by Unknown
“All right, all right,” Finley said. “I got it.”
“Thompson, did you get the boat?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I signed it out. Said we had to check the shoreline for a body dump. But who’s going to drive? I’ve never driven a boat before.”
“I can drive,” Ramirez said.
“Good.” Avery nodded.
She pulled out a map.
It was a satellite image printout with square drawn on it. The edges of the square touched on all the points where the bodies were found, and the one point that was still empty.
“Here we are,” Avery said and indicated a spot to the south of the square. “Ramirez, you’ll take the boat and park it here,” and she pointed to a man-made inlet about two thousand feet southeast from the stakeout point. “We don’t want to scare him. No police boats in the area. We’ll stay in radio contact the entire time. Finley, you’ll be in an unmarked car, parked and hidden in the lot by the Alford Street Bridge. Ramirez will take the southwest. Thompson, can you shoot a long-range rifle?”
“I can shoot accurately from about three hundred yards,” he said with confidence. “If it’s windy, maybe less.”
“Good,” she said, “I’ll take the diamond mound at the baseball field. You can be much further out, about two hundred yards—maybe here.” She pointed. “It might be difficult to get to me if things go bad, but at that distance, he’ll never guess we have someone in hiding watching our backs from afar. For added insurance, we’ll both put on our worst clothes, roll around in a garbage dump for a while, and play sleeping bums. I don’t want this guy to suspect a thing.”
“Where do you think he’ll come in?” Ramirez asked.
“If it was me?” Avery said. “I’d take the bridge and scout the area on my way over. If everything looked clear, I’d park in the lot where Finley will be placed and walk from there.”
“Any cameras in the lot?”
“None that I could find anywhere in the area, but remember, this guy is a pro. He does his homework. He probably scouts every area before he goes in, possibly multiple times. He could be in the vicinity right now. All we have is a facial sketch, so be ready for anything.”
“How long you think this is going to take?” Finley asked.
“Why?” Avery said. “You’ve got a date?”
“It’s a stakeout,” Thompson roared.
“I’m just wondering!” Finley yelled.
“Prepare for an all-night affair,” Avery said. “The first bodies were most likely dumped around three or four in the morning.”
“When do we start?” Thompson asked.
Avery checked her watch.
Eight o’clock.
“How about eleven?” she said. “That will give everyone time to rest, eat, and get set.”
Nods went all around.
“Thompson, why don’t you go to the boathouse with Ramirez and make sure he gets the keys and heads out. When you’re done, find a hobo outfit of some kind and meet me at my apartment. Everybody needs to wear a vest tonight, and any other armor you’ve got. This guy is too good to screw around. Finley, when you get to that lot, don’t let anyone see you. Just act like a traveler on a long trip and you needed to stop off somewhere to take a nap. You got that? That’s your motivation.”
“Yeah, I got it,” he said.
Ramirez appeared frustrated.
“What if he doesn’t show?” he asked. “Boat costs money. We’ll need to check out a sniper rifle and binoculars for everyone. That leaves a trail.”
“If this goes south,” Avery said, “I’ll take the heat. It’s all on me.”
“And me,” Thompson said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Avery offered.
“We’re partners now.” Thompson nodded with a stern gaze. “Right?”
Ramirez shook his head and looked away.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
At a thrift shop near her apartment, Avery found a pair of baggy, fly-away green pants that were way too big for her body. She bought them, along with an oversized denim shirt, a floppy gray hat, and a pair of old shoes. The outfit couldn’t have been less appealing, but it was perfect. She dressed at home and even came up with a shuffle walk to accompany her old-person, drunken persona.
She rubbed some alcohol from her liquor cabinet in her palms and used it as perfume on her neck and clothes. The gun was in her holster under the denim shirt. Her ankle-knife was in place. Her phone was put on mute and the walkie-talkie on low.
At the mirror on her way out, she couldn’t even recognize herself. The hat was down, her hair jutted out on both sides, and the clothing fit the part. You look like a bag lady, she thought. All you need now is a cart.
Avery had been concerned about Thompson. He was so big and distinct-looking with his light hair and skin and eyes that she worried he’d be pegged as a cop immediately. Her doubts were instantly put to rest when she saw him outside.
Thompson was dressed in dirty overalls, boots, and a dark blue shirt that was extremely large on his already big frame. The shirt practically hung down to his knees, but it was his face that sealed the deal: he wore a gray wig that made him look sixty years old, an old military helmet, and he’d done wonders with makeup. With the exception of his long-range rifle bag, she could swear he was just an old, big hobo in need of a home.
“Nice work,” she said.
“You too.” He nodded.
“What are you going to do with that rifle?”
He pulled out a green garbage bag.
“I’ll wrap it up.”
“Excellent.”
“You wearing a vest?” he asked.
Avery tapped on her chest.
“Of course,” she said, “You?”
Thompson smiled.
“Never leave home without it.”
At ten forty-five, Avery dropped off Thompson at a large lot on Medford Street so he could walk, hitchhike, or stumble his way to his final position. The car was parked on West Street, to the west of Thompson and the South of Finley, so that Avery, too, could go the rest of the way on foot and try to get herself into character.
