Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

She rose to a crouch and started maneuvering slow and low from shadow to shadow, feeling her way through the dark yards. But she could see people coming out on the street into patches of light, looking toward the red lights, the activity.

She hunkered along a hedge. There was a driveway partially screened by more lilacs. Then the open space. She looked behind her. A garage was attached to the house. No car in the drive.

Maybe no one was home.

A fence with grapevines ran from the garage to the edge of the ravine. If she could get into the backyard, she could move on the other side of the fence, behind the grapes. No yard lights back there, pitch-black.

She’d have to chance it. She duck-walked up the drive and crouched next to the doorway. Out of sight, hidden. A nice feeling but for how long? Too long. Too long. You have to move.

But it was comforting here in the dark.

She placed her hand against the garage side door. Please be open.

She twisted the knob and the door opened. The garage was empty, no car. She pushed the door open and rushed through, tripping on empty cardboard boxes, squinting in the dark. Found the back door, came out on a deck. The rolling backyard was hemmed in with lilacs, grapevines, and tall arborvitae. The obligatory pile of kid’s plastic junk.

Even better, the flower bed on the other side of the fence was thick with grapevines and eight-foot sunflowers that screened her from the street.

And the light was almost gone. Really getting dark now. She eased in along the lilac hedge and began to cross the yard. That’s when the dog in the wire pen in the next yard started going crazy.

On reflex, Broker moved in a crouch and pulled out the.45 as he tried to adjust his night vision. His shoes slid on the damp grass under his feet; mosquitoes buzzed in close, blowing little pincushion kisses.

Through breaks in the foliage and bushes he caught glimpses of police cars in the distance, people starting to congregate under streetlights.

This was bad. No radio. No coordination. Going mobile in the dark with guns was always bad. He’d operated at night in wartime, before night-vision goggles. Murphy’s Law. Accident waiting to happen. He kept jogging, weaving around shrubs, avoiding fences; she’d be avoiding them too, not hiding, moving fast to get out of the area. He was sure of that.

She?

Was Gloria out there ahead of him running on those strong legs, with a gun in her hand?

He vaulted a low rail fence and heard a dog start to bark in a yard up ahead. Then he heard the animal go frantic, banging its body against kennel mesh. Broker sprinted through some thick shrubs toward the sound. He came out in a broad yard and. .

The shadow darted, low from behind a tall lilac hedge.

“Halt, halt, halt.” Broker yelled as he ran, bringing up the.45. He let go of the reins and let his senses drive, all kinetics now, all reflex. .

The shadow ducked low, twisted, and was illuminated by the twinkle-crack of a muzzle flash. Broker felt a tiny bee buzz past his head.

Shit. She was firing at him. Still moving, he bent forward from the waist to make a smaller target, gripped the pistol in both hands, extended his arms, aimed low at her legs and pulled the trigger.

It was like squeezing a steel rock.

He’d forgotten to reload when they left the casino. Now he was running straight at a shooter who was taking her time to squeeze, not jerk, the trigger.

Like Harry had probably taught her.

Crack-buzz-crack-buzz-crack-buzz. More bees. A window shattered in the house behind him.

Broker dived, rolled sideways, and scrambled on all fours through a kid’s plastic play set and crawled into the nearest cover, a patch of staked tomato plants. He lay absolutely still for a whole minute, during which he distinctly remembered leaving his eight.45 rounds in Mouse’s car when they agreed to unload their guns before confronting Harry. Slowly, he caught his breath facedown in the rich black dirt, the mulch, and the thick chlorophyll fragrance of the tomato plants. He listened. But now all he heard was the onrushing cars, coming to the sound of the shots.

She was long gone.

Broker had other things to worry about. All the car doors slamming, the radios crackling-all the young coppers out there who’d never heard a shot fired in anger, their sweaty, overeager hands gripping their guns.

“Don’t shoot,” he yelled. “Over here, a friendly.”

“Who’s there? Come out with your fuckin’ hands up,” a hypertense young voice yelled back.

“Broker.”

“Broke who?”

“Broker, you know,” a different voice yelled. “Cool it. He’s buddies with the fuckin’ sheriff.”

“Oh,” the first voice said.

“All right everybody, stand down, holster the pieces. We clear? Okay? Come out, come out wherever you are, Sheriff Friend Broker.” It was Mouse, breathing hard, but his voice unmistakable, coming in through the garage, then out onto the deck.

Slowly, Broker rose to his feet, knocking dirt from his chest as Mouse approached, flanked by two Stillwater cops.

“Were those shots you?” Mouse said.

“ At me. I ran into her when she came through here. She took four shots-they went high-then she changed direction and headed for the ravine,” Broker said.

Mouse told the two cops to fan out in an area search centered on the ravine. He turned back to Broker and said, “Did you get a look at her? Was it Gloria?”

“Too dark. Just a shape,” Broker said. He shook his head, looked into the darkness, and thought, Goddamn Harry. If he didn’t get you one way, he’d get you another.

She had bolted when she heard someone crash through the hedge behind her; then the loud voice had ordered her to stop. She half turned and picked out his moving broken shadow against the shrubs, saw the shadow’s arms come up, extended. Trying to get off the first shot, she planted her feet, swung the Ruger up in the classic Weaver stance, and pulled the trigger.

He went down. Out of sight. She turned and ran.

Sprinting now, across the lawn, she hurdled over the edge of the ravine and slid through the bushes, past the chain-sawed trunk of a large cottonwood that had fallen.

The cottonwood’s upper branches were still intact, the foliage wilted and dead. But it tangled up the bottom of the ravine with irregular lines that broke up her shape. Under the tree’s cover, she hunted for the sewer grate.

Her hands found the slanted steel bars among the branches. She slipped off the pack, pushed it through the grate, and squeezed through herself.

Inside, underground, dank, with sand and debris left by the last bad storm weeks ago, before the hot spell. All black where she was. No flashlight. Basically, it was a big concrete pipe that ended in a catch pond at Second Street. Every one hundred yards there was a steel ladder leading up to a manhole opening.

She could hear them ganging up out there. Think. They’d block the other end, seal her in.

She wiggled back out of the grate, took off the pack, and used one of the latex gloves to remove the makeshift silencer. She tossed it in through the grate.

Then, very carefully, stepping on rocks where possible, she backed away from the sewer entrance and slowly crawled up the far slope through the thick brush. Behind her she heard the cops moving down into the ravine from the street.

Very slowly, she emerged from the ravine and slipped across a dark dead-end street and went through another yard. The controlled panic of being hunted gave way to a warm sweat of elation. As she started down the bluff toward Main Street, she took in deep breaths of the sweet hot air.

It was time to call it quits. Maybe after she was gone, someone else would take up the cause.