The Dead Guy Next Door, page 39
Nolan tightened his grip on her, and Riley had to smother her desire to scream.
“Oh, hi, Donna. You know Mayor Flemming and his communications director, Duncan Gulliver, don’t you?” She put a lot of emphasis on her hostage takers’ names.
A woman with her pearlescent glasses on a chain made of tiny crucifixes elbowed her way to the front. “Mayor Flemming, you spoke at our ladies’ bazaar last winter and said that my ham and bean soup was the best you ever had.”
Mayor McMurder had two choices—either order his henchman to kill a whole pack of church ladies or let Riley go and shake the woman’s hand. But she already knew what choice he’d make. Image was everything, after all.
He pasted a phony smile on his gruesomely handsome face. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said, releasing Riley’s arm.
“She has a fiancée and a boyfriend, and now the mayor’s her workout buddy?” Donna complained none too quietly to her walking partner.
“Now!” Riley shouted. She thumbed the cap of the pepper spray open and gave the mayor a spritz. The church ladies—more accustomed to name-calling over bingo cards—were slow to react as she pushed her way through them toward Duncan. Jasmine bent at the waist, raised her arms off her back in a show of flexibility that would have made Wander proud, and brought them down sharply. The zip tie securing her hands broke just as Riley hit Duncan at half speed in the chest, knocking him off-balance.
His gun hand came up and over, knocking the pepper spray out of her grasp. The church ladies started screaming like a flock of startled chickens.
“You idiot,” Nolan howled.
“That’s the last time you call me an idiot,” Duncan said.
“You’re right, it is.” The mayor drew his gun and pointed it at his poison-planning pal.
Uh-oh.
“Everybody run!” Riley yelled. She and Jasmine took off at a sprint while the church ladies bounced off one another like panicked pinballs. “This way!” The authority in her voice and a gunshot broke through the panic.
They followed her like ducklings toward Championship Way, an optimistically monikered road that led to the front of the baseball stadium and the parking lot.
“Run in a zigzag, people,” she ordered. “It makes it harder for a shooter to hit you!”
Everyone obliged.
“What the fuck is going on?” Jasmine shouted as she zigged barefoot behind Riley.
“Mayor bad,” Riley puffed, zagging to the left.
“Yeah. Kinda got that when he abducted me last night. Where the hell is Nick?”
“At the commune. We rounded everyone up after I T-boned a cop car on the bridge last night.”
“Girl, he is going to murder your ass.”
“Has to catch me before Mayor Nolan Flemming,” Riley shouted into her cleavage.
“Why are you yelling at your boobs?” Jasmine asked, hiking up her slinky red dress.
“It’s a thing. Okay?”
There was a quieter popping sound, and the metal sign on Riley’s left dinged.
“Zag, people!” she screeched.
“There’s the bus!” someone shouted behind her. A seventy-year-old turned on the gas and motored past Riley. Damn. She really needed to work on her cardio. At least if she lived through this.
In front of them, a short bus in lime green and navy blue crested the hill.
“Everyone get on that bus,” Riley gasped.
There was another popping noise, and the 5K’s inflatable finish line made a slow farting sound and began to collapse.
Riley stopped at the open bus door and manhandled a woman with a neck brace aboard. “I need you to get these ladies out of here and to the closest police station on the West Shore. Tell them everything that happened. Okay?”
They pushed a woman in pink flamingo pants up the bus stairs.
The driver looked confused.
“I’m not leaving you!” Jasmine announced.
There was another muffled ping, and the side mirror of the bus shattered behind Riley’s head.
“Argue later!” She grabbed her best friend and shoved her on the bus. “Get them out of here. I’ll lead them away.”
“You’re an idiot,” Jasmine said, dragging the elderly driver out of his seat. “Sorry, Gramps, but I’m gonna need access to the accelerator.”
“I love you!” Riley yelled.