She walked across the wide and heavily trafficked Alford Street and nearly got hit by multiple cars in the process. She raised her middle finger to everyone. I think I could like this, she thought.
Most officers hated stakeouts—waiting for hours at a time in a car or on the street, pretending to be invisible while they downed bad food and coffee. Avery had always felt the exact opposite. Stakeouts were times where she could think, and be someone different, and clear her head, not just for the case, but in her life.
Ramirez kept invading her thoughts.
She imagined him on a boat, by himself, pining over her and upset that he hadn’t been given a closer assignment. What am I supposed to do? she wondered. He didn’t even want to be my partner. If I put him in the park with me, maybe he would have hated that too.
Forget about him, she demanded. What do you want?
In truth, she had a strong physical connection to Ramirez, and they got along great, but the idea of a full-fledged relationship was still hard to see.
Why? she wondered. What’s wrong with him?
It’s not him, she thought. It’s you.
On the baseball diamond at Ryan Park, she worked her way toward the Harborwalk along the river’s edge. A dark area lay just beneath the bridge, right before the water. That’s where I would place the next body, she thought. It’s dark and out of the way, and once he’s down there no one will be able to see him.
Avery hopped over the fence, fell down, and lay there for a while, just in case someone was watching.
Theatre had always been something she’d loved as a child. In school plays, she could transform herself into a new person with a completely different life. For a while she even thought about being an actress. All that came to a halt when her father had discovered her passion. “You wanna be a what?” He’d laughed. “An actress? You know what those pe
ople are? Liars,” he’d spit. “They lie like the devil. Is that what you want? You wanna be a liar? The devil’s worker? Shit, I’ll kill you before that ever happens.” It was the last day Avery ever thought about theatre.
Now, she knew that acting wasn’t a lie. Real emotions had to be harnessed, real feelings and beliefs brought to the surface. To play a drunken hobo, she had to imagine herself in the worst place of her life—no job, no home, no prospects, nothing. It wasn’t hard. After she lost her job at the law firm, she’d thought about committing suicide. Her life had taken a complete turn and she had no idea how to deal with it.
As Avery lay on the ground, waiting for any sign of the killer to appear, she realized that her father had given her one thing that she needed now more than ever: he’d taught her how to shoot, and how to hunt. Deer, jackrabbits, even birds shot from trees would be their dinner most nights. He knew how to track and skin animals, and he’d taught her most of it. The instruction had come with a never-ending list of what she couldn’t do because she was a girl, but Avery had proved him wrong every time the rifle had been in her hand.
Time moved slow on stakeouts.
Instincts were heightened, but movement was nearly nonexistent. With nothing to do except blend into the surroundings and watch and wait, Avery killed time by tracking cars and staring up at the sky looking for stars. Every hour, she surreptitiously whispered into her walkie-talkie to get a bead on her team.
“Midnight,” she said. “All clear.”
The others answered.
“All clear.”
“One o’clock. All clear.”
“All clear.”
At three-thirty, Finley came on the radio.
“I’ve got a car moving very slow over the bridge. Guy inside keeps looking around like he’s checking the place out.”
“Stay low,” Avery whispered back.
“I’m fucking low,” he complained.
Fifteen minutes later, Finley called back.
“False alarm. The guy made a U-turn and headed back over the bridge.”
At four ten, Avery spotted a small, simple motorboat under the bridge.
“Wake up, wake up,” she called. “Everybody stay alert and keep out of sight. There’s a boat under the bridge. Ramirez, stand ready.”
“Check,” Ramirez called back.
“Anybody got eyes on him?” Avery called. “I’m too close. Don’t want to get caught using the binoculars.”
“I can see him through my long-range scope,” Thompson replied. “I’m about five hundred yards east of your position, under a bench on the Harborwalk. Pretty sure he won’t be able to see me. I’m looking at an athletic guy, large, dressed in a jacket and jeans. Possibly Latino. Middle-aged. He just stood up and looked around. Now he’s sitting down. Just sitting there. Seems to be waiting for something.”
“Nobody move,” Avery called.
The boat drifted out from under the bridge. A quick roar of the ignition and it moved right back in the shadows and became very difficult to see.
“I need eyes,” Avery called.
“No change,” Thompson replied. “He’s just sitting there. Wait. There he goes. He’s on the move. Something is in the boat. He just pulled something out. It’s the size of a body.”
“Everybody stay calm,” Avery insisted. “Finley, take your car out of the lot. Drive it on the bridge and keep the west side of the bridge covered. He’s in a motorboat with no hood. If he tries to run, do you think you can hit him?”
“Definitely,” Finley called back.
“Good. Once you’re on the bridge, Ramirez can engage. Everyone stay on alert. This guy might be armed and extremely dangerous. Don’t do anything stupid.”
From her position, Avery watched the man on the boat fumble with something in the dark. The object was flopped onto the side of the boat.
“I’m in position,” Finley called.
“Thompson,” Avery said. “You got him in your sights?”
“I’ve got him.”
“Ramirez, you’re on,” she called.
