Matt slammed both of his feet on the brake pedal, which triggered the chattering kickback of the antilock-brake system.
He watched the minivan slide sideways toward the concrete zipper barrier, then go into a counterclockwise spin. On its second almost complete revolution, the right front bumper impacted the zipper barrier, then the whole right side of the vehicle slammed into it, forcing the van to almost flip over into the eastbound lanes. The impact moved the zipper barrier into them, causing two cars to collide on that side.
Payne let off the brakes and, dodging an oncoming Volvo, its woman driver looking terrified, drove beyond the minivan. He nosed the Crown Vic against the barrier at an angle so that it would serve as a buffer. As he got out, he saw that the minivan driver had already fled the vehicle and now was running with the pistol in his right hand. He also saw that blood flowed from a gash on his forehead.
It was a feeble escape attempt. He almost immediately tripped in a crack just before an expansion joint in the suspension bridge, and bounced as he landed on top of the joint. When he hit, he loosened his grip on the pistol—and it slid toward the gap in the expansion joint.
That Glock’s going to fall into the Delaware!
But then it kept sliding and stopped in the middle of the westbound lanes.
Payne then suddenly heard the horrible roar of screaming tires behind him, and he immediately ran to the pocket that the minivan had made by moving the zipper barrier. When he turned, it was just in time to see a woman in a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser slam into the side of the Crown Vic, the SUV’s windshield instantly filling with multiple inflated air bags.
Jesus!
Guess the car can go back to the feds now. . . .
Payne looked back at the black male. He was still trying to get up.
Payne ran toward him, his pistol aimed at his back.
He shouted, “Police! Don’t move!”
But then the black male did move, bolting toward the zipper barrier.
Now Payne no longer had a clear field of fire; there were countless vehicles zipping by in the three eastbound lanes just beyond the man.
“Stop!” Payne yelled again as the man went over the low barrier.
The man paused there on the other side, waiting for a gap in traffic— and causing a six-wheeled big box delivery truck in the inside lane to lock up its brakes trying to avoid hitting him.
That suddenly slowed traffic, and there was a gap, and the black male decided to make his dash across. But as he bolted into the next lane, the large profile of the delivery truck obstructed his view—and he ran right into the path of a fast-moving, low-profile sports car.
Payne watched as the car hit him in the lower legs. The impact caused him to tumble like a rag doll over the top of the sports car. He flipped through the air twice before hitting the bridge decking and then being run over by three other vehicles, including a bus.
Traffic came to a stop.
Matt Payne shook his head. He decocked his Colt, then slipped it back under his blazer and beneath the waistband of his woolen slacks. He could hear the sirens of the squad cars that Harris had called in screaming toward him and what sounded like the heavy horns of the fire department’s rapid-intervention and major crash-rescue vehicles.
Then he saw one of the Aviation Unit’s Bell 206 L-4 helicopters approaching from the north.
Glancing at the overhead traffic cameras, he thought, Kerry probably called in every last one of the cavalry, too.
Standing there in his navy blazer, his gray woolen cuffed trousers, a once crisply starched light-blue shirt with a red-striped tie, and his highly polished black shoes all scuffed, he forced a smile and waved at the cameras.
And Rapier and Ratcliff and whoever the hell else is in the ECC.
The eastbound traffic slowly parted, and two Philadelphia Police Department Chevy Impalas rolled up to the dead black male. The blue shirts began routing traffic around the scene. Another Impala arrived and went to the cars that had stopped after hitting the man. And there were paramedics talking with the woman sitting behind the wheel of the SUV that had hit the Crown Vic.
Payne turned and walked back to the minivan.
The window on the sliding center door had popped out on impact. Payne looked in through the hole. The first thing he saw was a plastic sign with the FedEx HOME DELIVERY logo. And then he noticed on the floorboard several scattered rounds of .45-caliber GAP hollow-points.
There’s the rest of Will Curtis’s story.
So the pop-and-drops are over. . . .
[SIX]
Hops Haus Brewery 1101 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 12:44 P.M.
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., was sitting at the massive rectangular stainless-steel-topped bar. He chewed on his lunch of a steak sandwich while watching with fascination the police chase playing out live on the two giant flat-screen televisions behind the bar.
What the hell drives, so to speak, people to act that way? he thought. That’s just insane to run from the cops, then go the wrong way on the freeway.
Who plays with fire like that?
He reached for his pint glass of lager, which was almost empty. He drained it, then tried to get the barmaid’s attention. It took a minute, because everyone was glued to the image of the white minivan racing the wrong way into westbound traffic on the Ben Franklin Bridge. Even some of the chefs had come out of the kitchen to watch. After Badde waved his hand for help for a bit longer, one of the busboys saw him and flagged the barmaid, and she got the signal to bring him a fresh pint.
Who the hell am I kidding?
All I’ve been doing is playing with fire lately—and coming damn close to being incinerated.
But what’s the saying?
“Close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades”?
Badde was more or less hiding under a plain cloth cap and blending in with the crowd. He wore an Eagles sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, and athletic shoes, trying to keep a low profile until the thing with Allante Williams, Kenny Jones, and that drug dealer was finally finished.
And I get back my ten grand from Allante.
