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  Both of the men look so genuinely concerned that she actually allows herself to let go a little. A sob bursts from her and her nose is running. She half turns away but Hank takes a hold of her shoulders gently and holds her to his chest. “Don’t cry honey,” he says. “Hey Jerry get her some tissues for crissake!”

  From somewhere she manages to stay focused, aware that she may have placed both of these guys in danger. “Please, we must hurry. Call the police will you?”

  “Sure, but let’s get you calmed down first. Why don’t you and I go get seats at the table and Jumping Jerry there will bring us a hamburger in a minute or two?

  “I’m so sorry to barge in, but you see I wrecked my car and—” “Save it. We can talk about that later. I’m Hank Wellman and the old gray hair over there is Jumping Jerry Jebus—I call him Jump or Jerry and he answers me.”

  She finds herself grinning a little. “I’m Trish, actually Patricia Reed and I’m very pleased to meet both of you.

  “Well then Trish, let’s go find the restroom so you can clean up a little and then we’ll find a table. Jump always makes extra.” He gives her a little pat on the back and holds the kitchen door open. She follows him out the door with the smell of frying hamburgers filling her nose and her belly grumbling. I’m surprised I’m not queasy. He leads her into the Game Room and points at to the left choice of two doors.

  “I’ll be right here. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  She nods. If only you knew, Hank…

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  WHERE WAS THE VOICE? The little voice that always spoke up and said no when he hovered near the edge of doing something wrong. It’s not like he listened very often, but now that the voice is silent he feels as though something has been lost. The good voice has been quiet for some time now. The other voice, the one that leads to trouble, always seemed formless with just the hint of an idea and no awareness of concepts like morality and essential goodness. Well, that isn’t true. I am a cop after all.

  Perhaps it isn’t too late. He starts to pull the pillow away but can see she’s stopped breathing. Would mouth to mouth bring her back? Maybe it isn’t too late… There is no time. The guy might be calling the police even as he sits here. I don’t want anyone looking for me.

  He stands up. If only I could have stopped, we might have had some fun. He spots his flashlight on the floor at his feet and kneels down. What? The girl is sitting up!

  She isn’t dead! The pillow falls off. She opens her eyes and has a confused look on her face and her skin is so pale. He is frozen in place, fingers just touching the heavy plastic casing of the flashlight and his knees are aching.

  He gives out a soft groan and her eyes immediately focus on the sound, and on his mouth. She lunges at him, and his fingers have just wrapped around the flashlight. He falls backward but manages to get one booted foot against her chest as she gropes all over him for a handhold. “Get away from me bitch!” he shouts, but somehow he knows she isn’t aware in the intelligent sense. She’s like those people he ran over—just like the people who snacked on the EMTs and Sergeant Tanner. He kicks out with his boot and the force of it literally catapults her hundred pound body across the room. He doesn’t bother to try to stand, but he does draw his .40 pistol and take aim just as she straightens up and comes right back at him.

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  He squeezes the trigger and the first round hits her in the chest dead center. This stops her mad rush long enough for him to fire again and miss! She is almost running and there is a look of determination on her face. He fires, this time with both hands steadying his aim. She staggers with only feet separating them. A small hole appears in her temple and he fires twice more both times scoring hits to the head. Nina falls over backwards, taking a lamp with her in a loud crash. The TV’s picture tube is also a shattered smoking ruin.

  Dodd climbs to his feet. “Good lord,” he hears himself say. He feels shaky again. I need to eat and sleep. I won’t be able to keep going at this intensity.

  Someone pounds on the door. “Nina, are you okay?! Answer me!” He drops the nearly empty magazine into his hand and slips it into his pants pocket. He takes another from his ammo pouch and slides it up into the well within the pistol’s grip. There is now one round in the chamber and fifteen in the mag.

  “Nina! Open up Nina!” Dodd crosses the room and opens the door. The guy who ran is facing him. Dodd puts his gun in the guy’s face but at the last second the guy dodges to the side and runs. Dodd follows him out, and even though he is coming down slowly from his adrenaline rush, he still keeps the guy in sight.

