Tim Green: The Letter Of The Law

"Smoke," she said quietly.

Bolinger nodded his head.

"He's here!" Unger burst out excitedly at the sight of the van beside the house.

"I don't see my car anywhere," Casey commented.

Bolinger said flatly, "Sales lost him."

"You want me to go in the front and you go in the back?" Unger said, pulling the gun from his jacket.

Bolinger gave him a somber look before saying, "No, we'll go in the front together and cover each other."

"Sounds good," Unger said. His only experience in this sort of thing had been a two-week seminar nearly fifteen years ago and a hefty dose of NYPD Blue on television.

Bolinger brought the car to a stop just shy of the now dusty white van. Cautiously they got out.

Bolinger turned around in his seat and spoke forcefully. "Stay right here," he told Casey. "I mean it, don't move from this car."

Bolinger and Unger got out of the cruiser without closing the doors. Quietly, they approached the front steps. The surrounding trees and the coming night hid the smoke billowing from the back side of the house. The sounds from the snapping fire were cloaked in the windblown pines. Upwind from the blaze as they were, the difference between the smell of a campfire and a nascent inferno was negligible.

Just as the two detectives disappeared into the tall gray house, Casey spotted the form of Donald Sales emerging from the woods near the far corner of the house. But instead of moving her way or toward the house, she watched him quickly set off at a right angle, jogging in the direction of the water. It was obvious that he'd seen something the police hadn't.

Casey got out of the car and headed after him. She kept a good distance from the house, avoiding it as if it were something alive lying in wait for her. When she rounded the far corner, not far at all from where Sales had emerged from the trees, she was confronted with the shocking sight of the back half of the house awash in crackling flames. Part of her wanted to cry out to the police inside, but making herself known to Lipton if he was lurking in the vicinity was unthinkable, so she remained silent, crossing the back lawn in cautious pursuit of Sales.

Sales knew before he broke through the smoke-filled trees that everything was amiss. He could see the orange flames and the police cruiser with its doors wide open parked behind the van. But when he broke into the open, he saw the chance he thought had probably gone up in flames with the house. Out of the corner of his trained eye, he just made out a tall shape fading into the trees that climbed halfway up the bank of the reservoir toward the house.

Most people would have stopped to think about what they might or might not have seen, so fleeting was the image. But trained his whole life in the ways of the woods, where small signs were conclusive proof, Sales didn't miss a step but took off across the back lawn. Instinct took over and he crouched warily as he entered the gloomy stand of pines.

Soft needles muffled his footsteps as he hurried along through the trees. Near the end of the path, he could begin to make out the shiny black surface of the water and the dull gray sides of the boathouse, an architectural sister to the main house above. There was no one in sight, but Sales could hear low noises coming from inside the boathouse. A set of mossy wooden steps took him down the bank and onto the dock. The dock itself wrapped around the boathouse, part of it extending well out into the water. There was a door in the nearest corner but it was shut tight.

With the memory of the Tech-9 fresh in his mind, Sales had no intention of barging through a door and drawing its fire. Determined not to give Lipton any warning of his approach, he circled the house to look for an opening through which he could get an idea of what was going on inside and maybe even have the chance at a clean shot. Circling the boathouse, he stepped carefully on the dock to ensure silence. When he reached the far side of the building, he could see that there was a large mullioned window in the center of the wall. He could also see that instead of extending out onto the water, the dock on this side actually wrapped itself around toward the front of the boathouse.

With his heart thumping wildly, Sales drew close enough to the window to peek in. The garage door to the lake was open and the dim remnants of twilight spilled in, allowing him to see Lipton's dark form bent over the small outboard engine of the skiff he'd lowered into the boat slip. The aluminum craft, tossed about by the incoming chop, made the sound of a distant gong as it bumped against the slip's sidewall.

Sales ducked back down and, crouching beneath the window, then scooted along the dock toward the corner of the boathouse. Without tipping off Lipton, he could round the corner and have a clear shot at the professor before he even knew what was happening. Sales's palms broke out in a sweat. His words of promise to Casey rang out strangely from the back of his mind. He'd said he'd bring Lipton to justice. He'd promised that if she helped, then he wouldn't summarily execute the professor. But that was when he was desperate for her help. Now it was just himself and Lipton.

The image of his murdered daughter's face came suddenly into the forefront of his mind as clearly as if he were seeing her in person. He could hear her voice, her laugh, even smell the scent of the shampoo she always used to wash her long dark hair. Tears of anguish rolled hot down his face, and Sales took a deep breath to calm his nerves, determined to shoot straight for the kill.

After three deep breaths, he rose from his crouch, rounded the corner of the boathouse, and leveled his gun. At the same instant, Casey burst into the boathouse through the shrieking wooden door. Lipton sprang from the skiff and was on her like a voracious spider. Sales screamed for him to freeze. Afraid of killing Casey in the process, he eased the pressure from his trigger finger.

Lipton quickly spun Casey in front of him as a shield and shoved her toward the boat. From the waist of his pants he pulled out the Tech-9 and with the short, nasty barrel pointed at Casey's head he shouted, "Drop the gun, Sales! Drop the gun or I'll blow her head off!"

Sales knew instinctively that Lipton would kill Casey either way. She was dead. That was that. He sighted the pistol on the professor's forehead, moving the barrel as his target bobbed from side to side behind Casey's face.

"I'll kill her!" Lipton screamed. "Drop it!"

Sales lowered his stance. He'd get just one shot.

Lipton didn't need Sales to drop the gun. All he needed was a moment's hesitation. He got that, and the inside of the boathouse echoed with the roar of gunfire.

Bullets from the Tech-9 filled the air like a swarm of angry bees. Sales's body jerked crazily. He fired three useless shots into the air as he was pummeled backward and into the water. Lipton continued to spray the spot where Sales had disappeared beneath the surface, leaving only a red foamy swell of bubbles and blood.

"Get in!" Lipton screamed at Casey, shoving her roughly into the skiff. He climbed in behind her and fired a single shot over her head.

"Get down in the bottom of the boat, goddamn it!" he bellowed.

Casey scrunched herself onto the boat's bottom, ducking her head as low as possible behind the metal seat. She was too shocked to do anything, too shocked even to think. She was simply reacting to the immediate threat of Lipton and the machine pistol he wielded in his right hand.

With Casey cowering in the bow of the boat, Lipton turned his attention to the motor. Two more pulls and the outboard clamored to life in a cloud of blue smoke. Lipton unhooked the mooring line from a cleat at the edge of the slip and eased the craft out of the boathouse. Once he was clear of the structure, he opened the throttle and the boat took off like a spurred stallion, raising its front end spiritedly above the waves.