by Jed Power
Chapter 21
Lieutenant Ray Conover leaned back against the metal railing that ran the length of the boardwalk across the street from the High Tide. He was holding the Boston Herald so the paper obscured most of his face. It was mid-afternoon and he'd been in the same place for hours, so he'd read everything in the Herald, including the ads, twice. He'd long ago stopped reading and switched to counting every life preserver, fake seagull, and lobster trap that decorated the front of the building.
Dan Marlowe was inside working while Conover stood watch outside on the off chance that the two men who'd tried to kidnap Dan on the beach came back to try again. It was probably a long shot, especially in broad daylight at a crowded restaurant, but it was the only lead Conover had on the harbor murders. Besides, he wanted another crack at those two punks. Especially the big one who'd taken pot shots at him. This time someone else would be kissing the pavement.
So far he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. A lot of customers coming and going and that was about it. He kept peeking over his paper and shifting from foot to foot, hoping the jerks he was interested in would show up again.
Suddenly a guy with a duck-billed cap–a guy he'd seen around the beach a couple of times before–stopped directly in front of Conover, obscuring his view of the High Tide. The man reached into the pocket of his lightweight coat and began scattering around some type of crumbs. Within seconds he'd attracted a few seagulls and a flock of pigeons.
"Hey, buddy. How about moving your little bird party to a better location," Conover said to the back of the man's head.
The birdman moved a few feet and took his friends with him, clearing Conover's line of sight. Conover tried to concentrate on the restaurant but found his gaze slowly sliding back to the fellow with the birds. They were crawling all over the guy now. On his arms, his shoulders, there was even one perched right on top of his head.
Conover forced himself to look back at the High Tide, expecting to see what he'd been seeing all afternoon–nothing. At least nothing worthwhile. This time, though, a thin, weaselly looking man, who seemed as out of place at the beach as an Eskimo, was at the side of the restaurant peering through the plate glass window. The man's hands shaded his eyes like a hat bill while he continued staring in the window for a couple of minutes. Suddenly, he scooted across the street to the opposite corner where he leaned against a building, keeping his face turned in the direction of the High Tide's front door.
Conover didn't recognize the weasel but he had a feeling about him. A feeling that made his stomach a bit queasy. He kept the newspaper high enough to hide his lower face and shifted his gaze from the restaurant to the thin guy on the corner and back again.
Nothing happened for a while. The thin man didn't move, and there was nothing happening with the restaurant except the coming and goings of patrons.
Then, about fifteen minutes after he'd first shown up, the skinny guy suddenly walked kitty-corner across the side street toward the back of the High Tide. Conover watched as the thin guy shanghaied an old man in a painter's cap and old clothes who'd just come out of the restaurant’s back door. The thin guy grabbed the old man by the arm and shoved him against the wall of the restaurant. Although there was lots of foot traffic up near the front of the restaurant on Ocean, there wasn't another soul down near the two men at the rear side of the building.
The thin guy was jabbering right up in the old man's face. It didn't look like friendly talk either. Then the punk smacked the old man hard across the face with his open palm. Conover dropped the paper and started to move, then thought better of it. Unlikely that this dust-up had anything to do with why he was standing watch. If he went over and broke up the action, that'd probably be when something happened out front of the place.
Conover was distracted for the hundredth time by the guy with the pigeons who was now posing like some kind of statue with pigeons all over him. Conover turned back just in time to see the thin guy pull out a handgun and whack the old man across the side of the head with it.
Conover removed his Glock from his shoulder holster and moved it to the large pocket of his windbreaker. He kept his fingers wrapped around it.
"Hey, what the hell's going on?" he shouted and started walking in the direction of the two men. The thin guy saw him coming and took off toward Ocean Boulevard, leaving the old man sagging against the building.
Conover glanced at the old man. If he was still standing, he couldn't be too bad. He'd check out the old man as soon as he collared this slimeball. Conover cut diagonally across the parking lot separating the boardwalk from the street, moving at a normal speed. No use spooking the thin guy into running. The man continued south, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder.
It didn't take Conover long to come abreast of the man. The two of them on opposite sidewalks now, both heading in the same direction, only the two lanes of Ocean Boulevard separating them. Bumper-to-bumper traffic filled Conover's nose with exhaust fumes.