  People are out everywhere, standing on balconies, in the parking lot and some are holding phones. They will all witness whatever he does.

  “Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me!”

  Dodd slows to a stop. The guy is ten feet away fumbling with a car door lock.

  Some people would have trouble shooting someone, let alone in the back with a crowd watching.

  Not me!

  “We’re back to the wild west, baby,” he says, still walking closer.

  Just a light pressure on the trigger and a fragile border is crossed.

  Once, twice, and oh what the hell, three times. The boyfriend, or whatever he is, is now sliding down the side of the car, leaving a trail of red. People are screaming somewhere nearby, but the sound is muted in the aftermath. He switches the pistol to his left hand and feels in his pants pocket for the keys to his cruiser with his right hand. The man’s body settles to the pavement, one hand still on the car.

  Better check out what’s going down at headquarters. Sun will be up soon.

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  T HE POUNDING IS RELENTLESS, not rhythmic but a continuous violent attack. “What else can it be?” Keller wants to know.

  Talaski shrugs. “I think you and I have known since this morning.” “So what are you saying? Do we just leave him in there?” “It’s either that or we shoot him. I hate to leave the car. At least

  we’ve got everything we need out of the trunk.” Keller stares at him. “That’s cold man, but he might bite one of us if we screw up. I have to agree, unless we have to, let’s just leave him there.”

  We’re kidding ourselves. I know we can’t leave him there . Both of them stand there for a moment looking at the trunk of Tanner’s cruiser. Someone is trying very hard to get out of the trunk. Neither of us has any doubt. They’ve tried talking to him, but the thing in the trunk isn’t Sergeant Tanner anymore.

  “I think I could shoot him, if you’ll open the trunk for me.” Keller nods. “Maybe you should let me do it. I didn’t know him as well as you.”

  “Nah, let’s just do it and get it over with. Just get back away from the trunk as quick as you can, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Talaski pulls his pistol and is standing about ten feet away. “I’ll wait until—” he starts to say, but Keller has already turned the key in the lock and the trunk bursts open almost immediately. Keller backpedals, and a smell wafts out from the car. Death most certainly doesn’t become him. Tanner sits up and his skin is too pale. The only signs of life are the fact that he is moving and the eyes… He has enough presence of mind to roll out of the trunk and keep his balance when his feet hit the asphalt.

  “Are you waiting for something, Nick? Shoot him man!” Keller has his, or rather Tanner’s pistol out and he looks ready.

  Goodbye. Talaski squeezes the trigger. All the target practice pays off and the sergeant dies again. He closes his eyes and wipes some

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  moisture that is leaking from them with the back of his free hand. “That was tougher than I thought it’d be Matt,” he says. “Tanner!” says a voice somewhere nearby, but not Keller. “What did you just do? I can’t believe you did it. You just shot him in cold blood.”

  “That’s not what happened.” Talaski opens his eyes. Two cops are standing at the top of the entrance stairs to the station with guns drawn down on him. One of them, the guy talking, isn’t a friend.
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br />   “Now, very slowly Talaski, I want you to put your weapon on the ground.”

  “It’s not what you think, Gransky…” he says, but trails off. He doesn’t know what’s really going on, and probably wouldn’t believe it even if one of them bit him.

  It’s almost comical watching this guy work himself up. He’s a big, ex-heavyweight complete with cauliflower ears and a mangled nose and on the downside of his fifties. His frame is about eighty pounds overweight and at the moment his whole face is flushed red with blood. “That’s Sergeant Gransky to you numbnuts and I’m going to have your ass on this one. I practically grew up with that man you just killed. Now both of you put down those weapons.”

  “It’s your call, Nick,” says Keller. “Maybe this can be cleared up with a phone call or two…”

  Talaski shakes his head. “He’ll throw us in the lockup and worry about details later, Matt.”

  “Dennis,” says Gransky to the cop beside him, “Call for backup. Talaski is out of his head or something.”

