gasoline is on the shelf in all our houses.
I hadn’t noticed that Vic was standing beside me. “You look nice, Walt.” I wasn’t sure what to say, so I self-consciously straightened my tie. She made an exasperated sound and reached out to straighten my now crooked tie. “I said you look nice. Stop fidgeting.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop apologizing.”
“Okay.” She studied the photograph and was reading Dena’s poetry, the point of her nose turned up. I couldn’t help but wonder if the world had changed, that things were, indeed, different. “Lucian calls it my union-organizer suit jacket.” She wasn’t really paying attention to me but was thinking about Dena’s words. “You look great, too.”
Her head turned back to me. “Thank you.”
She smiled, and I smiled back. “Why do I have a feeling that what we did this afternoon was for my benefit?” She didn’t say anything, but took a sip of her dirty martini, and I watched the iridescent sparkling in the tarnished gold eye, and was thinking that I was doing exactly what I’d been fighting against for years: falling in love with my deputy.
Someone was standing beside us. It was Osgood and the young woman I’d seen with him in the lobby. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“Howdy.” I stepped back and introduced Vic. The blonde’s name was Patricia Fulton, and she was making it abundantly clear that we hillbillies were not the people she had come to meet. He dismissed her to get drinks, which produced volumes of lower lip, but she disappeared.
Osgood gave Vic a strong look, from her turquoise choker to her boots, and I had the urge to toss him off the balcony. “So, you’re from Wyoming?”
She finished off her cloudy cocktail and took an olive out that had been impaled by a tiny, plastic sword. “I’m from Ninth Street, shitbird, and don’t you forget it.” She bit the olive, turned, and started for the bar in a calculated retreat.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” We both looked after her.
“Is she a Moretti Moretti?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He sighed, and his head dropped a little. “Man, I can’t catch a break.” He noticed my stitches and the finger guard. “What happened to you?”
I shrugged. “I got mugged.”
“When?”
“This morning. It’s no big deal.”
He leaned in closer to me, and his voice dropped. “I have some information for you.”
I waited. “Okay…”
“Not here.” He glanced around. “The bridge. Later?”
I took a moment to respond. “No.”
He studied me. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. I’ve got other things I have to do tonight and running to the other side of town and hanging around on bridges is not one of them. If you’ve got something to tell me, just tell me.”
“It has to do with your daughter.”
“Cady. Then I’m interested, but I don’t have the time to go anywhere else.” I pulled out my pocketwatch. “As a matter of fact, I’m only going to be here for about twenty more minutes.”
He thought about it. “I’ll meet you outside.”
“Where?”
“There’s an alley behind the building; it turns a corner and there’s a loading dock. I’ll meet you there in fifteen.”
I took a tip from the blonde and tried to look bored. “You bet.”
I left him and continued around the gallery, careful to catch Gowder’s eye as I got another beer from the bartender and retrieved Vic. “You got your sidearm?”
She looked genuinely shocked. “What?”
“I take that as a no?”
“Yes, that’s a no.”
I steered her out of the main gallery to the landing as Gowder appeared, and I nodded him toward us. “Osgood just arranged a little meeting with me out back.”
His eyes widened. “Put him off, and we’ll wire you.”
I shook my head. “No, I have every intention of being back at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital within the hour. This case is important, but Cady is more important.”
The detective sighed. “How you want to play it?”
“You guys go ahead and get set up. I’ll be along in a few minutes. If he sees us together it may not happen.” I reached into the pancake holster at my back and handed Vic my .45, which she slipped under her jacket. “It’s probably nothing, but the people around this guy have an alarming tendency to turn up dead.”
Gowder looked around. “I’ll find that woman from the Academy. Maybe there’s another way into the alley than the Cherry Street entrance.”
Vic looked at me a moment longer then followed him. I stood there and watched as Osgood came down the stairs past me and disappeared into the crowd below; he was talking on his cell phone.
