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  “A smaller guy. Brown hair in a buzz cut. Young. Mid-twenties, maybe.” She looked at them, her expression urgent. “He’s getting away.”

  “We passed him,” said Stevens. “On the steps. We walked right past him.”

  Windermere was already halfway across the courtyard. “You coming or what, Stevens?”

  4

  They left the woman in the Landmark Center and burst out onto 5th Street, Windermere in the lead, moving fast. She turned right and kept running. Stevens struggled to follow. He kept himself in decent shape, mostly, but Windermere was a heck of a lot younger. Plus she’d been some kind of track star back home in Mississippi.

  Windermere reached the end of the block and slowed to look up and down Washington. Then, just as Stevens caught up, she took off again. Stevens paused, caught his breath. Then he hurried after her.

  LIND WALKED WEST down 5th Street, skirting the high, windowless brick walls of the stadium where the pro hockey team played. He walked quicker now on the empty sidewalks, the sirens and the chaos retreating into the background. He walked quicker, but he didn’t run. Running would attract undue attention.

  He circled the arena until he reached 7th Street, and then cut across the busy intersection, toward the bus station. Downtown was behind him now; the land here was vacant—event parking for the hockey arena, mostly. In the distance, he could see the spire of the Cathedral of Saint Paul.

  Lind cut through a thin copse of trees lining 7th and came out into a half-empty parking lot. He walked across the dusty gravel until he reached his car, and was about to climb in when someone called out behind him.

  Lind turned and saw the black woman from outside the Landmark Center hurrying toward him. Her companion followed, about thirty feet back, both of them running hard, their faces determined. Lind watched them approach.

  “STOP!” Windermere called across the parking lot. The kid did as he was told. He straightened. Turned from his little hatchback and looked at her. Windermere met his gaze and felt a chill run through her.

  He was a normal-looking guy, just as the woman at the Landmark Center had described. Probably five seven or five eight, he had close-cut brown hair and was dressed like your everyday rube. He looked normal. Except that he didn’t. He didn’t look normal at all.

  It was his face. His eyes. It was his slack expression, the way he studied her with no hint of malice, no fear, barely any comprehension at all. Windermere slowed, involuntarily, wishing again that she’d remembered her Glock.

  The kid looked at her for a couple seconds. Then he turned around—calm, deliberate. Slid into the car and turned the engine over and drove out of the lot.

  5

  Stevens caught up to Windermere. “Why’d you slow down?” he said. “You had him.”

  Ahead of them, the car reached the end of the parking lot and pulled out onto 7th Street. It drove fast, but not wild. Not out of control.

  “Chevy, right?” Stevens said, pulling out his cell phone. “An Aveo, I think. You get the plates?”

  “Yeah,” Windermere said. “I got them.”

  Stevens had his phone to his ear. “Crowson,” he said. “Get a pen. The shooting downtown, the Saint Paul Hotel. We make the shooter’s ride.”

  He handed Windermere the phone. Windermere recited the plate number and handed the phone back to Stevens.

  “Get that to Saint Paul PD,” Stevens told Crowson. “It’s a little Chevy hatchback, gray, an Aveo, most likely. Get them looking.” Stevens ended the call and turned back to Windermere. “So what the hell happened?”

  Windermere looked out to where the gray car had disappeared into traffic. Didn’t answer a moment. “I just lost it, Stevens,” she said finally. “The kid looked at me and I spooked.”

  “Spooked. What the heck do you mean?”

  “I just lost it.” She shrugged. “It’s like I was a potted plant, the way he looked at me. A cloud or something, insignificant. Like I wasn’t a cop and he wasn’t a killer.”

  “You didn’t show him your badge,” said Stevens, “or your gun. Maybe he didn’t make you for a cop.”

  Windermere shook her head. “It was more than that,” she said. “He just murdered somebody. He was making his escape. And he looked at me like he was waiting for a bus.”

  She frowned, staring across the parking lot toward 7th Street, where the traffic slipped past, normal, like nothing had happened at all.