“Love you back, you dumbass,” Jasmine said, slamming the door in Riley’s face. Then she threw the bus into reverse and floored it down the narrow road carved into the hill, laying on the horn the whole way. The woman sure knew how to make an exit.
Riley didn’t waste time watching her go. She had her own escape to plot. There was no way she was doubling back for Nick’s SUV. It was kind of her thing now, leaving cars at crime scenes. Running wasn’t going to get her very far. The pedestrian bridge was in front of her, and so was a bike rack.
“Good enough,” she muttered.
She grabbed the first bike on the rack that wasn’t locked. It had a basket, a pink banana seat, and matching streamers. She pushed off and started pedaling like a demon. This was where her free-range childhood served her. She’d logged more miles on bikes than she had her own feet.
“Turn around,” she shouted at a pair of joggers who were just coming off the bridge. “Gun!”
They made a U-turn without breaking stride.
She hit the open grates of the bridge and yanked the phone from her sweaty cleavage. The screen was fogged. She stabbed at the screen, hoping it was the right spot. Posting had never been more essential than right this second.
“Dang it!” She swiped it across her tank top, and it vibrated in her hand.
“Mrs. Penny, I can’t talk right now. I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she yelled into the phone.
She heard the ominous rev of an engine behind her and looked over her shoulder.
“You have got to be shitting me,” she said, exasperated.
There was a panel van sitting at the entrance to the pedestrian bridge. It revved its engine.
Riley pedaled faster and threw the phone in the basket.
“Where are you?” she heard Mrs. Penny ask distantly. “We woke up, and you were gone. Nick was yelling. And that got the goats all stirred up until he left.”
“Nick left? Where is he?” Riley screeched. “Gun!” she warned the next jogger. The woman stopped in her tracks, then did an about-face and sprinted toward the Harrisburg side.
“He went after you, dummy,” Mrs. Penny said from the basket. “He borrowed a motorcycle from the commune.”
“No. No. No. He can’t come here. He can’t catch up to me!”
“I heard him yelling at one of his cop friends. They’re tracking your phone.”
“Shit!” Riley hissed. Her legs were on fire. She should have grabbed a road bike or a ten-speed. She should have done a lot of things differently.
“Do you need our assistance?!” Mrs. Penny shouted.
The van engine revved again, and she heard the squeal of tires as the wheels bit into the gravel and asphalt.
“Damn it.” She picked up the pace as Harrisburg loomed in front of her. “Listen, Mrs. Penny. This is a code cabbage casserole. I repeat, code cabbage casserole. You need to make sure Nick doesn’t get back to Harrisburg. If he finds me, he’s going to die. Do you understand me?”
“Er—copper—ah—breakfast—ee…” The line went dead.
“Have some situational awareness, man. Van!” she screamed at a guy texting while walking two dogs onto the bridge. The dogs understood the warning before the man did and dragged him back to the city side.
The metal grates were vibrating under her now as the van picked up speed.
“Spirit guides, I could really use a hand,” she said, sucking in a breath and pedaling for her life. The van was right behind her, but Front Street was so close. Riley nipped off the bridge and took a hard right. The van plowed straight ahead into a concrete bench with a statue.
She couldn’t tell if it was the evil villain or henchman driving as she hopped the curb and dodged a Nissan changing lanes. She pedaled onto Strawberry Street, a tight alley with not nearly enough witnesses. Pumping her legs and sweating her ass off, she popped out on Second Street, facing the empty Crowne Plaza Hotel.
“Oh, come on! Where the hell is everyone?” she wheezed, maneuvering up onto the sidewalk. For a street that was bumper to bumper every damn weekday and lined with drunks and pickpockets on a Saturday night, it was abandoned on a Sunday morning. Damn it. The one time in her life that she wanted attention, she couldn’t find anyone to give it to her.
If she could survive a little longer, if she could surround herself with people, someone would call the cops. The good cops. She just needed to hang in there…
Something hit her from behind. As she went airborne, she realized it was the front bumper of the van, which was now on the freaking sidewalk and, oh good, smashing into a streetlight. Then it was her turn to smash into something. A human something.
