by Frank Zafiro
Katie paused, shuffling to a stop. She wondered where an aggressive rapist might lie in wait. Where might he strike?
She glanced to the dark path through the wooded area to the north. Images of Phil and the sound of his slurred voice came unbidden into her mind. She tried to brush them aside, but his voice kept whispering in her ear-
You liked it. Don’t forget that.
— accusing her. She felt pressure against her lips, reminiscent of his hand clamped across her mouth.
Katie felt her breath quicken. Sweat dampened the nape of her neck. She breathed in through her nose, but instead of the clean smell of river air and damp grass, the only scent that filled her nostrils was the ghostly aroma of Phil’s rum-coated breath.
She stood at the crossroad, unmoving.
2129 hours
Tower peered through the binoculars at MacLeod.
“If she goes north, my vision will be obscured by those trees,” he told Officer Paul Hiero.
“That’s all right,” Hiero told him, eyeing her through the rifle scope. “I should be able to pick her up with the night vision pretty well.”
Tower picked up his radio and keyed the mike. “Ida-409 to Adam-122.”
O’Sullivan answered immediately. “-22, go ahead.”
“She’s at the fork just north of the footbridge.”
“Which footbridge? There’s about seven of ‘em.”
Tower frowned, but Sully was right. “Near the carousel,” he transmitted. “If she goes north, we’ll have a limited view of her from here.”
“Copy. You want us to move?”
Tower considered for a moment. Then he pressed the transmit button again. “Not yet. If we lose sight of her, I’ll let you know. If that happens, you two get down to the wide bridge that leads to the Flour Mill. If she’s not on the bridge, come south and find her.”
Sully replied with a brief click of his mike.
Tower looked over at Hiero. Dressed in all of his SWAT regalia, complete with his baseball cap turned backward, he reminded Tower of every cliched version of a SWAT officer that Hollywood had ever created. He considered humming the TV theme song, but instead raised his binoculars back to his eyes.
Katie still stood at the fork in the pathway.
“Come on, MacLeod,” he whispered. “What are you going to do?”
2130 hours
“You think Tower’s an asshole?” Battaglia asked. “Because I think Tower’s an asshole.”
Sully shrugged. “I don’t know. What kind of an asshole?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, East Coast or West Coast asshole?”
Battaglia narrowed his eyes. “Like there’s a difference, other than accent.”
“Oh, there’s a difference,” Sully said, “but I wouldn’t expect you to know.”
“Why? No, wait-don’t tell me. It’s because I’m Italian, right?”
Sully shook his head. “No, because you’re a philistine.”
“I’m full of what?”
“Exactly,” Sully replied.
2131 hours
Katie looked down the pathway into the dark.
Everything in her police experience told her that rapists weren’t boogeymen. They didn’t jump out of bushes and attack strangers. In all of the rape reports she’d taken-and being a female cop, she’d been stuck with an inordinate number of them-she discovered that the suspect was almost always someone the victim knew. Maybe not someone they knew very well, but knew all the same. They came dressed as frat boys, like Phil had. It was never a stranger who leapt out of the darkness. Rapists don’t do that.
This one does.
Katie turned east.
* * *
“She’s going east,” Tower transmitted.
“Copy,” Sully answered over the radio.
Tower peered at Katie through his binoculars. “She’s doing a good job of looking scared,” he said quietly. “Look at her poor posture. The way she’s walking and looking down the whole time. You see that?”
“I see it,” Hiero said.
“She’s a natural decoy.”
“Maybe she’s not pretending,” Hiero said.
Tower broke away from his binocs to look at the sniper. “You think she’s scared?”
Hiero raised his eyebrows and turned down his mouth in a facial shrug. “I would be.”
“Even with back up?”
“It is Sully and Battaglia,” Hiero half-joked.
“Fine,” Tower conceded with a small smile. “How about a sniper, then?”
This time Hiero shrugged with his shoulders. “I’m not that great a shot.”
2132 hours
Katie made her way east, shuffling along with her shoulders bent and her head low. She paused at the railing near the duck feeding station. Her presence brought over a few mallards that she figured were insomniacs. In the darkness, the green feather headdress appeared black. They quacked at her, at first in appreciative tones, then in demanding ones. When she didn’t break out any bread or other goodies, the quacks seemed to take on a derogatory tone. Finally, the ducks paddled away in disgust.
You are losing it,MacLeod, Katie told herself. Attaching human traits to water fowl?
She stared into the water for several minutes, bringing her breathing under control. Slowly but surely, she forced it to become deep and regular. She noticed she was shivering from the sweat.
It was time to move again.
Katie turned and shuffled along toward to the clock tower, her ears perked for anyone approaching her. The park seemed strangely empty for a Saturday night. Usually couples strolled along the pathways, out for romantic walks after dining downtown. Kids hung out around the carousel and tried to get away with skate-boarding where it wasn’t allowed, keeping the park security guards busy. Old, lonely people walked their dogs.
But not tonight.
They’re all afraid.