Everything was silent except the cars on the bridge and the sound of the water. Avery maintained her position. She was close enough to the bridge to sprint if need be, and yet far enough away not to be noticed.
The wail of a police boat came up fast.
Avery spotted the small cruiser cutting through the river. Ramirez came into view. She watched and listened as he clicked on the loudspeaker.
“This is the police,” he called. “Stay where you are.”
The man dropped his load in the water and bent down out of view.
Thompson figured it out first.
“He has a gun! He has a gun!”
Ramirez shouted over the loudspeaker.
“Stand up so I can see you. Put your hands in the air.”
The man stood up from the boat with a rifle aimed at Ramirez.
Multiple shots were fired. Glass shattered on the small police boat. Ramirez flipped out of view. The side of the boat was punctured with bullets.
Shit! Avery thought.
“Finley, don’t you move,” she called. “You stay right where you are.”
Two muffled shots came from Avery’s right: Thompson on his rifle. When she turned back to the bridge, she saw the man on the boat had been hit. With the calm of a trained soldier, he simply scanned the shoreline through his scope and opened fire again.
“I’m hit! I’m hit,” Thompson roared.
The shooter revved his engine and turned the boat toward the coastline.
“He’s headed for the beach,” Avery shouted. “Finley, get down here.”
She jumped up from her position and ran along the Harborwalk.
“Thompson, where are you?” She called on the radio.
“I’m hurt,” Thompson called back. “Rifle was hit. This guy is good. He shot me in the head. Helmet saved my life. I’m heading over on foot.”
The police boat seemed dead in the water.
“Ramirez,” Avery called. “Can you hear me? Are you hit?”
“I’m here.” He waved from a prone position in his boat. “He hit the gas line or something. Boat’s stalled. I’m trying to figure it out.”
The shooter’s craft roared out of the river and over the rocks and dirt of the shoreline. The propeller snapped with a loud crack. The man hopped out and ran up a dirt hill, holding one arm and moving with a noticeable limp. Avery had a clear shot at him.
“Police!” she screamed. “Don’t move!”
Finley appeared directly in front of the man’s path.
“Police!” he called.
The man fired from his hip.
Finley got off a few rounds; none of his shots seemed to have hit, but his own body jerked back from return fire and he sank to the ground.
“Finley!” Avery cried.
She fired. The man stumbled and turned to face her. A single shot from his weapon grazed Avery’s thumb along with her gun and the gun flicked out of her hands.
“Ah!” she yelled.
Another shot tagged her in the chest and she was hurled off her feet. The vest saved her, but the pressure from the hit expelled all the air from her lungs. She sucked in air and curled into a ball.
On the ground, she searched for her team. Finley was down. Ramirez had taken to the water and was quietly swimming toward them. Thompson shuffled toward her on one good leg, but he was too far away to help.
All of us, she thought. He took out all of us in seconds.
With a fake groan, Avery reached for the ankle-knife. She surreptitiously cupped it in the palm of her hand and rolled to all fours. Another loud cry and she leaned back and pretended to grip her wounded chest.
The man limped toward her, his gun trained on Avery’s head. As he drew near, she could see the shiny film of blood on his arms and legs. His chest, however, was clean although multiple shots were visible on his shirt and jacket.
He’s wearing a vest, she realized.
He l
ooked like the police sketch. Light-skinned and balding with gray hair, he had strange features that marked him as both a Latino and possibly German, with a strong jaw and light green eyes. She guessed he was around fifty years old by the wrinkles.
Although his movements were tough and strained from so many injuries, they also harked to a man that had been trained to stay alive at all costs. The slight movement of his head toward the water and Avery was sure he heard Ramirez. A quick look along the boardwalk and he must have spotted Thompson.
In that instant, Avery gave the performance of a lifetime.
“Now!” she yelled to no one behind him.
At the same moment, she sank to her right and hurled the knife.
The man, jaded from his first ambush and reluctant to be startled again, instantly fired at Avery’s head and turned around to see whom she’d been calling. Since Avery was falling over, the bullet only grazed bone by the side of her left eye instead of hitting her directly in the forehead as the killer had planned.
The ruse—discovered too late—made him turn back to Avery with his gun aimed at her last position.
The knife sank into his neck.
He jerked from the shock and stumbled back. The wounds on his legs made his footing unsure and it took a second for him to ground himself and recover.
Avery swatted his gun hand away and punched him in the jaw. Not a second was wasted. She kicked a foot into his groin, and when the killer attempted to aim his gun again, she chopped his wrist. A crack resounded; his wrist went limp and the gun dropped.
The killer tackled her to the ground. Avery felt a rib crack from the force of his body slamming her into the earth. His good hand went to her neck and he tried to snuff out her life. Oddly, his eyes only emanated love and concern, and the shock of his intimate gaze momentarily stunted Avery’s reaction time.
Avery squirmed beneath him to reach the knife that still dangled from his neck. Just as her hand got free, he continuously pummeled her in the head with his opposite elbow and kept his body pressed into hers. Avery saw stars. She could feel herself about to black out. With one final push, she popped her hips, cleared some room between them, and reached up.
