a grunt as a body landed on the ground outside the window. He tried to reach the window, but stumbled on the ruins of the door. Keller cursed as he fell full length on top of the splintered wood. He could hear footsteps outside the window, growing fainter as his quarry got away.
“Did it hurt?” the boy asked. “When the bad men shot you?”
“I hope it did,” the girl said spitefully. She sat down on the stoop and crossed her arms on her knees.
“You shouldn’t be so hateful,” Sanchez told her. “It will put lines on your face.” The girl gave him the finger.
Sanchez heard the sound of running footsteps. He turned toward the sound in time to see Manuel Olivera come tearing around the corner of the house. Sanchez could see the whites of his eyes. He raised his hand as if to signal Olivera to a stop. Then he saw the knife in the other man’s hand.
Keller heard the girl scream outside as he picked himself up off the ruined door. Then there was a sharp crack, like the report of a small pistol. He felt the blood drain from his face. Oscar, he thought. Oh, fuck. I shouldn’t have brought him. I shouldn’t have left him alone. He ran back down the hallway as fast as he could.
When he got back outside, the girl was sobbing, crouched over a prone figure on the sidewalk. Keller saw the glint of a knife in the grass a few feet away. There was blood on the girl’s hands. There was blood on the face of the man on the ground. Keller looked him over, mentally comparing the face to the photograph in his file. It was Manuel Olivera.
“I think he needs a doctor,” a voice said from behind Keller. He turned. Sanchez was standing there, propping himself against the house. He held up a dark piece of splintered wood. “And I need a new cane.”
“You can buy one with your cut of the fee,” Keller said.
Sanchez looked surprised. “My … cut?”
“Why not?” Keller said. “You did the takedown.”
“‘Ey!” the man on the ground said as he sat up. He held a hand to his face. Blood flowed from between his fingers. “That son of a bitch,” he said in heavily accented English. “He break my fucking nose!”
Keller and Sanchez looked at each other. “You said he didn’t speak English,” Sanchez said.
“Outdated information, I guess,” Keller replied. He opened the handcuffs with one hand. “On your feet, Manuel,” he said. “We’ll get you a doctor at the police station.”
“I sue you, son of a bitch!” Manuel said as he staggered to his feet. “I sue your ass off!”
“We’ll make an American out of you yet,” Keller said as he put the cuffs on.
It was being alone in the car that Marie found hardest to get used to. In the city, the usual practice had been to pair up officers for patrols. There had at least been another presence in the car, another voice besides the ones on the radio, even if some of the conversations with her male colleagues had left her gritting her teeth. But the county sheriff didn’t have that kind of manpower, and they had a lot more ground to cover out in the county, so deputies rode alone.
Not that that many people were talking to me by the time I left, she thought bitterly. Not only had she lost her partner, she had had the bad grace to testify to the truth: that Eddie Wesson’s death was due to his own bad judgment. After that, conversations stopped when she walked into the room. She was assigned desk work, since no one would agree to ride with her. After two months of that, she had applied for the job with the county. A large number of deputies had signed up for the National Guard to supplement their meager pay. When the Second Gulf War came, the local guard unit was among the first called up and the sheriff suddenly faced the prospect of nearly a dozen deputies being sent to Iraq to guard convoys instead of patrolling the highways and back roads of the county. The department couldn’t afford to be picky.
“Thirty-five, County,” the radio crackled.
Marie picked up the mike. “Go ahead, County.” “Proceed to the Citgo gas station at 4500 Thurlow Church Road. Possible 10-62.”
It took Marie a second to recall the unusual code.
Then she got it. “Say again, County?”
The dispatcher’s voice remained as flat and unexcited as a computer’s. “Possible 10-62, 4500 Thurlow Church Road. Be advised, EMS and detectives en route.” Marie’s heart raced. 10-62. Homicide. She kept her voice steady as she replied, “10-4.” She hit the switch for the lights and siren and stepped on the gas.
“I ain’t sure I like this, Laurel,” Roy said. His accent had thickened with his agitation. “We had a plan. We ought to stick to it.”
They had driven the few miles through the country to the on-ramp for Interstate 95. They turned south and were quickly caught up in the flow of traffic. Roy turned the radio on low.
“Relax, Roy,” Laurel said. “We just got started a little sooner than we planned. But we was about ready anyway. Besides, look at how much more walkin’ around money we got this way.” She fanned the wad of bills in her hand at him. She looked back at Stan in the backseat. “Thanks, Stan,” she grinned.
Stan felt unreal, as if he were dreaming. The adrenaline shock was wearing off, and he was beginning to shake. “Uh, no problem,” he said.
“Hey, kid,” Roy called back to him from the driver’s seat of the Mustang. “How come your old man had so much cash lying around?”
“He wasn’t my old man,” Stan said automatically.
Roy shrugged. “Whatever.”
“He has … had … a system. If you paid cash, he’d give you a big discount on mechanical work. ‘Cause he didn’t have to claim it for taxes.”
Laurel pulled her face into an exaggerated expression of disapproval and clucked her tongue. “People got no respect for the law these days.” She and Roy laughed. Then her face turned serious. “And he kept it at the station because he didn’t want your mama to know about it?”
Stan nodded.
“You didn’t tell your own mama?” Roy said. Laurel got that scary hard look again. “You know why, Roy,” she said. She looked back at Stan. “But you ain’t got to be afraid anymore,” she said.
Stan didn’t know what to say to that. The fact was, he was more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. He felt as if he had just taken a running leap out the door of an airplane without checking to see if he had a parachute. They drove for a while in silence. After a few miles, they took the off-ramp for U.S. 74. They headed east.
“Umm … where are we going?” Stan said.
“Back to my place,” Roy answered. “I was just up to Fayetteville to pick up a few, ah, supplies from someone I know. We’ll stop by my house and get the rest of what we need, then head out tomorrow night.” They took a side road.
“Head out where?” Stan asked.
“Turn this song up, Roy,” Laurel interrupted. “I like this one.” She didn’t wait, but reached over and turned the radio up full, drowning out Stan’s repeated question. The crunch