Katie knew it was true. Ever since the media grabbed hold of the story about the Rainy Day Rapist, people were scared to go out at night.
She didn’t blame them.
Even so, a small surge of anger raked through her belly. One man was doing this. One man was preying on the fears of an entire city. One man was imposing his will. And he probably got off on it.
Katie clenched her jaw at the thought.
She paused at the base of the clock tower, once again at a crossroads. One pathway led up the hill to the north, toward the pavilion where Sully and Battaglia were staged. Continuing east led her to the Washington Street Underpass.
In the distance, the darkness of the underpass looked like an inky blot.
She headed for the darkness.
2135 hours
“You’re full of crap,” Battaglia said.
“Ask Gio,” Sully replied. “His parents are from Brooklyn. I’ll bet he knows.”
“He doesn’t know because you’re making it up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Look,” Sully said, “it’s simple. Here in Washington, you use the word ‘asshole’ to mean, like, a jerk or something. Only more harsh, right?”
“That’s what it means,” Battaglia told him. “That’s what the word means everywhere. An asshole is an asshole.”
“Not back east,” Sully argued, shaking his finger back and forth. “Back there, especially in New York and in Jersey, it’s not such a strong word. It means something more along the lines of ‘schmuck’ or whatever. It’s a softer word.”
“Asshole is never a soft word.”
Sully affected a Brooklyn accent. “What am I, an asshole ovah heah?”
“Oh, nice. Make fun of my people.”
“That’s how your people use the word.”
Battaglia shook his head. “I think we use the word to describe the Irish.”
The radio squawked, pre-empting Sully’s reply. “Adam-122?”
“Twenty-Two,” Sully said into the portable radio.
“She’s headed for the Washington Street Overpass,” Tower transmitted. “I’ll lose sight of her when she goes underneath.”
Sully pressed the transmit button. “We’ll take the path up top and get an eye on her when she comes through the other side.”
“Good. Copy that.”
Sully slid the radio into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go, asshole.”
“East Coast or West?” Battaglia asked, firing up the golf cart.
“Both,” Sully assured him.
2136 hours
Katie forced herself to maintain her hunched posture. She shuffled her feet and looked down. Somehow it was easier than before, almost as if hunching made her a smaller target and therefore safer. Tension laced her shoulders and neck as she made her way toward the darkness under the roadway.
She paused a few yards from the underpass. The blackness inside caused small waves of apprehension to ripple through her lower stomach. She recalled her irrational childhood fears-the open closet door at night, the boogeyman under the bed.
That back bedroom with Phil.
Her father always told her that her bedroom was exactly the same place with the lights off as when the lights were on. There was nothing different once the light went away.
Katie was twenty-seven years old now, and she knew what her father said wasn’t really true. Things happened in the dark that never happened in the light. People hid in the dark. They did evil in the dark. There was pain in the dark.
She didn’t want to go into the dark.
2137 hours
“She’s stopped,” Tower reported. “Why is she stopped?”
Hiero shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the detective.”
Tower ignored the jibe. “Maybe she sees something under the overpass?”
“Could be.”
“Or somebody. Can you see under there at all?”
Hiero trained his night scope ahead of MacLeod. “Only a few yards in. We’re too close and up too high. The angle’s bad.”
Tower cursed. “What does she see in there?”
* * *
The area under the overpass couldn’t be longer than twenty-five yards, Katie estimated. That was it. Twenty-five yards. That’s maybe thirty paces.
That’s all.
To her right, the slow current of The Looking Glass River drifted past. An iron fence ran along the shore to keep people from swimming in the water, which was far colder, deeper and faster than the average jerk realized.
They were usually drunk, Katie mused, her mind flitting away for a moment, almost as if it were trying to avoid what stood in front of her. And, drunk or not, most of the would-be swimmers were dissuaded by that fence.
Her focus came back when she looked beneath the underpass. The left edge of the pathway was lined with a sloping rock wall that rose up and receded away into darkness. Katie knew that transients sometimes slept up underneath the bridge in the deep recesses of the scattered rocks.
She peered into the blackness, wishing for a flashlight. There could be a half dozen transients camped back there, wrapped up in sleeping bags or laying in wait.
Or just one rapist.
She clenched her jaw.
Knock it off, Katie.
She took a deep breath. “Toughen up, buttercup,” she whispered to herself.
She wanted to move forward, but her feet wouldn’t budge.
There’s nothing there that isn’t there in the day time.
Katie blinked and stared into the darkness.
You don’t have to go in there.
The words floated through her mind in an unrecognizable voice. The voice was at once soothing and taunting.
Just walk around.
Katie let the air out of her lungs. She drew in another deep breath, tasting the damp river air. What if she didn’t go forward? What would be the issue? There’d be no issue, right? She was just being safe. No one would even know.
She’d know.
Katie exhaled in a long, steady breath. She slid her hand inside her purse and wrapped her fingers around the reassuring grip of her pistol.
You don’t have to-
“Shut up,” Katie whispered.
She stepped forward into the darkness.
2138 hours
“Not yet!” Sully yelled, just as Battaglia made a hard turn off the path and into the thinning bushes and trees.
