Exit Interview, page 19
I paused when I heard the click. Empty. I dropped the clip, fumbled the fresh one, and grabbed it from the hot pebbled roof with shaking fingers. I finally grabbed the clip and managed to slap it in, which stung my hand like hell.
When I looked up, one of the men was coming my way. The T-Rex who’d fallen after I shot him. I hadn’t shot him thoroughly enough.
I shot the gun repeatedly and actually hit him twice more. He dropped his weapon and lurched toward me, zombie-like. Contrary to my expectations, he didn’t just drop in a faint. He was clearly used to the sight of his own blood. I emptied the clip as I tried to scoot backward. The last shot hit him.
I held up my hands, but he fell dead on top of me, crushing me into the sunbaked gravel. I almost lost my lunch right then and there. The thought that there might be worse to come kept me shoving, struggling to get out from underneath him, find the other clip, find Marie… I’d heard a crunch in my bag, which was under me…
A short weedy guy disengaged himself from the battle and ran to the door. He vanished. I heard one more body collapse behind me. It sounded large. I hoped it was male…
Marie dashed out, looking around. “Where is he? That little one?”
There was a metallic screech behind the shut door. It took a moment to realize it didn’t have anything to do with the guy on top of me.
“Over there!”
She looked around, confused, and then saw where I was pointing. She ran to the door.
I could feel a warm wetness spreading over me. I redoubled my efforts to shove the body away, but it was incredibly heavy. No one relaxes that much when they’re alive; they’re always trying to move off you or support themselves.
She ran over to the door, tried it. Locked and jammed.
“Shoot it!”
“It won’t do any good.” But she aimed and fired, twice. No luck. “He’s not Heath’s! I’ve got to find him!”
“This one’s dead.” The fucker on top of me would not move.
“I know. Stay here!”
“What are you—?” I grunted and finally dragged myself from under the dead weight. I got up, trying not to think about the blood that was all over me. “Where are you going? Are you crazy?”
She ran across the roof, right past me, crunching the gravel and asphalt, then threw herself off the roof, arms pinwheeling, legs kicking.
Swearing, I followed, but only to the edge of the roof. What had prompted such a suicidal act? She took forever to fall, but of course she had a plan. She landed on the roof of the building opposite us, almost six feet away and a story below, with the agility of a cat. She got up out of the forward roll, and without pause, found the edge of that roof, and a drainpipe. If I’d seen her up on the roof planning for a week, she wouldn’t have looked any more comfortable, any more fluid, almost presciently aware of where her next step must be. I felt my stomach lurch as she snaked down the drainpipe, three stories above the ground, like a squirrel running down a tree. She stopped and extended her foot as gracefully as a ballerina to a railing that was at least eighteen inches too far from her. She clung to the pipe with one hand and one foot for support, then just unrolled herself toward the railing. She was there. She paced along the railing of the balcony like she’d been born on a tightrope. She then swung down from that, to the next floor, and then to the first, dropping the last ten feet to the ground. She spun around, tearing down the street, past our building.
It had taken her all of half a minute.
I ran along the roofline, following her progress on the street below.
She came to an intersection and looked up to me, impatience and irritation writ all over her face. She gestured, “Which way?”
I could see, barely, the hooded form of our guy in the distance. “Down two blocks, then a left!” I shouted.
She didn’t bother with an acknowledgment, just tore after him. At the turn, I lost sight of her.
I was stranded. I considered following her route down, but immediately dismissed the idea. My stomach did another loop-de-loop just from being so close to the edge of the roof. I’d snap one of my legs off, even if I made it to the other side, and then what?
After a halfhearted shove at the door and a glance at the three bodies practically liquefying before me, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere without help. The phone Nicole had given me was crushed, her information lost with it. With Marie gone, there was only one person I could text.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jayne Rogers
The jump to the roof wasn’t perfect as it needed to be. Something feels funny in my ankle.
Ignore it. One more reason to finish the job.
Focus on breathing out. You’ll breathe in with no problem. Keep the upper body still, relaxed. Keep the legs moving.
The guy I’m looking for isn’t very bright. He’s probably in way worse shape than I am. He’s on autopilot. He won’t be too clever.
He’s got to report in. He can’t run all the way. If he knows he’s being followed, he’ll grab a car. If not, he may find someplace quiet to call.
Getting a few stares. Nothing strange. A woman running, not screaming, will get looks. A guy running will turn heads…like that. A line of heads craning…over there.
And there he is.
Two more blocks, slipping into an alley. He won’t go any farther in than he has to, with the cell phone.
There’s a dumpster that reeks of rotting vegetables and a few trashcans. One door, rusty hardware, no windows. No other way out. It’s a working alley, no place anyone likes to hang out.
Feet under the dumpster and heavy breathing. He’s out of shape.
Bingo.
I pull out the knife. Just enough for talk.
One step, then another…
Bad luck. I’m almost around the dumpster when he looks up. No noise of mine. His jaw drops. He’s suddenly smart and loses the phone. But he can’t quite get the weapon out of his pocket in time, not with the suppressor. Bad form.
Now.