“That’s why you should always wear a helmet,” a helpful homeless guy yelled from across the street.
Riley pulled herself onto her knees and apologized to the twentysomething skateboarder she’d knocked down. Once again, every damn part of her body hurt.
The driver’s side door of the van flew open, and evil mayor Nolan Flemming stumbled out. He was bleeding from his left arm. But, lucky her, it looked like he was a righty.
“I just can’t catch a break,” she said through gritted teeth. Her fingers clamped around the skateboard.
“Time to die, bitch,” Nolan spat, raising the gun. This one wasn’t the little handgun he’d had on City Island. This one was bigger.
The skateboarder crab walked backward, eyes as big as the manhole covers on the street. Riley looked down at her hands and breathed. In her mind, she saw Nolan limping to a stop behind her and raising the gun.
“You’ve got witnesses,” she warned him.
But he was beyond caring. Also clearly beyond sanity.
She felt him shift his aim to the kid whose wallet chain seemed to be stuck on a trash can.
She twisted and rose. In one mostly seamless move, she brought the skateboard up and slammed it with satisfaction into Nolan’s face. It crunched gloriously just as the gun went off.
“That’s for Dickie and Jasmine and that Rob guy, and for even thinking about killing Nick!” She swung again, connecting with the side of his head, and he went down on his knees. “You okay?” she called to the kid.
“That fucker shot me! He shot me in the foot!”
Flemming stirred on the ground.
“Uh, yeah. I’d suck it up and start running if I were you,” Riley advised.
They took off in opposite directions. She hadn’t even made it half a block when she heard an unholy howl behind her. Apparently Flemming’s murderous brain was protected by a really thick skull.
As she chugged up Market Street, a side stitch reared its ugly head, and so did an idea. There was one place that was guaranteed to have an audience and cops.
Glancing behind her, she spotted a bloodied Nolan jog-limping after her. She guessed sometimes it took more than a gunshot wound, a van accident, and a skateboard to the face to end evil. Again, lucky her.
She whipped down an alley, ignoring the side stitch that was getting steadily worse but finding comfort with the fact that even if Nick was still tracking her phone, he’d find it blocks away from where she was probably going to die.
The green globe on top of the Capitol rose between buildings, and she felt a teeny tiny spark of hope.
Maybe she really could do this. Save the day. Get the guy. Live to have more sex with Nick.
“You’re dead, Thorn,” Flemming snarled behind her, popping her little bubble of hope. He was gaining. Stupid runner’s endurance.
A dozen scrapes and cuts sang as she pumped her arms and legs. The adrenaline was probably exploding blood out of the openings.
Finally, the capitol loomed in front of her. She started for the steps. All 1.7 million of them. “Who built this damn building on a damn hill?” she huffed. Her breath was a thin, pathetic wheeze now, and her side felt like her appendix had decided to rupture. She also may have pulled a butt muscle.
Twenty.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-two.
There were too many goddamn steps.
A woman in uniform appeared in Riley’s line of sight near the top of the steps. One of the capitol police.
Riley opened her mouth to yell for help or vomit—she wasn’t sure what had a greater likelihood of coming out. But that murderous son of a bitch beat her to it.
“Look out! She’s got a gun!” Nolan shrieked behind her.
56
7:29 a.m. Sunday, July 5
Riley didn’t know who was more shocked with the mayor’s announcement, her or capitol security. Shaking her head, she held her gunless hands over her head and kept running.
She couldn’t afford to stop and defend herself against the accusation. They’d both end up full of holes. So she sprinted for the giant statues of naked people that flanked the main entrance to the capitol.
“Gun!” Nolan yelled again behind the cop who had recovered from the shock and was in pursuit. “She’s got a gun!”
The guards at the desk to Riley’s right looked up from their fresh coffees. “Say what?” one of them said.
