Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

He lifted the stock of the shotgun, training the barrel at the floor in front of him; it would require only a slight lift and a squeeze of the trigger. At close range, a shotgun made everyone an expert marksman.

He counted down slowly from five, an old habit meant to settle the nerves. As far as he could tell, the technique failed miserably: three … two … He took one quick step up the last stair and turned quickly to his right.

The back of a wooden chair hit him squarely in the chest, as if the person on the other end of it were swinging for a home run. As the wind exploded from him, Dart raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger, and then pulled it again, but nothing happened-jammed from the tumble out on the street. The concussion of the chair lifted him off his feet; he skidded across the hall and banged into the far wall, expelling what little air remained. Dart gasped for breath, his chest feeling paralyzed, his ribs bruised. The shotgun flew from his hands as a boot connected with it. That same brown boot then came for Dart’s face, swinging straight up toward his chin, but Dart managed to lean away to one side, sagging, and the blow missed.

Walter Zeller lost his balance and caught himself on the banister, nearly going down the stairs instead. The brief look that Dart caught of the man’s face showed a person different from the one Dart remembered: haggard and worn, destroyed by grief and guilt and exhaustion. He’s an old man , Dart thought, knowing that Zeller was only in his early fifties. He wore a dark green plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans, but they fit him loosely, like a man diseased. He had a weathered round face, sparse graying hair, and an Irish nose broken too many times to count. He looked hard and mean, but to Dart the man’s soft blue eyes gave away his true personality.

Dart tried to reach for his weapon, but his arms weighed tons and his chest had been set afire by the crushing blow of the chair. His one feeble effort was to rear back and slide his right foot along the floor, connecting with the one boot that held all of Zeller’s unsteady weight. For Zeller, it happened too quickly-first he lost his balance, and then Dart kicked away his only solid platform, sending him down the stairway headfirst. He went down hard, turning a full somersault. Dart, whose arms still would not function, rolled himself face down on the dusty floor and drove himself forward with his feet. His hurt ankle cried out. Splinters tore from the floor and embedded into his chest and arms. He heard Zeller groan, curse, and then start back up the stairs. “You’re dead, Ivy,” the sergeant barked, clawing his way up the stairs. Dart had lived ten years believing in that voice and everything it said.

Dart propelled himself to the end of the hallway and into the dark room to the right. His arms began to tingle; they were coming back to life. He rolled across the rug, about to lodge himself beneath the bed but grasped the absurdity of trying to hide. As a child he had developed himself into a professional hider, and as he reached again for those talents he glanced around, assessing that he had to get out of the room. Now!

He heard the recoil of the shotgun and a shell bang and roll on the hardwood floor. Zeller was in the hallway; had cleared the weapon.

Dart could move both shoulders; he had feeling in both hands though he still found it hard to walk. He struggled to breathe-his chest felt caved in; his head pounded from a lack of oxygen. Of the room’s two windows, one faced the street, the other, nearest to Dart, faced a flat rooftop.

Footsteps …

He tried for his sidearm, but both hands proved useless. He was a sitting duck.

No time to break the glass first; this registered immediately. He came to his feet, tucked his head into his chest, and ran backward, ducking and propelling himself through the pane of glass. His head smacked the top frame, dizzying him. Glass flew everywhere in a deafening explosion. Dart felt the cold of the outside air. He felt a warm trickle down his back. He rolled across the hard tar until the crunching sound stopped and he was out of the shards of glass. He came to his feet and headed across the roof to the unforgiving brick wall that faced him.

“Forget it, Ivy!” Zeller yelled across the expanse. “We should talk.”

This flat rooftop was wedged between two taller buildings. The brick building Dart now faced also looked flat-roofed, but a full story higher. A steel ladder fixed to the brick wall led up to the other’s roof. That meant that there had to be roof access between the two buildings.

“Ivy, don’t run! Don’t force me. We can talk!”

Dart paused and glanced over his shoulder. Zeller was through the window and coming toward him, the shotgun cradled in his arms. Talk? Dart wondered, eyeing the weapon. He could barely catch his breath. The trickle down his back was definitely blood; the top of his shirt was warm and damp with it. He hobbled along the wall, away from his pursuer, working the injured ankle. For the first time in his life he didn’t trust Walter Zeller. He’s out to kill me.

“Don’t!” Zeller warned loudly as Dart rounded the corner. “I know what you know,” he cautioned, in a voice that indicated he was running now. “Talk to me!”

Dart found the steel fire door that he had anticipated. The silver duct tape was not anticipated. It had been placed at the level of the handle-blocking the latch open-and told him immediately that Zeller had intended this door as part of a well-planned escape route. Anticipate the unexpected: a Zeller credo. The shouting at him had been for the specific purpose of distracting and stopping Dart before he discovered a way off the roof. Confine the suspect to a specific area -Dart knew the tricks. He hoisted his sluggish arm, forced his unwilling fingers around the handle, and tugged hard on the door. It swung open.

Tearing the tape from the doorjamb, he ducked inside. The door thumped shut and locked behind him.

The enormous room spread out twenty feet below him like something from a science fiction film, and smelled immediately familiar: huge gray machines lying like sleeping beasts, cheek by jowl, their metallic skins glistening in the dull light of half a dozen exit signs, the unmistakable odor of cleaning solvents. Dart was inside Abe’s Commercial Cleaners.

A few steps down was a wooden balcony with offices to the left. Dart stumbled down the stairs, dragging his bad ankle as if it belonged to someone else. Zeller had chosen his route wisely: The heavy machinery would offer good cover. With this idea foremost in mind, Dart hurried to the far staircase, his vision limited by the darkness, and made for the ground floor.

Two successive shotgun blasts ruptured the door he had come through and flung it open as if it were made of paper.

“I-vy …,” the familiar voice called out threateningly. Zeller sounded furious. Dart had witnessed the consequences of this temper enough times to know that the possibility of negotiation had passed. Zeller made statements; he would make one now. The shotgun would do that.

Dart hobbled down the final step and onto the shop floor.

Giant commercial laundering machines made up the first row. Dart cut through this to the next-a long line of dry cleaning machines-dodging fifty-five-gallon drums of cleaning solvents and reminding Dart that this was no place for small weapons fire. He heard Zeller come down the metal staircase to the shop floor. The thought of entering into a firefight with the man seemed absurd, and yet the deeper he moved into this maze of behemoth equipment the more vulnerable he felt-and the more it seemed inevitable. Zeller obviously knew his way around here. Dart did not.

Dart headed for the nearest illuminated exit sign, cutting through a row of enormous dryers. He threw his hip into the panic bar and smacked his head against the unwilling door. Chained shut.