Isolate the weapon. He’s using both hands, fumbling with the pocket, good news for me. He sees the knife as it comes up and he jerks.
There’s a shot. Not loud, but loud enough.
It hasn’t hit me. The guy sags, clutching his gut. Looking at me, surprised. How could I do that to him? Always the same dumb look of surprise.
But I didn’t shoot him. He couldn’t have been stupid enough to have his finger on the trigger? He shot himself trying to pull his pistol out. Shit, shit—
Never mind. He’s not fighting me as I try to see how bad it is.
It’s bad.
Again, shit.
He’s too busy hanging onto his guts to worry about the gun now, and I get it away from him easily, make it safe. “Where’s Kola’s computer?” I grab his shirt. “Where is it?”
He’s babbling nonsense, in Russian, about his dog. He freaks out when he feels his hands fill up with blood, and, just like a man, his eyes roll up and he passes out.
It’s getting too complicated, taking too long. Even if he comes around in a minute, he’s not going to last. A noise down the alley reminds me time is passing. I toss him, then ensure he’ll never get up again. Take the phone. Wipe my prints off him, wipe his blood off me.
Time to go.
My ankle is throbbing. As I exit the alley, I already miss the adrenaline and endorphins now they’re wearing off. I’m a little wobbly, come to think of it, but nothing a shower and some chow and a little rack time won’t cure.
They followed us with the foil sticker. Amy’s still up there. They’ll be looking for us.
I must be more than bright, heading back.
Not a perfect day, but not bad.
A couple of blocks away, I call Amy. No answer. She must have busted her radio in the tussle. Probably still cooling her heels on the roof. The look on her face when I left…
I hump it over to our room. It’s a hike, in the late afternoon heat. Never mind. We got what we needed and are still alive. Not perfect, but a very good day, and the only easy day is yesterday.
A mile later, even with both eyes open for surveillance, even expecting it, I’m shocked when it registers. Someone is marking our building. The overfed and prissy look of the Bureau, Friendly But Ignorant. They’re not doing anything, but I’d be stupid to think it’s not for us. I keep walking, right past the intersection. Amy knows what to do, if she can get off the roof. I’ll try again before midnight.
I keep walking. Were they there at her invitation? She was acting pretty hinky about the gym bag. Something’s up. She’s not as good a liar as she thinks. Might have been Michelle’s and Jacob’s death. Or our conversation. She’s prickly about her family, and with good reason. Perhaps she’s just not answering the radio. Perhaps the fight has triggered her trauma about her brother-in-law’s death. All bears consideration.
She’s up there. I can see her head. Not too close to the edge, of course.
She’s okay. Or if she isn’t, she’s beyond my help at the moment.
For now, I need to get out of sight. I try Nicole, but she’s clearly out of touch, and I worry she’s dead.
Now, where to go until it’s time to check back?
I keep walking while I cross options from a diminishingly short list, trying to make my brain work, trying to move with purpose. About to take a corner to avoid a place I’ve been before, I notice the lights are out and a sign that says ‘Closed for Renovations.’
I take the corner anyway, the better to think. I never mentioned this place to anyone in the Department, afraid of the connections I shouldn’t have made here. If there’s no one here, it can’t be going to the same well twice, can it? No one will ever know I’m here, so maybe “Uncle Frank” won’t feel that I’ve trespassed too far on his hospitality, especially after springing me from the Cherrydale PD. And I really need to stretch out and rest for a while.
Another block and I’m sure it’s empty. Athena smiles on me, and I find the window that was so appealing last time. A shadowed alley, away from the street and John Q. Citizen. The lock has never been repaired. It’s as good as a welcome mat, one way or the other. A quick glance around and I stuff my bag inside. Another glance, I hoist myself up and slither through, quick as quick can be.
The alley doesn’t let in much sun. I don’t need light, as I drop to the floor. The construction is down front, in the offices and showers, the contractors long since gone off to their six-packs. The rest of the place, the part I care about, is exactly as I remember it. The smell, sour sweat driven into leather and canvas, is like homecoming. I scoop up my bag and pick my way through the construction debris, find a working toilet, and make the most of a quiet moment. Bliss. I splash water on my face, clean up the small cuts, check the bandage on my side, and bind up the ankle; it’s good. The bubbler still works. I let it run before I drink, swallowing another antibiotic. Thank you, Ape.
The boxing ring is still there, but Frank has added tatami near the weights and bags. He has business savvy, and these days, everyone imagines they can fight in the Octagon. I pull up to a corner of mat, check my gear, set my watch, then pull my hood up and close my eyes.
I can’t sleep.
Too much in my head, and nothing I can do about it yet. Sleep’s a good use of time, but I’m too wired.
I can fix that.
I stretch, strip down to my T-shirt, then start with combinations on the heavy bag. Nothing too fancy, just punches and knees, working out the kinks, letting focus return and mindlessness settle in. I move around, as the bag swings, taking it at half speed and quarter power, not pushing where it hurts, but not wussing out, either. Find rhythm, break it up, find it again.
Someone is there. Standing in the shadows.