“No gun!” she managed to rasp as she dashed through the metal detector, hands up. “See?” she wheezed over her shoulder when it didn’t beep. “Other guy has one! Bad guy!”
The rotunda was a beautiful space full of incredible architecture. She’d come here in the third grade on a field trip and remembered being fascinated and comforted by the Sesame Street lamp-style lighting and the huge dome above. Third-Grade Riley had no clue that Future Riley was most likely going to die here.
Nolan was shouting at the guards to give chase. And, oh great, the cop from outside had drawn her weapon and was running after her. Riley jogged through the group of people standing at the foot of the grand staircase. A private capitol tour, she guessed. Parents harnessed their gaping children and hid them behind their backs as the madwoman approached at full gallop.
“Mayor has gun. Not me,” she hyperventilated to her audience as her sneakers slapped the rust-colored tile mosaics. “Mayor bad!”
“Stop where you are,” the cop ordered in a terrifying bad-dog voice.
Riley wanted to obey. She enjoyed following rules. But this time, being a good girl would get her killed.
Adrenaline was the only thing that had her legs pumping. Soon, her body was going to turn into one of those marathoners who lose all control of their limbs and bowels. God, she hoped she didn’t crap herself before they shot her.
She charged past the grand staircase, dismissing it as an escape since there was no way in hell that she could run up more stairs.
Lady Luck showered her bountiful grace down on Riley and delivered unto her a guy pushing a mail cart full of files just beyond the staircase. “I’m so sorry about this,” she wheezed and shoved the mail cart over on her way past.
“Hey!” the guy yelled as folders and papers flew everywhere.
She spared another glance behind her. The cop tripped over a package. The woman’s sensible shoe planted on a file folder, which slipped out from under her like a banana peel, and down she went.
“Thank you,” Riley breathed to whoever the hell was looking out for her.
She cut to the left down a hallway. Here, the grandeur of the dome and rotunda gave way to normal, oldish office space. She tried a door. Found it locked. Damn Sundays. Wasn’t government a twenty-four seven kind of job?
The next door was locked too.
Hearing fast footsteps approaching, she picked up the pace. Just as she turned a corner, a door on the left opened. She half tackled the door and its operator, forcing both back into the room.
“What the fuck is your problem?” a nice-smelling woman in a pantsuit screeched from the floor. Lying on the floor sounded so good to Riley right now. Just a little nap. Maybe some water. Dry heave in a trash can.
She kicked the door shut and turned the lock. Bending at the waist, she gave the dry-heaving thing serious consideration.
“What the hell is this?” the woman demanded. “Are you one of those PETA freaks? Is this some publicity stunt?”
The nameplate on her desk read Janice Ettinger, Chief Clerk.
Still trying to catch her breath, Riley held up a finger.
“Are you on drugs?”
“Not. Drugs.” But stringing words together proved to be too much. She grabbed a large glass vase and dry heaved.
“Don’t you dare vomit your meth or whatever you’re on into a hand-blown Jean-Pierre vase.”
“Come out with your hands up,” someone authoritatively shouted from the other side of the door.
“Help me! She’s vomiting and holding me hostage!” her accidental hostage shrilled.
Another good heave, and Riley felt much better. She swiped at the sweat and blood on her face with the hem of her tank top.
“Oh my God, is that a hole in your abdomen?”
“Oh, shit,” Riley said, looking down at the dark hole just above her hip bone. “I thought it was a side stitch.” She tried to look behind her but couldn’t quite manage it. “Did it go through?” She didn’t know much about bullet wounds, but according to TV, it was better if it went straight through.
“Uh-huh.” Chief Clerk Janice nodded, considerably paler now.
Riley pulled her tank back into place and handed her hostage the vase. “Here. Just in case you need it.”
“You need to surrender now, ma’am,” shouted the cop on the other side of the door. There was a ruckus coming from the hallway, and Riley imagined a pileup of capitol police plotting the best way to smoke her out.
“I need to get out of here,” she wheezed to herself.
