneath. The windows were dark; the flimsy screen door hung ajar, not quite fitting right. It banged in the wind. Trees blocked the little light there was left, casting the tiny yard in shadow. I signaled Michaels to stay. I had to make sure this was the right one.
I examined the tracks. Silva had vaulted the three-foot wall surrounding the park and landed heavily on the other side. He’d paused, walked forward two steps, then paused again. He’d turned this way and that, listening. He’d crept to the side of the trailer and put his ear against it, his footprints shifting the soft sand. A little Bermuda grass grew here, but it was mostly just dirt. I noticed sandy handprints on the side of the trailer. The footprints went all the way around to the other side, where he’d peered in a window. He’d circled the trailer and entered. He was here and he was trapped.
I looked in the window and saw a trashed out interior. Food wrappers and dirty clothes covered the floor. Silva was rooting around in the junk, presumably looking for something useful. He didn’t know he’d been spotted yet. He thought he was in the clear. Another quiet hideout to hole up in till Oscar could pick him up.
I was turning to go back to the wall and find Michaels when two beady eyes appeared in the window.
“You!” he yelled. He pointed the gun at me and fired. I leapt to the side. Curses filled the air and the trailer started shaking as Silva fought his way through the trash and junk on the floor.
I rolled under the trailer and came out on the other side. I stood up and Silva filled the doorway of the trailer, gun in hand. Simultaneous explosions rocked the small yard. The smell of gunpowder stung my nose as I made a mad dash for the wall. Pain seared through my shoulder as I vaulted over. I sat on the other side, sheltered for a bit from the violence behind me.
Sirens filled the night and seconds later the flash of lights told me the police had closed in.
Michaels! Where was Michaels? I thought I had heard two shots. I assumed Silva’s shot was meant for me. But what if he’d seen Michaels? Silva wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. He was in escape mode.
“Cassidy!” I heard, “Cassidy, where are you?”
I poked my head up over the wall and there he was, searching underneath the trailer, glancing around, afraid of what he might find.
“Over here,” I said standing.
He rushed over, the relief clear on his face.
“You’ve been hit!” he exclaimed as a bloodstain spread down the arm of my shirt.
“It’s just a scratch. Stupid trailer, I caught my shoulder on an old lawnmower blade down there.”
Following the police, paramedics came in and cleaned me up a bit. It was just a cut. It bled like crazy but didn’t need any treatment. Silva wasn’t as lucky. They took him away on a stretcher.
My part in this mess was over. I turned to leave, sadness and tension bubbling up inside of me. I heard footsteps approaching from behind and Michaels joined me. We walked quietly back to the Roadster still parked outside my neighborhood. I looked up into his eyes. I saw kindness coupled with worry and uncertainty, but there was something else, too.
“I heard the shot.” He swallowed hard.
“I know. Me too.”
“Look, you haven’t had any dinner. I haven’t had any dinner. You need some space from all this and I need a statement. Let’s go to the interrogation room and get a bite to eat.”
“The interrogation room?”
“Or Zeke’s, come on. You need some space.”
I looked at the Roadster. This was Jack’s car and I hadn’t driven it much. Driving it brought back too many memories, but I knew it could get me out of a jam and Jack would have been glad I used it. The keys dangled from my finger and I glanced around at all the police. My driver’s license was at the house. Michaels’ car was at the house. I held out the keys to Michaels.
“What’s this?”
“I left my driver’s license at home and I didn’t think I should drive off with a cop and not have it.”
“That’s the reason?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
No, I wasn’t sure. The car was just too much to deal with right now. The memories, the tension I felt driving it. But I just said, “Yeah.”
“Okay, but I wouldn’t give you a ticket.”
“Thanks.”
We got in the Roadster and it slid out of the parking spot and cruised down the road. This car was a perfect match for Jack. It flew. It even had vanity plates that said FLY LOW. That was Jack. Jack flew. My Jeep Wrangler suited me, too. I thought about all the fingerprints on the Jeep. It would be dusted when I got back. Everything would be dusted. I hoped it wouldn’t be busted. My mind was spinning in little bitty circles as we rode along. In a way, I was glad. It kept me from staring at Michaels. It also had me worried about Shadow. What had Silva done to him? Maybe the police crashed my door before Silva caught him. Shadow was fast and my house was set up in a way that made it impossible to catch him. We often played tag in the house and Shadow always won. Maybe Silva had given up on dinner and made a run for it.
“I hear the wheels turning in that brain of yours,” he said as he drove along.
“Just thinking,” I replied.
“About what’s behind us or what’s ahead of us?” He pulled into a parking lot and found a parking place. It was crowded.
“Pizza?”
“Sure. Nothing is better for taking your mind off stressful things than a nice busy, noisy pizza place and a big pizza with all your favorite toppings. Zeke makes the best pizza.”
“I left my pack at home, too. No money.”
He guided me in. Guess money wasn’t an issue.
“Look, I’ve been cooking, getting beat on, sat around without a shower with a gun pointed at me. I’ve been tied up, thrown across a room,