I keep at the bag, waiting to see what he’ll do. I didn’t hear anything, he didn’t turn on the light. He knows his way around. He stands there, not speaking, not drawing down on me. Calm, self-possessed, curious.
Unusual.
Another two steps, and I’ll be facing him. I keep throwing punches and kicks, calculating exit scenarios. I’m good to go, but would like to keep it quiet. It’s already been a busy day.
“Holy shit!” I scream, when I finally “notice” him. “Omigod, you scared the shit out of me!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Look, mister, I was just messing around. I can leave, and no one will ever know I was even here, right?”
I move toward my gear, to distract him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. “You can even check—I didn’t steal nothing.”
“I saw,” he says. “The alarm wasn’t tripped, either.”
His voice is measured, calm. Accent’s Georgia, near Atlanta.
I get my first good look at him.
Trouble.
White male, short black hair, six feet, one seventy-five, no flab, no bulk either. Posture and poise. His nose has been rearranged a couple of times, but he’s dished out more than he’s taken. A T-shirt and sweats, sneakers and gym bag. He doesn’t appear to be carrying, but there’s something in his pocket.
I shrug and scratch my side, still moving over to my bag, like I’m gonna jam, opting for the knife under my T-shirt rather than the ankle rig for speed and quiet. “I’ll just get going.”
“One thing. You came in through the back window, didn’t you?”
“And I can leave the ’zact same way, mister.”
“Mr. Frank told me about the last girl who came in through that window.”
This could go either way. Fifty percent. Best odds I’ve had all day.
He reaches for his pocket, and I tense for a takedown. He won’t make the shot before I get him, and then it’ll be too late for him.
He pulls out a cell phone and hits a button. I know for sure it’s not the cops.
“Mr. Frank? Joe here. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s about that back window.” He looks at me. “You know, the one I keep wanting you to get fixed.”
I wait a long time while he listens. He watches me. Sizing me up. Then. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I understand. Thank you. Good night, Mr. Frank.”
He puts the phone away and takes his hand out of his pocket slowly, reassuring me, he thinks. “Mr. Frank sends his regards. He also said I should give you whatever you want, and I quote: ‘If she needs a doctor, get her a doctor. If she needs a helicopter, get her that. Get her a pizza if she wants it. And be polite about it.’”
“That was nice of him,” I say. “Bar Harbor puts him in a good mood.”
That reassures him I am, in fact, the last girl who came through the window.
“He also reminded me it’s sometimes useful to leave a small hole in your defenses, to see what’ll come through.”
Sounds like Frank.
“So,” he says, “what can I get you?” His gaze lowers to my strapped up ankle. “You need a doctor?”
I shake my head. “I just want to crash for a couple of hours, then be on my way.”
He nods, not going anywhere. “You hungry?”
“No. Thanks. Really. I’m just gonna…” I nod toward the heavy bag.
“Okay. Let me know.”
He stays put as I work. He doesn’t relax. This is too easy.
“Did you want to have a turn?” I step back from the heavy bag. There are two others he could use.
“No thanks.”
I nod, get back to it, loosening up because something’s about to happen. I keep an eye on him, but he’s just standing there. I mix it up, throw in some showy stuff because I don’t know what he knows about me and I don’t want to give away the farm. I pull back, scratch my side like I’m resting. The D2 is still where I want it.
“You know…”
Here it comes.
“Your balance is a little off. That’s why you’re not getting the height on those standing kicks.”
I step back, make a show of breathing heavy, tilt my head. “Yeah? Oh. Thanks.”
“Come on. Let me show you.”
Maybe Bar Harbor wasn’t doing it for Frank. Maybe he decided I used up my last favor at the Cherrydale police station—was it only ten days ago? “Naw, that’s okay, thanks.”
“No, seriously.” He nods to the mats. “And your kicks are flashy, but you’re in the air too long. On the street, anyone with real skills would just knock you down.”
The street. Real skills. “Oh. Okay.” Is he really talking to me like this, after what Frank probably told him about me? Something’s up.
“It’s not difficult.”
If Frank is playing me, he’s gonna find parts of his boy nail-gunned all over his office. I take a sip of water. I thought we had a better relationship, more respect.
Might as well find out. Mats are easy enough to clean.
I go to the mats, getting just the right mix of reticence, distrust, and curiosity. It’s not hard. Joe’s already slung his gym bag down and dropped the cell phone. Doesn’t look like there’s anything else on him, but I’m ready.
“Okay, your stance is good, but now try throwing a kick at me.”
Dear God, he’s serious. He thinks he’s being helpful. I hesitate, still not wanting to break through the fourth wall. It can’t be what it looks like…
“Go ahead. I won’t let you hurt me.”
I do the same high-falutin’, show-off flying kick as before, and he does what anyone should and steps in and mimes a shove to my trunk. “See?”
“Oh. I get it.”
“And when you’re moving from a standing position, you’re not quite...” He moves in quick to correct my stance, but I’m tired and if he’s not going to try and kill me, I wish he’d just leave me be. His hand flicks out to my side—to my bandage or to my knife?—and—
I block it, hard, step in and plant it, land a sweet one to his jaw and then, as he stumbles back, slam the flat of my foot straight into his sternum.