What was it the assistant district attorney had planned? I didn’t figure there was any real danger from him, but if Toy Diaz and he were in cahoots, then discretion was the better part of armed backup. And what about Cady? Was it something to do with her connection to William White Eyes? Or was it simply a ruse? Anyway, I had a meet.
There was a general commotion in the lobby. Of all the things I thought I might’ve seen coming through the brass revolving doors of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Lena Moretti with Dog on a leash would’ve probably been the last.
Two security guards, who seemed to be having a hard time keeping up, were following her closely. People were backing away, even though Dog seemed to be in his best form. Evidently the time in Lena’s company had done him some good, since he appeared freshly washed and trimmed. She pulled up with the brute and smiled as I got to the bottom of the steps. She was beautiful, flushed, and breathless.
“I brought you your dog.”
She reached the leash out to me, and I noticed that it was a black leather one rather than the extension cord we’d been using. I also noticed it matched her outfit, a sleek and sophisticated formfitting black skirt with a black ruffled cardigan over a black knit top. The opera was going to get a run for its money.
“Thank you.” Dog sat on my foot.
She studied my face. “I know it’s inconvenient, but I didn’t have anywhere to keep him tonight.” She glanced around the room, and I’m sure she was looking for her daughter.
I thought about the noise I’d heard while Vic and I had been on the sofa. “I, um…”
Her eyes flashed back to me. “I’m out tonight, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to check on him tomorrow, so I thought I’d just bring him over here.”
“Thank you.” Dog looked up at me, and I tried to think of what to say next, finally settling on the most important thing. “Cady opened her eyes.”
She softened and stepped forward, hugging my arm. “I know. Michael called me. It’s wonderful.” Her genuine happiness cut through the awkwardness. “I have to go. Can’t be late for Rigoletto.”
She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and turned. I watched as the fluted skirt twirled just enough to show a shapely calf, and she disappeared back through the revolving doors. Like mother, like daughter.
Dog looked at me, and I wondered what the hell I was going to do with him. I looked at the two security guards, and the two security guards looked back at me. “Sir, the dog can’t stay.”
I petted Dog. “That’s okay, neither can I.”
* * *
It had begun raining on Broad Street, a gentle, misting drizzle that glossed the surfaces of the city and diffused the light from the globes above. Even the thunder was gentle in the soft, eastern spring, gently bouncing from the tops of the skyscrapers.
I flipped the collar up on my jacket and pulled my hat down a little as we started around the block; Dog seemed happy to be outside and, truth to be told, I was too.
I stopped at the corner and looked down the narrow alley. The yellow Hummer was there, and there was an identifying sticker in the window that stated OFFICIAL. There were a few other cars scattered along the
building, but the windows were clear of condensation and nobody was in them.
A weirdo wearing sunglasses and a knit cap was smoking a cigarette under the awning of the back door, but I didn’t see Osgood. I turned up the alley and walked past an empty Cadillac where the brick pavement turned and ran alongside the building. There was a loading dock, just as he had said, along with a four-story brick warehouse with numerous alcoves that housed windows and doors. There was a chain-link fence at the end of the dock that blocked off the two-foot-wide area between the buildings. I tried to think of a better place for bad things to happen, but the alley was easily the dankest, most forbidding place I’d been in in a long time.
The kid in the knit cap called out to me as I got to the corner. “Hey, mister? You’re not supposed to be back here.”
I waved him off. “It’s okay.”
I looked ahead and saw Osgood in a trench coat with his hands in his pockets. His collar was flipped up too, and he nodded as I looked past him. He didn’t make any move to come toward me, so I continued to walk to him, wondering where Vic and Gowder might be, and then Dog paused.
It was at that precise moment that the assistant district attorney’s head exploded.
13
I watched as the headless body fell forward into the pools of rain-water that had collected on the uneven surface of the brick pavement. It wasn’t so much that Osgood’s head had exploded as it had vaporized in a crimson mist that had sprayed me along with Dog.