  THEY WALKED BACK along 5th Street toward Rice Park and the Landmark Center and the Saint Paul Hotel. There were police everywhere now, and ambulances and the rest. TV news trucks. Bystanders. Like a movie scene.

  Here we go again. Stevens flashed back to the kidnappers, Arthur Pender and his gang. Carter Tomlin and his team of bank robbers. He felt a brief twinge of excitement, and nursed it as long as he dared. Then he chased it from his mind.

  Not your case, he thought. Not Windermere’s, either. This is Saint Paul PD all the way.

  They waded back into the mix. Showed their badges to the uniform holding the line outside the hotel’s driveway. Then they walked up to the entrance, where the white-haired man’s body still lay on the pavement.

  Uniforms lurked at the margins. Forensic techs combed the body. A couple dour-faced men in rumpled suits stood by the Bentley, sipping coffee, watching the techs. Every now and then one of them would crack a joke and the other would laugh a little, grim. Homicide cops.

  Windermere flashed her badge at them. “Windermere, FBI,” she said. “Who’s working point?”

  The men glanced at each other. Then the older guy stepped forward. “Parent,” he said. “Remember me?”

  “The Tomlin case,” Windermere said, nodding. “You worked that poker game, right? This one yours, too?”

  “At least until the FBI takes it off my hands.”

  “No such luck. We’re just witnesses, Detective. This one’s yours.” She introduced Stevens.

  Parent looked at them both. “Witnesses, huh? The two of you together?”

  “Interdepartmental bonding,” said Stevens. “We saw the shooting from that bench over there. Got a look at your suspect and the plates off his car.”

  “No shit.” Parent glanced back at the body. Then he pulled out a notepad. “Well, all right, witnesses,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

  6

  Lind drove the speed limit southwest down 7th Street, trying to blend in with traffic. Trying to ignore the little pinprick of panic that had started to itch in his mind.

  The black woman would have memorized his plates. She would have called them in to the police. Right now, the police would be looking for the car.

  Remove yourself from the scene without being detected. Don’t attract undue attention. Secondary objective.

  Lind checked the road for police cars. Checked his rearview mirror, oncoming traffic, the parking lots that lined the road. He saw a couple cruisers. They didn’t follow him. He kept driving.

  He followed 7th Street until it merged with the highway and turned south to cross the Mississippi River, and he drove past the lakes and the grassland and forest until he reached the airport turnoff. He parked in the rental car lot and waited as a man scanned something off the windshield. The man grinned at Lind. “Enjoy your visit?”

  Lind didn’t answer. The man frowned and handed Lind a receipt, glanced back at him once before hurrying away. Lind was already walking to the terminal. He found a garbage can and tore up the receipt, just like he’d been taught. Then he rode the concourse tram to the main terminal building and found the Delta line.

  The woman at the counter frowned when she read his alias off the computer. Lind felt the little niggle of panic return. “You’re a frequent flier, you know,” the woman said finally. “You could have skipped this whole line.”

  Lind relaxed. “Next time,” he said. He took his ticket and walked to the secur
ity lineup. The guard waved him through. The metal detector didn’t beep.

  He boarded the plane with the frequent fliers and the first-class passengers in the priority lane. Sat in his window seat as the plane slowly filled, as it taxied from the gate, as it careened down the runway and reached a safe cruising altitude. He didn’t look out the window. He didn’t read the in-flight magazine. He sat in his seat and wondered if the black woman and her companion constituted undue attention.

  Two and a half hours later, the plane landed in Philadelphia. It was dark outside, and raining. Lind walked off the plane and out through the terminal to the parking garage, where he retrieved his car and drove away from the airport.

  He drove along Interstate 95 over the Schuylkill River and into downtown Philadelphia, navigated the busy, rainy streets, and parked in an underground garage and rode the elevator to the apartments above.