He was going to have to make a move sooner or later–the only question was when. Too bad there wasn't a local cop around; he didn't relish the idea of taking this armed guy alone. The street and sidewalk were so crowded that he wanted to avoid gunfire if possible. He kept his sweaty hand wrapped around the gun in his pocket.
When the thin man reached the corner of M Street, he glanced at Conover. There was an almost imperceptible change in the man's gait, not really faster, just different. Conover's hand tightened on the Glock. This was it; the man would start to rabbit any second.
Conover ducked as the thin man whipped out a gun and popped a shot in his direction. The man spun back around and broke into a full-out run, long hair flying in the wind. He sprinted right by a sub shop plastered with a hundred signs telling the prices of its sandwiches.
Adrenalin kicked Conover's heart into overdrive as he dashed between parked cars and out across Ocean Boulevard, dodging traffic as he went. He had his gun out now, barrel pointed down. No way could he get a clear shot, not with this many people around. The man was more than a half a block ahead of him now, all elbows and ass.
"Get out of the way," Conover shouted as he dodged around a couple on the sidewalk. Other people saw him coming, gun in hand, and jumped aside in fright. His feet pounded the cement and his lungs started to ache as he sprinted past N Street and a giant pirate holding a six-foot sword at a miniature golf course. Up ahead the thin guy was running like hell. The man banged a right onto O Street. Conover poured on the steam, dodging through the oblivious crowd.
When Conover rounded the corner onto O he could see the man hauling ass in the middle of the street about halfway down. No pedestrians on this side street–Conover had a clear shot. He stopped and raised the pistol with both hands. He started to shout a command but couldn't catch his breath. He took aim, steadied his shaking hands, and fired off a shot. The thin man dodged sideways as a jagged hole suddenly appeared in the rear window of a parked car next to him.
Conover was about to take a second shot when he saw a line of cars crawling past the end of the street on Ashworth Avenue. If he missed the guy again, he'd probably hit one of those occupied cars.
"Son of a bitch." Conover broke into a run again. He closed the gap a bit when the thin guy had trouble getting across the traffic on Ashworth. Brakes squealed left and right. The man barely made it past a car full of kids, but he finally reached the other side and continued heading south.
Conover didn't slow when he reached Ashworth. He barreled straight across the street, somehow managing to avoid becoming a pedestrian fatality.
They were both running south on Ashworth now. Conover's lungs burned and his legs ached. If the thin man put any more distance between them, he'd never be able to make it up. He took heart knowing that they'd be at the harbor soon. The thin guy would be at a dead end–unless he planned to hotfoot it across the bridge toward Seabrook.
If the creep went out on t
he bridge, Conover'd get at least one good shot.
At the last minute, the thin man banged a right down a gravel road toward the harbor where the party boats docked. Conover knew the area pretty well. As long as they both kept heading toward the water, there was no way out.
The thin man leapt onto one of the long wooden fishing boat piers and raced toward the far end. Conover hesitated when he reached the pier. He couldn't get a clear shot off–people were swarming off a party boat that had just gotten back to the pier. He broke into a sprint again, his feet pounding hard on the wooden planks. The thin man blew past two people, shoving them over a rail into the water fifteen feet below.
Someone screamed as Conover raced by waving his gun. The thin man suddenly dropped out of sight at the far end of the pier.
There was no way he could escape, Conover told himself. Somewhere nearby an outboard motor roared to life. Conover pulled up short at the end of the pier. About fifteen feet below, the thin man revved the engine in a small motorboat and pulled away from a tiny dock. Conover ran down the gangplank to the dock, raised his weapon, and squeezed off a quick succession of shots. The dock rocked in the motorboat's wake and Conover had no doubt he'd missed.
There was a large party boat moored just off the dock and the motorboat angled around it. Conover dashed to the other side of the dock to try and catch the boat when it rounded the far end of the larger vessel, but the thin man was no fool. Instead of running the length of the party boat, he'd headed straight out. By the time Conover realized what had happened and got a bead on the motorboat, he knew it was too far away to hit even with a lucky shot. No use wasting bullets.
The motorboat headed toward the Hampton Bridge and the open sea beyond. There was no way he could beat the boat to the bridge even if he had wings. All he could do now was catch his breath and watch the motorboat until it disappeared.
Just before the boat went under the bridge, Conover swore he could see the skinny little weasel look back at the dock, his hand moving up and down in a rhythmic motion. He didn't actually have to see it to know that the prick was giving him the finger. Probably laughing at him too.
Hard to tell which was worse.
~*~*~