  “I don’t know what you’re up to Gransky, but I’m betting you aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “Anymore than you are Talaski?” replies the older man. “You think you’re pretty smart, but you’re just a puppy with wet feet.” Gransky cocks his head toward his partner, Dennis. The other cop, another older guy with a slim, trim tennis player’s build whispers something in his ear. “What do you say, Dennis? Do you think Talaski shooting Tanner was justified?”

  Dennis shrugs. “I didn’t see it, Greg. I guess it’s your word against his.”

  “Maybe I shoulda had my glasses on, eh Talaski?” Gransky’s smile is enormous.

  “We’re leaving Gransky. I’m going to leave it up to you to get some guys from maintenance to come pick up your good friend, Tanner here.”

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  “Go ahead Talaski, have it your way. I’m sure we’ll discuss this again later.”

  Talaski backs up, grabbing Keller’s arm in the process. “Follow me in Tanner’s car. I guess we’ll be going with Yates after all.”

  Gransky and Dennis disappear into the building without waiting for them to leave.

  H E COMES BACK TO CONSCIOUSNESS from nothing, as if someone just plugged him back into reality. At first he can’t move and there is a terrible pain radiating from a bump on the back of his head. His mouth is dry. The accumulated smells of garbage and rotting food are heavy in the air, making his empty stomach roll. He realizes his body is sprawled face down and his cheek is against something cool—a brick. He opens his eyes. Am I lying in an alleyway? Down the alley between the buildings, he can make out the first brightening of sky as the sun comes up.

  God, that guy worked me over .

  With both hands he pushes himself up, then maneuvers himself onto his knees. As usual, the right knee is killing him. Arthritis or something. He puts a hand against the dumpster beside him and stands. The right knee feels as if it’s been bent the wrong way or jammed. No running today. Down the alley he can see the sunrise reflecting off a building and a small slice of Tampa Bay.

  My wallet! It’s still there in his front right pocket along with some change. He checks the other pocket. The car keys are gone. They were still in the ignition when he tried to help that crazy guy. He starts walking toward the east end of the alley. The guy must have dumped him a few blocks away from BayWalk, then drove off with his cab.

  He passes a small parking lot hidden here in the alley behind the buildings. There are only two cars, and maybe eight empty spaces. He wonders briefly if it would be worth it to pound on a service door or two to get some help. I’m not far from the Pier and a lot of condos—Someone will help me. He keeps going, wincing once in a while when the uneven

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  brick cobbles cause his bad knee to falter. He trails one hand on the stucco wall to his right and a minute or two later emerges near a park that borders downtown St. Pete’s waterfront. A few blocks to his left is the Vinoy Hotel and condo complex, then a little closer the Dali Museum and another park. Almost directly ahead, jutting out into the bay is a causeway that leads to the Pier.

  He walks out of the alley and onto the street. He turns his head. Something is burning. The smell is acrid. A car is burning about twenty feet away to his right. Bodies are sprawled in the street in a carpet of broken glass, most of it from a storefront near the car.

  From somewhere nearby he hears a short strangled cry of agony. Behind the car? Why do I want to know? I can’t even run away, if I need to… Somebody is still alive, right behind the car. In fact, two people are kneeling beside one of the bodies. Both of them are practically embracing the guy. One is a man and the other a woman. Jesus, why is the guy twitching? He must be hurt badly. “Hey, do you all need any help?” he asks, and takes a painful step toward them. No answer. They don’t even look up. Are they ignoring me?

  He tries again while narrowing the distance to about fifteen feet. “Hey, what happened? Can I help you?”

  The woman looks up and her mouth is a wet red smear. Her jaw is moving—Chewing? She snarls something and climbs to her feet. She’s wearing only one shoe, one of those fuck-me type shoes, pumps or something like that. Why doesn’t she kick it off? He watches almost paralyzed as she staggers off balance toward him. Without thinking, he is backing away. She looks young, maybe twenty, and she’s dressed stylishly in designer jeans and a bare midriff top, but her eyes… like looking at a dead fish head.

  “Stay away from me, lady,” he warns her.

  She doesn’t react, and just keeps coming toward him. He continues to backpedal.

  “I’ve had enough trouble lady. Please stay away.” He backs into something—Another car. The body of a middle-aged guy lays face down on the ground beside the car’s open trunk. He can see a lot of blood through the thin hair of the guy’s scalp.

