Chimera.
CHAPTER
11
“FUCK YOU, peachfuzz,” Perez suddenly yelled. “You hear me, peachfuzz?”
“Peachfuzz?” Sampson looked at me and made a face.
I saw a quick flash of Chop-It-Off-Chucky. He was off to our extreme right. He was sprinting across a connecting rooftop and was already about thirty yards away. I saw him grab a quick, worried look back over his shoulder.
His small eyes were hard black beads, evil-looking as they come. He had that weird red beard. Maybe he was a total psycho. Or maybe he really was just a pizza-store porter? Forget it, I told myself.
Four teenage boys and a girl were up there on the roof doing their sneaky business. Crack, probably. I hoped they weren’t snorting heroin. They idly watched the wild, wild world go by. The real city game was in progress here. Cops and robbers. Child molester-killers. It made no difference to these kids.
Sampson and I covered three more narrow rooftops in a powerful hurry. We were gaining on him a little, but only by a step or two. Sweat was running down my forehead and cheeks, burning my eyes.
“Stop! We’ll shoot!” I yelled. “Stop, Emmanuel Perez!”
Perez looked back again. He looked straight at me this time and grinned! Then he seemed to disappear over the far side of the brick-walled building.
“Fire escape!” Sampson yelled.
Seconds later, the two of us were rushing headlong down skinny, twisting, rusted metal stairs. Perez flew down the flimsy fire escape ahead of us. He was really moving. This was definitely his event, his home course.
Sampson and I were both too big for the tight-radius maneuvering. He gained a full flight on us, maybe a flight and a half.
Chucky definitely had an escape route figured out, I was thinking. He’d practiced this. I was almost sure of it. He’s a smart one. He’s guilty. Those vicious eyes! Mad-dog eyes. What had Alvin Jackson said—that Emmanuel Perez had always been around?
We saw him down on E Street. The red beard jutted out as if it were petrified wood. He was already a full block away. Lots of rush-hour traffic everywhere. He was getting into a gypsy cab, a dull red-and-orange hack that read, CAPPY’S. WE GO ANYWHERE.
“STOP, YOU FUCKING SQUIRREL!” Sampson screamed at the top of his voice. “GODDAMN YOU, MANNY!”
Perez gave us the finger in the crud-crusted rear window of the cab.
“PEACHFUZZ!” he leaned out and screamed back at us.
CHAPTER
12
SAMPSON AND I scrambled out onto E Street. Sweat was still streaming down my forehead and cheeks, my neck, back, legs. Sampson ran in front of a Yellow Cab and the driver screeched to a stop. Intelligent of the cabdriver to avoid hitting Man Mountain and totaling his car.
“Metro police! Detective Alex Cross!” my voice boomed as we simultaneously swung open the cab’s back doors. “Follow that hack. Go! Go! Go! Dammit.”
“Don’t you lose him!” Sampson threatened the driver. “Don’t you even think about it.” The poor man was scared to death. He never even looked back. Never said a word. But he didn’t lose visual contact with CAPPY’S. WE GO ANYWHERE.
We hit a bad snarl of traffic at Ninth Street where it approaches Pennsylvania Avenue. Cars and trucks were backed up for at least three blocks. Angry horns were honking everywhere. One tractor-trailer had a foghorn like an oceangoing vessel’s.
“Maybe we better get out and run him down,” I said to Sampson.
“I was thinking the same thing. Let’s go for it.”
It was one of those fifty-fifty calls. Either way, we could lose Chucky right here. My heart was pounding hard in my chest. I could see the crushed-in skull of little Shanelle Green. Emmanuel had always been around! Those mad-dog eyes! I wanted Chop-It-Off-Chucky real bad.
Sampson already had the creaking door on his side of the cab open. I was half a step behind. Maybe less.
Chucky must have felt us breathing fire on the back of his neck. He jumped out of his cab and started to run.