I wonder how much I can really trust him. I did just feed him a job that made him forty grand richer.
Badde had come to the brewery after visiting the demolition site and checking on the progress there. It had been damned lucky that the cops had not released the scene until late the night before. Lucky because by then it had been too late and dark to move the heavy demolition equipment. They’d been able to get the crews there at the crack of dawn for an early start.
By the time Badde had arrived, the crews were mostly done. And he’d taken a picture with his cell phone camera of that almost perfectly flat property, then sent it to Janelle Harper with explicit instructions for her to e-mail it immediately to the Russian.
I don’t know for sure if what he said about those holdouts being killed with a muscle relaxer is true or not.
But I do know that it’s smart to proceed with caution.
I don’t want to get on his bad side, and there’s no question that that was a threat last night.
Which is why I had Janelle send those photos to him. And why he’ll get more photos the minute the damn construction crews arrive.
There was a huge gasp from the crowd as the televisions showed the gray police sedan racing up behind the minivan—then ramming it.
The minivan slid sideways, then spun twice before smacking the divider wall.
Jesus! It hit so hard it moved the wall!
He’d already heard from Roger Wynne that the last of the recovered absentee ballots had been shredded into a fine confetti, so that was not going to come back to haunt him.
Unless Wynne gets wise and thinks he can use that against me.
I’m going to have to keep an eye on him.
As he picked up his new pint of lager and downed a third of it in one swallow, his Go To Hell cell phone rang. He put down the glass and looked at the caller ID.
W
hat? It’s gobbledlygook. Nothing but “010101010.”
“Yes?” he said, answering it.
“I got your photograph. The site is looking better.”
The Russian? How the hell did he get this number?
“Yuri?” Badde said.
“I think we now better understand each other.”
Badde began, “I’m glad . . .” But then he realized that the line was dead.
He anxiously sipped at his beer as he tried to figure out just what the hell had happened.
There was another gasp from the crowd, and he looked again to the televisions.
The camera showed a remarkably clear shot of a man running from the minivan, being chased by a man in a coat and tie from the gray sedan.
That first one looks like it could be Kenny!
Being chased by a plainclothes cop?
And then the camera caught a clear shot of the man in the coat and tie.
Someone said, “Look! It’s the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line!”
Then Badde saw the man who was being chased trip, get up, and go over the concrete divider. What happened next was obstructed by the big box of a delivery truck. But the crowd’s gasp made it obvious what had happened.
Damn! Talk about being thrown under a bus.
He took another sip of beer and thought a long moment.
Bottom line: I’m going to have to watch my back a helluva lot more closely.
“Waitress!” he called out to the barmaid, and when she stepped over, he said, “I’ll take a double Jameson’s rocks. No, make it a triple.”
[SEVEN]
Ben Franklin Bridge, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 1:05 P.M.
Matt stood next to the zipper wall, watching the Tow Squad wrecker—its flatbed tilted down and touching the deck of the bridge—winch up the demolished gray Crown Victoria Police Interceptor.
Every lane of traffic was backed up in both directions on the bridge, and there was a cacophony of horns honking.
As Matt scanned the maddening scene, he thought about all the craziness that had led up to this very moment—all the crimes that had been committed against the innocent, which had led to all the shootings and brutal beatings of the career criminals.
And there are all the others still out there.
More crimes, more killings—it’s not going to stop.
I just slowed it. But I’m never going to be able to stop it.
He suddenly felt very small and alone.
Is there any sanity left in this world?
As he ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head, his cell phone began ringing in his pocket.
He pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID—then smiled as he closed his eyes and visualized the last time he’d seen Amanda Law.
The angel goddess peacefully asleep—there is sanity.
“Hey, baby,” he said, answering it. “Feeling any better?”
“Yeah, thanks. I am. Are you too busy to talk?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Say, I’m on the balcony looking at the Ben Franklin Bridge. It’s shut down in both directions. Any idea what that’s about?”
“A little. I’ll tell you in a bit. What’s on your mind?”
“I really don’t want to tell you this on the phone. How long do you think—?”
Oh, shit! What the hell else can go wrong today?
“What? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it is.”
Now he could hear the excitement in her voice.
“What is it, Amanda?”
There was a long pause, then she said: “Okay, okay. Matt, I’m . . . I’m pregnant! We’re pregnant!”
What? A baby?
Then he realized: No wonder the goddess was glowing.
She was saying: “I knew I was a little late with my cycle, Matt, but when I went and got out the calendar, I saw that I was very late. And then I thought the nausea might be, well, from being late, so in the drugstore I got one of those self-tests. It came up positive, and I thought, ‘How could that be?’ We’re always careful, you know? But then I remembered that first night we were just so . . . well, you remember, in a hurry and not careful. And then I counted the days and went back and got another brand to test with. And then it showed positive. Soooo . . .”
Matt was quiet a long time as he absorbed the news.
He looked past the cables of the suspension bridge in the direction of the Hops Haus Tower, then up to where Amanda would be standing on the balcony and looking toward him.
“Matt . . . ?” she said very softly. “What are you thinking?”
Matt Payne then smiled broadly and said, “I’m thinking that’s wonderful, Amanda. Absolutely wonderful, my angel goddess.”
The Vigilantes Page 34
