R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“I know.”

He grabbed a pack of matches from his pocket and ripped one off. London snatched them from his hand. “We don’t have time for that.”

“I have to think.”

“We don’t have time to think.”

He knew that.

He knew that only too well.

“If we follow directions, he’s going to kill her anyway,” he said.

London made a face.

She wasn’t convinced.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know, I just do.” A beat then, “She’s seen his face, that’s how I know. He’s better off if she’s dead.”

“He only wants the map.”

“Right, but he wants it without complications.”

“So what do we do?”

“I have to catch his ass.”

London took a step back.

“No.”

“It’s our only chance,” he said.

She didn’t agree.

“No, it’s too dangerous.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“No. Even if it works, he might not say where she is. She’ll end up rotting to death.”

Wilde grabbed London’s hand and pulled her outside to the cab.

They hopped in the back.

The driver was a strong male in his early thirties. He stared directly at Wilde and narrowed his eyes.

“Drive,” Wilde said.

“Get out,”the driver said. “Both of you.”

“Drive,” Wilde said.

“It was only supposed to be the woman. My instructions are to abort.”

“You have new instructions now.”

“No.”

“Get going, now,” Wilde said.

“Screw you. Get out of the cab and do it now.”

Wilde hardened his face.

“I’m going to count to three-”

“Don’t make it difficult,” Wilde said.

“One-”

“Drive!”

“Two-”

“Did you hear me?”

“Three.”

Wilde pulled his knife and made it visible.

“I have nothing against you but don’t force me-”

The man’s arm moved with lightning speed. His hand grabbed Wilde’s wrist and squeezed it with a python force. Wilde wedged loose, stabbed the man in the upper thigh before he even knew what he was doing, and pulled back.

The man grabbed his wound.

“You bitch!”

“Drive!”

“You stabbed me, you little bitch.”

“That’s right and I’ll do it again. I’m not screwing around here.”

The man winced.

Then he shifted into first, said “Your funeral, asshole,” and took off.

The night shot by.

“Where’s she supposed to throw the purse out?”

Silence.

“I said-”

“Okay, okay. Clarkson and 12 th.”

“Cut over to Delaware.”

“But-”

“Just do it.”

The man complied.

At 10 thWilde said, “Stop here.”

The man pulled over.

Wilde got out, leaned in the open door and said, “Circle back around and follow your instructions. If you screw up I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. That’s a promise.”

He slammed the door.

The cab jerked away.

London stared out the back window all the way to 11 th, where the taillights disappeared around the corner.

Wilde made his waythrough the shadows to as close to the throw-out point as he could, then wedged his body into the thicker shadows of a ragged hedge. If the man was in the vicinity, Wilde didn’t see him.

He waited.

The gun was tucked in his belt.

The knife was in his left hand.

He couldn’t use it to kill the man. London might be right in that Alexa might be stashed away where she couldn’t be found. That would be a bad way to go, trapped and abandoned. Wilde might be able to find her. Once he had the guy identified, he’d have a good chance of backtracking. Still, you never know. If he couldn’t, it would be too horrible to think about.

There was still timeto back out-just leave the guy alone and hope he releases Alexa like he said he would. There was at least some possibility he was telling the truth. If that was the case, everything Wilde was doing at this exact second was the exact wrong thing. Alexa might end up dead because of him, not in spite of him.

What to do?

What to do?

What to do?

Suddenly headlights came up the street.

The passenger window was open.

London was next to it.

Her hair was blowing.

Her face was tense.

A purse flew out and landed on the sidewalk.

The cab kept going.

London kept her face pointed forward as the taillights disappeared up the street. At any second, a figure would come out of the shadows and grab the purse.

What to do?

Shoot him in the leg or let him go?

Think!

Think!

Think!

He pulled the gun out and cocked the trigger. He was too far away for a clean shot. If he went for the guy’s leg he’d be just as likely to get his face, either that or the air. He’d need to be within four or five steps to shoot.

A dark silhouette appeared on the opposite side of the street, walking briskly up the sidewalk.

It was a man.

He wore a black T-shirt.

Strong arms stuck out.

He looked briefly for cars, then around in all directions, and trotted across the street. He snatched up the purse without breaking stride and kept going.

Wilde waited for a few heartbeats.

The man didn’t look over his shoulder.

Wilde waited another second.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

The silhouette increasingly receded into the night. When the distance was right, Wilde came out of the shadows and fell into step.

Her chest pounded.

With the knife in his left hand and the gun in his right, he picked up the pace.

The distance started to close.

He kept his footsteps as quiet as death.

Now he was thirty steps behind.

Now twenty.

Now ten.

Suddenly the man turned.

His arm rose.

From the end of that arm, a small flash of orange flame pierced the darkness, here and gone just that fast, simultaneous with an ear-shattering explosive pop.

Day Four

July 24, 1952

Thursday Morning

The only window shadein Waverly’s roach-in-the-wall hotel was a spring-loaded, pull-down deal with tattered edges. She woke up Thursday morning when the first rays of daybreak pushed around the borders of that piece of junk. She laid there, torn between getting more sleep and getting things done, before finally rubbing her eyes and swinging her legs over the side.

She took a hot shower that got her 70 % awake.

Then she headed over to the White Spot to take care of the other 30 % with coffee, ending up on a barstool at the end of the counter with a piping hot cup in her hands and a gal named Jane behind the counter that kept that cup topped off.

This insanely early, the diner was a graveyard. All the barstools were empty, plus most of the tables. Two seats down, on the counter in a glass cake holder, was a stack of donuts. The ones on top were concrete but the ones underneath might actually be edible.

She resisted.

If they still tugged at her in five minutes, she’d get one.

Today would be critical.

She needed to find out what Bristol’s investigator, John Stamp, was finding out, if anything. What was the best way to do that? Follow him around? Break into his office while he was out?

She shook it off.

The gal behind the counter, Jane, came over with the pot and topped off the cup. “I saw you eyeing those donuts,” she said. “They’re evil. They’ll break your teeth and steal the soul of your firstborn. Personally I’d go with pancakes. You want some?”

She smiled.

Yes.

She did.

Good idea.

“Thanks.”

Time passed.