Battaglia opened his mouth to tell Sully to shut his Irish pie-hole when he drove the golf cart into a raised tree root. The tire rode up the thick, twisted growth as readily as any man-made ramp. The cart tilted.
“Fu-uh-uh-” Battaglia began.
The golf cart toppled onto the driver’s side.
Sully landed in a heap on top of Battaglia.
“She’s heading in,” squawked the radio.
Sully rolled off the top of Battaglia’s sprawled form and scrambled to his feet. The radio lay on the wet grass nearby. He snatched it up, wiping away the dew.
“Copy,” he transmitted, then turned to Battaglia. The dark-haired officer climbed to his feet, rolling his head on his shoulders, testing his neck. Sully heard popping noises.
“You okay?”
“I think so,” Battaglia grunted. “Just a little whiplash.”
“Then help me pick this up. She’s going under the bridge.”
“I heard the radio,” Battaglia said. He grabbed the front corner of the golf cart. “I’m not deaf.”
Sully slid the radio into his jacket pocket. “No, but you’re apparently legally blind.” He put his hands underneath the rear corner and squatted down. “On three?”
“Just like Lethal Weapon.”
Sully counted three and the two officers heaved the golf cart, righting it.
“Let’s go!” Sully hopped into the driver’s seat.
“Hey!” Battaglia protested.
“You had your chance, Crash.”
Battaglia scowled but stepped around the front of the cart and into the passenger seat. “Go!” he told Sully.
Sully punched it.
2139 hours
The soft rubber soles of her shoes thudded on the asphalt path. The dull echo bounced around the underpass, ricocheting off of the rock wall and dying on the wide expanse of river water to her right.
Katie stared straight ahead, but she scanned the area to her left with her peripheral vision. Her ears strained to pick up any stray noise, any indication of an attacker.
Her body leaned forward, wanting to move faster. Her legs wanted to sprint. She forced herself into the hunched, submissive posture she’d used before. A moment of focus allowed her to rein in her feet.
To her left, she sensed motion.
A fraction of a second later, she heard the clattering of stones, upset at the top of the wall and tumbling down.
She tore her pistol from her purse and whipped it in the direction of the noise. In an instant, she put the front sights on the blur of motion and pressed the trigger.
* * *
Sully slammed on the brakes. The golf cart slid on the slick, wet grass. The downward slope of the Lilac Bowl forced both officers to lean back hard to avoid tipping the cart over again. As it was, the rear end of the square vehicle spun forward as they came to a stop, leaving them stopped askew.
“You see her?” Sully asked.
Battaglia shook his head. “She must still be under the-”
KA-BLAM!
The sharp report of gunfire echoed up the hillside, followed by the sharp zing of a ricochet.
Sully punched the accelerator while Battaglia jerked his gun from its holster. They blasted down the grassy hillside, slipping and sliding crazily on the wet turf.
* * *
“Holy shit!”
Tower heard the gunshot simultaneously through the wire transmitter and as it echoed up to the top of the clock tower.
He clicked the mike. “Shots fired! Under the bridge! Get down there!”
There was no reply.
“May
be she smoked the creep,” Hiero said.
Tower snatched his Glock from the shoulder holster underneath his left arm. He took a step towards the long, narrow flight of stairs, then glanced back at Hiero. The SWAT sniper knelt calmly in a solid, supported stance, his eye pressed to the scope.
“Go,” Hiero said. “I’ll cover from here.”
Tower bolted for the stairs with a curse. The route to and from the top of the clock tower was more like a leaning ladder than a staircase. Reluctantly, he slid his pistol back into his shoulder holster and snapped it in place. Before he put the radio in his jacket pocket, he pressed the transmit button again.
“Adam-122, are you there?”
No answer.
Tower paused, the only sound his own labored breathing.
He pushed the button again. “Adam-122, do you copy?”
Nothing.
Tower cursed again, slipped the radio in his jacket pocket and began climbing down the steep stairs.
2140 hours
In the darkness, under the overpass, the smell of cordite hung in the air. Katie’s ears hummed from the after-effects of the gunshot. She stood stock-still, staring in the direction she’d fired.
Then she heard motion to her right.
Approaching feet.
She wheeled toward the sound, her gun at the ready.
* * *
Battaglia squinted, but it didn’t help his vision any. All he could make out was one standing shadow. He scanned left and right for targets, but saw none.
Sully caught up to him and passed him by.
“Katie?” he called.
Battaglia moved with him, his gun in the low ready position.
* * *
Katie lowered her gun as soon as she recognized Sully and Batts.
“Jesus,” she breathed. She’d never been happier to see the twins before.
“Where is he?” Battaglia asked, his gun sweeping the dark area atop the rock wall. “Did he get away?”
“No,” Katie said, and hung her head.
“What is it?” Sully asked.
Katie put her pistol back inside the purse and secured the clasp. Hesitantly, she said, “I think I just shot a rat.”
“Seriously?” Battaglia asked, flashing his light along the rock wall. “A rat?”