I had ducked and turned my head to the side with the sound, and I was lucky that I had, because deflected 10-gauge pellets smacked against the side of my hat and stung my neck and shoulder. Dog lunged on the leash and barked ferociously as I hung on to the leather strap and yanked him toward me.
There was a familiar roar, and I watched as a slug from my .45 ricocheted off the surface of the narrow passageway between the buildings. Vic stepped from the doorway of the Academy’s loading dock and moved swiftly toward the alley in a two-handed stance, firing as she went, while Gowder ran toward the chain-link fence with his .40 at the ready.
I looked up from Osgood’s twitching body to the eight-foot barrier with the razor wire strung across the top. I released the leash, and Dog charged toward Vic. I yelled as I started back out of the dead-end alley. “Grab him!”
As I rounded the corner, I took the deepest breath I’d taken since falling onto the street that morning. The pain blurred my vision, and I ran into the kid with the cap, slamming him backward as I stumbled over him and lost my hat. “Yo, man!”
I had regained the sidewalk, and it was a straight shot down Cherry to Broad, but the fifty yards looked like Ten Mile Road. It seemed to take forever, but I turned onto Broad in time to see a large man in a hooded sweatshirt covered with some kind of black rain slicker and with a firearm that looked like one of the old Ithaca Roadblockers sticking out of the unsnapped front; he had just turned the corner at Arch.
I grabbed my side, ran into traffic, and took a diagonal approach that gave me a geometric advantage. I heard brakes squealing as I thundered across Broad and felt the draft of a sedan as it missed me by about a foot. I stumbled a little as I made the median but bulled another car to a full stop on the other side, extended my hands, bounced from the grille, and pivoted across the street as another car swerved and disappeared behind me.
I dodged between two parked cars and turned the corner at Arch as well. People were screaming farther down the block, and a crowd had gathered. “Police! Has anybody seen…” About twelve people pointed south. I turned and ran.
He was cutting the corner and taking a left at the next street and was slowing down. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why he was walking; it was possible that he thought he was clear. I fought the urge to throw up and put my last scrap of energy into the final block.
There was a mob on the sidewalk near the Reading Terminal Market; something must have been going on at the Pennsylvania Convention Center. I looked up through the misting rain and read the moving sign: NATIONAL RIFLE ASSOCIATION NATIONAL CONVENTION.
As Vic would say, fuck me. Maybe I could buy a gun from Charlton Heston.
I tried to see the guy in the gray sweatshirt through the throng; he had seemed pretty tall, so I thought I might have a chance. I started walking toward the large overpass, convinced that he’d gone that way, saw a guy with a hood, but it was the wrong color. I wiped the rain from my face and felt a twinge at my neck; I was bleeding. It wasn’t too bad, but I wasn’t going to blend in if things got close.
I caught some movement across the street and a little down the block: gray hood. I couldn’t see the shotgun; he must’ve slipped it under the slicker. If it was actually one of the old Ithaca Mag-10s, he’d never have pitched it; it would be too difficult to get another.
I tried to keep up. He was hurrying now, but not so much that I couldn’t stay with him. He wasn’t going to blend either. He stopped at the next corner, and I panicked for a moment when I thought he was going to hail a taxi; instead, he pulled out a cell phone.
As Vic would say, fuck me again. I had forgotten about Cady’s mobile. I reached into my jacket pocket and dialed 911. He jumped the puddle at the curb, careful to hang onto the gun under his coat, crossed the street, and continued down the block as sirens began whistling through the night around us. A dispatcher answered the line. “Nine-one-one.”
“This is Sheriff Walt Longmire of Absaroka County, Wyoming. I’ve got a 10-32 at the southwest corner of Filbert and 11th. I am tailing a homicide suspect who just killed Assistant District Attorney Vince Osgood at the Academy of Fine Arts, and I need assistance.”
There was a pause, but not much of one. “Sheriff, that was Filbert and 11th?”
“Roger that. A black male, tall, with a gray, hooded sweatshirt and a long, black rain slicker, headed east at a quick walking pace. The subject is armed with a tactical shotgun.”
