Sachs spun around the doorway, ready to fire, the troopers right behind. She froze at the sight of the gun muzzle aimed at her chest.
"Lord," Roland Bell muttered and lowered his weapon. His hair was mussed and his face was sooty. Two bullets had torn his shirt and streaked over his body armor.
Then her eyes took in the terrible sight on the floor.
"Oh, no . . . "
"Building's clear," a patrolman called from the corridor. "They saw him leave. He was wearing a fireman's uniform. He's gone. Lost in the crowd out front."
Amelia Sachs, once again a criminalist and not a tactical officer, observed the blood spatter, the astringent scent of gunshot residue, the fallen chair, which might indicate a struggle and therefore would be a logical transfer point for trace evidence. The bullet casings, which she immediately noticed were from a 7.62-millimeter automatic.
She observed too the way the body had fallen, which told her that the victim had been attacking the attacker, apparently with a lamp. There were other stories the crime scene would tell and, for that reason, she knew she should help Percey Clay to her feet and lead her away from the body of her slain friend. But Sachs couldn't do that. All she could do was watch the small woman with the squat unpretty face cradle Brit Hale's bloody head, muttering, "Oh, no, oh, no . . . "
Her face was a mask, unmoving, untouched by tears.
Finally Sachs nodded to Roland Bell, who slipped his arms around Percey and led her out into the corridor, still vigilant, still clutching his own weapon.
Two hundred and thirty yards from the safe house.
Red and blue lights from the dozens of emergency vehicles flashed and tried to blind him but he was sighting through the Redfield telescope and was oblivious to anything but the reticles. He scanned back and forth over the kill zone.
Stephen had stripped off the fireman's uniform and was dressed again as a late-blooming college student. He'd recovered the Model 40 from under the w
ater tank, where he'd hidden it that morning. The weapon was loaded and locked. The sling was around his arm and he was ready to murder.
At the moment it wasn't the Wife he was after.
And it wasn't Jodie, the little faggot Judas.
He was looking for Lincoln the Worm. The man who'd out-thought him once again.
Who was he? Which of them?
Cringey.
Lincoln . . . Prince of Worms.
Where are you? Are you right in front of me now? In that crowd standing around the smoking building?
Was he that large lump of a cop, sweating like a hog?
The tall, thin Negro in the green suit? He looked familiar. Where had Stephen seen him before?
An unmarked car streaked up and several men in suits climbed out.
Maybe Lincoln was one of them.
The red-haired policewoman stepped outside. She was wearing latex gloves. Crime Scene, are you? Well, I treat my casings and slugs, darling, he said to her silently as the reticles of the telescope picked out a pretty target on her neck. And you'll have to fly to Singapore before you pick up a lead to my gun.
He figured he had time to fire just one shot and then be driven into the alley by the fusillade that would follow.
Who are you?
Lincoln? Lincoln?
But he had no clue.
Then the front door swung open and Jodie appeared, stepping out the door uneasily. He looked around, squinted, shrank back against the building.