  He stepped off the elevator to his apartment on the building’s top floor. Kicked off his shoes and then moved from room to room, turning on every light he could find. When the whole place was daytime bright, he went into the living area and turned on the television and turned up the volume. Took a TV dinner from the kitchen freezer and heated it in the microwave, brewed a strong pot of coffee, and brought the dinner and the coffee into the living area.

  It was dark out, and rainy. The city’s sounds were muted far below. Lind ate his dinner and drank from his coffee mug, sat on his couch in the middle of his bright living room, watching the television play an endless loop of movie previews. He sat on his couch all night, drinking coffee and watching the TV, praying his phone would ring again soon.

  7

  The dead man’s name was Spenser Pyatt, and he was very rich.

  “Media conglomerations,” Detective Parent told Stevens and Windermere. “Satellite TV. Built an empire from a radio station out in the hinterlands.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Stevens said. “Fergus Falls. That’s where he started.” Windermere looked at him funny, and he shrugged. “Kind of a state treasure, I guess. Made a billion dollars with his own two hands.”

  “I get it,” said Windermere. “This guy here’s the state hero.”

  “Hero’s a bit strong,” said Parent. “He’s just a good story.”

  Windermere looked across the driveway to where the Ramsey County medical examiner was loading Pyatt’s body into the back of the van. “Not so much with the happy ending, though.”

  Stevens and Parent followed her gaze. Then Stevens cleared his throat. “You need anything else?” he asked Parent.

  “Not unless the BCA wants to take this thing off my hands.”

  “Not on your life.” Stevens shook the detective’s hand. Turned to Windermere. “Guess I’ll head home.”

  Windermere looked at him. “Really?”

  “Told Nancy I’d be home for dinner. And JJ’s got soccer tonight.”

  “It’s not even four, Stevens. You don’t want to see how this plays out?”

  Stevens glanced back at Parent, at the medical examiner’s van, at the big silver Bentley and the spattered blood on the sidewalk. He pictured the killer, saw the little Chevy slip away into traffic, and, yeah, maybe he wanted to stick around a little. But he shook his head. “Not our case, Carla.”

  “Maybe not technically,” she said, “but we saw this guy, Stevens. We know what he looks like. We know who he is. Maybe we can help somehow.” She caught his expression and laughed. “Don’t even try to pretend you’re not feeling this, partner. You’re as pumped up about this whole thing as I am.”

  Stevens was trying to think up an answer, something diplomatic that wouldn’t paint him as some boring has-been, when a uniform broke through the line and came running at Parent.

  “Detective,” she said, huffing and puffing, cheeks red. “Word from dispatch. They found the shooter’s car.”

  Stevens swapped glances with Windermere. Turned to listen.

  “A gray Chevy hatchback,” the uniform told them, “as advertised. It’s a rental, Liberty Cars. They found it at the airport.”

  Parent frowned. “They get a name off it?”

  “Name, flight, everything. Guy took off out of state in a hell of a hurry.”

  Windermere grinned at Stevens. “Out of state, partner. You know what that means.” She started back toward Parent, pulling her cell phone from her pocket. “Mathers,” she told the phone. “Hold up one second.”

  She turned to Parent. “Maybe the FBI can help, after all, Detective. What’s our shooter’s name?” She raised her phone again before Parent could answer. “Mathers,” she said. “You there? What are the odds we ground every flight at MSP within the next fifteen minutes?”

  She listened. “Yeah, well,” she said. “Try it anyway. There’s a killer on the loose.”

  She hung up the phone. Turned back to Parent. Parent opened his mouth. Windermere held up one finger. Turned back to Stevens, still grinning. “Sure you don’t want to stick around?”

  8

  Parkerson took a late-afternoon break to check the news on his computer. He found what he was looking for and read with interest, a satisfied smile growing on his face. When he’d finished the article, he closed his Internet browser and reached for his phone. Then he paused.

  He stood and walked to the door of his office, closed and locked it. It was Saturday afternoon; the plant was nearly empty. Still, you couldn’t be too careful.