“Roger that. Can you stay on the line?”
I laughed a short laugh with very little humor in it. “I’d really rather not have this cell phone in my hands when I catch up with him.” I started closing the phone as I crossed the street; the man was only about ninety feet ahead and slightly to the left. It was the guy from the crack house, Shanker DuVall.
“Sheriff…?”
I closed the phone and stuffed it back in my suit jacket, and silently cursed as he took a left at the next block and disappeared north up 10th. I picked up the pace and saw him slip across a parking lot behind the Greyhound Bus Terminal. I cut across the street at a diagonal, again hoping to gain a little distance.
There were rows of buses, most of them running, and I walked alongside one. DuVall was in front of another row on the opposite side of the lot; he was talking on the cell phone again.
There was a DMZ of about twenty yards that I wouldn’t be able to cross without him seeing me. I stopped and started to pull the phone from my pocket when I heard a thumping noise and looked up to see an angry bus driver yelling at me. Even through the windshield and the noise of the diesel, I could hear him plainly. “Hey buddy! You can’t be out here!” I motioned for him to keep quiet, but he honked the air horn, and the noise was tremendous. “Buddy, you’re not allowed out here!”
There wasn’t much choice, so I crossed the lot in the direction that I had last seen DuVall, but he was gone. I glanced between the parked buses and tried not to think about the last time I’d seen most of Vince Osgood.
When I got to the area where the shooter had been standing, I peered around the parked bus and saw nothing but a concrete wall and some weeds. I stooped down, checking to see if I could see any feet, but it was so dark there wasn’t any way to tell. I slid along the corrugated side of the big vehicle and wished I had my sidearm.
There was a pole at the end of the row nearest me, but it shed only scattered blocks of light through the bus windows. I wiped the rain off my face again, stepped around a large puddle, turned sideways, and started sliding between the concrete wal
l and the back of the bus; I figured it was the only direction DuVall could have gone. There was just enough room for me to squeeze after him. Evidently, he hadn’t had any trouble, but then he hadn’t had any trouble squeezing between two buildings and shooting Osgood either. It was possible that he’d left and that I was alone, playing Greyhound limbo for my own amusement. I tried not to think about the alternative.
I stopped for a second and listened, thinking I heard talking. I listened again, but there was nothing. The driver revved the engine of the bus I was pressed against a few times to get the big motor cleared out; I closed my eyes and held my breath until the cloud of exhaust and soot dissipated. The noise was all-encompassing, and I could see the access doors to the engine rattling as I turned my head and looked down the barrel of an Ithaca Mag-10 Roadblocker shotgun.
I could see only part of his face in the dark and within the shadows of the hood, but I could see his lips moving as his finger tightened around the trigger mechanism.
“What?” Here I was, trapped between a bus and a hard spot, and I couldn’t hear the last words I would ever listen to. He paused and then spoke again. His voice was much louder, but I still couldn’t make out the words. “What?”
“I said, I was gonna let you live!”
I yelled back. “Thank you.”
“But…” And he pulled the trigger.
The Ithaca Mag-10 Roadblocker was introduced a few decades back as a tactical 10-gauge designed to stop cars; hence the name Roadblocker. It was expensive, heavy, and carried only three rounds, the idea being that three two-ounce helpings of lead served at just over the sound barrier were enough. However, it had problems that could only be corrected with a longer forcing tube; without the modification, it had a propensity to jam.
And it did.
His eyes widened, and I saw him continue to pull the trigger as I slapped the barrel up; just because it hadn’t gone off didn’t mean that it still wouldn’t.
And it did.
The sound of the buses was bad enough, but the blast from the business end of the 10-gauge shotgun made me hear a high-pitched squeal that felt like a band saw cutting through my brain. I held the barrel above me as the back glass and parts of the bus’s aluminum skin skittered down on my face. He tugged at the heated metal of the shotgun, but I yanked, and the weapon came loose, skimmed over me, and clattered onto the ground.
The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 Page 86