  He looks back up. The woman is nearly on top of him, reaching out already with bloody fingers. He scuttles around the car. She crashes against the car where he just stood and glares at him over the roof. For the moment, she seems stymied. He realizes he’s been holding his

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  breath, and lets it go. He takes a quick look into the car. No keys there. The trunk maybe? Or maybe still on the guy’s body? He pushes that thought away. Cross that bridge when and if I have to. Now how do I distract her long enough to check the trunk?

  Something catches his eye: movement in the distance. Over her shoulder, distant, but on their way, he can see five or six other people heading this direction. And just like that he feels any optimism over this situation slip away…

  DAWN ARRIVES and proof that the city is burning is tangible all around them. A sharp chemical tang is in the air, and several black smudges mar the pale blue sky. In the last hour, Bronte, Tracks and Daric have heard sirens here and there, but always distant and never for long.

  Darkness enabled them to hide from the groups of people roaming the streets, but being outside now is a lot riskier. They squat behind a dirty pickup truck parked near the outside wall of a corner store in a decrepit building on 4th Street South. There are bars over the windows, but Bronte can see the front door is hanging open—Whether that is by design or accident, he isn’t sure. Forty feet or so beyond the store there is some kind of dockyard complex on a canal from the bay and a small humped bridge spanning it.

  “Thrill hill,” he hears Tracks whisper, talking to the boy. “That’s a bridge, Tracks, not a hill,” Daric replies with a little belligerence.

  “If you go over it fast in a car, you’d know.”

  Bronte interrupts with a wave of his hand. “We’re going in the store here. We all need something to eat and drink, and maybe we can rest a while.”

  Tracks nods and they all stand up. Tracks already has his shotgun in hand. They file along the wall and stop just outside the door. Bronte pulls his pistol from beneath his jacket, then slides through the doorway fast. The interior of the store is dim, but he can make out lighted coolers

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>   for beer and soda on the back wall. Most of the store is stretched out to his left, with four aisles of merchandise. Just to his right is a checkout, but no one is there. The usual lotto machine, magazine racks and register are visible. He leans over the worn wooden counter. The register is open and empty. The cigarettes are all gone and the scratch-off lotto tickets are missing. Somebody robbed this place…

  He hears Tracks and Daric enter behind him and pull the door closed. Bronte says over his shoulder, “Stay here and watch the door. I’ll check out the rest.”

  He can see down each aisle as he walks toward the back of the store. The first looks like mostly detergents and medicines and the second looks like snacks such as chips, candy, cookies and soda. The third has a lot of canned goods and the fourth has wine on one side and beer and soda coolers on the other. Finally there are two doors beside some comic book racks and a few stacks of bottled water.

  Better check behind the doors. The door on the right has a sign that says, ‘REST ROOM,’ and the left, ‘KEEP OUT.’

  He takes the restroom first. The hinges squeak but all he sees is a spotlessly clean bathroom with an ancient sink and toilet. There is a mirror over the sink. He lets the door close and goes to the next door. This door opens into a small storeroom with a roll down metal slatted receiving door and a dead body face down on the floor. The dead guy is an old man, seventy maybe eighty years old with skin the color of black coffee and a fringe of tight white peppercorn curls covering the back of his head.

  He knows the guy is dead because he has a couple of bullet holes in his head. The sound of Tracks’ heavy breathing is right behind him. “I locked the door Bronte. I put the closed sign up.”

  “Where’s the boy?” Bronte asks.

  “Looking at the comics,” Tracks replies.

  “Somebody shot the old guy, Tracks,” he says.

  “He Willie Brett. He own the place.”

  “Somebody just couldn’t rob him. They had to kill him too.”

  “I used to fish with his boy out by the Pier.”

  Bronte steps over the corpse. He tests the lock on the back door, then squats beside the old man. “This is what we are going to do.” He reaches down to the old man’s waist and fishes in his pants pocket. He pulls forth a ring of keys. “We get something to eat and drink, and we stretch out for a few hours. We pack up some supplies from here,