  Satisfied, Parkerson sat down again and reached for the phone. He dialed the number by heart and waited.

  A man picked up. “Is this line secure?”

  “As it ever was,” Parkerson told him. “The job’s done.”

  There was a pause. “You’re sure?”

  “Check the news. The job’s done.”

  “Okay.” The man exhaled. “Okay.”

  “I’ll be expecting payment,” said Parkerson. “You know what to do.”

  “He’s dead,” the man said.

  Parkerson sighed. “Dead and gone. Your wish came true. Now you pay me.” There was another long pause. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” the man said. “Okay. I’ll get you your money.”

  Parkerson hung up the phone. Opened a spreadsheet file and settled back in to work—or tried to, anyway. Within five minutes, the phone was ringing again. Parkerson answered. “What?”

  “I killed him.” The man moaned like a wounded animal. “Christ, they’ll hang me for this.”

  “You didn’t kill him,” Parkerson said. “I told you, you’re clean. No ties to the job whatsoever. You’re safe. Now settle your tab.” He hung up the phone again and sat in the stillness of his office for a minute or two. Stared at the phone, thinking.

  An amateur, the guy was. A ticking time bomb. A liability. Parkerson studied the phone a minute longer. Then he picked up the handset again.

  9

  The visions came back. They always came back.

  Lind stayed awake for as long as he could. He sat on the couch with every light on around him, the TV blaring movie previews until the neighbors beat on the walls. The rain drizzled down outside and the night slowly passed, and Lind sat on his couch and drank coffee and didn’t move.

  Morning came. The rain didn’t stop. The sky turned light in the east and gradually the day came, a miserable, dripping, tarnished-steel day. Lind hardly noticed the bleak light. He waited for the phone to ring and prayed the visions wouldn’t come back.

  They came back. They always did.

  He held them off as long as he could. Felt his eyelids grow heavy and, with the fatigue, the rising panic. He fought it. Drank more coffee. Stood and paced the room. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. The visions always came back.

  He fell asleep around noon. Lay down on the couch and curled himself inward and surrendered, gave in. Then, just like that, he was out.

  HE WAS THERE A
GAIN. Over there. He was riding with Showtime and Hang Ten and the rest. The heat was unbearable; he was sweating through his gear, big, itchy drops of sweat trickling down to the small of his back. The truck barreled through the desert. The sun, high above, was relentless. The place was like hell without the fire.

  He could hear the big engine rumbling. Could feel the vibrations. He could see Showtime beside him, at the wheel, laughing about something. Hang Ten’s girlfriend, probably. She’d sent a picture that morning: a white sandy beach, a bikini. Showtime got a hold of it. “Jee-sus,” he said, laughing, fending off Hang Ten. “Why the hell’d you ever come over here, man?”

  Hang Ten was up top, in the turret. Mini-Me and Slowpoke in the back. Through the front windshield, Lind could see Rambo’s Humvee ahead, and he knew there was a third truck behind. There was a journalist back there, some wannabe hard-ass. A taste of the shit for all the readers back home. A routine patrol through the wasteland.

  He could see it all. He could hear it. He was there. The trucks rumbled along, kicking up dust and sand, jostling over uneven terrain. The convoy motored past civilians, kids who stopped kicking soccer balls to run over and wave at the trucks, dark-eyed older men in white robes and head scarves—ghatra—who glared at the convoy, suspicious. The city shimmered in the heat in the distance.

  They were halfway through the city when the world disappeared. On some narrow, misbegotten street. Showtime was still needling Hang Ten. Took one hand off the wheel and made a rude gesture. Hang Ten leaned down to see it. Lind was laughing despite the tension. Maybe because of the tension, the whole goddamn scenario. Every damned patrol was the same, a 450-day game of Russian roulette.

  Then it happened.

  In the visions, it only came back in fragments. An explosion. Screaming. The truck shaking like a child’s matchbox toy. Showtime holding up a stump of arm, laughing, manic. Fire, everywhere fire. An unbearable heat.