John Katzenbach - Just Cause

'Keep going!' Wilcox gestured swiftly. 'Head him off.'

The detective plowed after his quarry, picking up his pace, breaking into a jog. Shaeffer shouted some quick word of agreement and spun the car down the rain-slicked street.

She had to go an extra block before she could turn. She ran a red light, sweeping around a corner, causing a pair of teenagers on the curb to leap back angrily shouting obscenities after her. The street was narrow, lined with dark, decrepit buildings that seemed to block her sight. A pair of cars were double-parked in mid-block. She blared the horn hard as she crawled past, leaving an inch or less on either side of her car.

At the next corner, she jerked the car back to the right, heading back toward the spot where she figured to catch up with Wilcox and Ferguson. Her mind raced with words; what to say, how to act. She realized that something was happening that was out of any control she might once have had. She concentrated on the road, fighting the night, trying to spot the two men as they maneuvered through the city streets.

They were not there.

She slowed the car, peering ahead, peering sideways down the veinlike alleyways and rubble-strewn clots of abandoned space. Shadows seemed to build into solid darkness. The street was abruptly empty of any people.

She stopped the car in the center of the street and jumped out, standing in the open doorway, looking both ways for any sign of the two men. Seeing none, she cursed loudly and slid back behind the wheel.

Dammit, she told herself. They must have turned down another street or cut through a vacant lot. He might have ducked down an alleyway.

She accelerated hard again, trying to guess and gauge, trying to catch up with the two men. She raced around another corner, only to feel a plummeting despair.

Still no sign of them.

She slapped the car into reverse, backing into the street from which she'd turned, and then jammed the car into forward. She sliced through the blackness sharply, still searching. She drove another block fast, then stabbed the brakes.

No one.

She felt a tightness winding within her. She had no idea what to do. Battling panic, she pitched the car quickly to the curb and jumped out. Walking fast, she headed in the direction in which she thought they should have been moving, still trying to think logically. Retrace their steps, she insisted to herself. Head them off. They can't be far. She strained her eyes against the shadows, her eyes searched for the sound of a raised voice. Then she picked up her pace and started to run. Her shoes made a solitary slapping sound against the sidewalk pavement. The sound increased, like a drumroll gaining momentum, until finally, flat out, she sprinted toward the empty night.

Bruce Wilcox had turned once, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the rental car's taillights disappearing down the street, before he centered all his concentration on keeping up with Ferguson.

He increased his pace, surprised that he couldn't narrow the distance between him and his quarry. Ferguson had a subtle quickness to him; without breaking into a run, he was moving swiftly, working his way around the spots of light that littered the street, blending with the surroundings.

He thought his legs seemed heavy, slow, and he furiously demanded more of them. Ahead, he saw Ferguson turn again, at another street corner, and he pushed himself hard to catch up.

A pair of bedraggled prostitutes were working the corner, using the sodium-vapor streetlight to advertise their presence. They ducked back as he approached, shrinking against a storefront.

'Where'd he go?' Wilcox demanded.

'Who, man?'

'Ain't seen nobody.'

He swore at them, and they both laughed, mocking him as he pushed past. The side street down which Ferguson had headed seemed cavernous, yawing back and forth like a ship in heavy weather. He caught a glimpse of Ferguson forty yards ahead, really just a shape that had more substance than the remaining shadows in the street, and he ran hard after it.

His mind raced alongside him.

He had no grasp of what he was going to say, what he was going to do, driven merely by the need to catch up with the chased man. Images jumped rapidly in and out of his head: It seemed as if the world he was cutting through was mixing crazily with his memory. A derelict lying semi-stuporously in an abandoned doorway sang out as he cruised past, but the voice reminded him of Tanny Brown's. A dog barked hard, throwing itself against a chain, and he remembered the search for Joanie Shriver's body. Dirt-streaked aluminum garbage cans reflected weak streetlamp light, and he thought of the sucking, oozing sensation between his hands as he pulled free the useless evidence from the outhouse refuse pit. This last memory drove him harder in pursuit.

He looked ahead and saw Ferguson reach the end of the block. He seemed to pause, and Wilcox saw the man turn. For one microscopic moment, their eyes met across the night.

Wilcox couldn't contain himself. 'Stop! Police!' he shouted.

Ferguson didn't hesitate. Running now, he fled.

Wilcox yelled a single, 'Hey!' then tucked his chin down and ran hard. All pretense of surveillance or tailing Ferguson was lost now in a single-minded, headstrong chase. He sucked in wind and started pumping his arms, feeling his feet lighten against the rain-slicked pavement, no more plodding, determined pursuit, but now a spring.

His burst of speed pushed him a bit closer, but Ferguson, too, rapidly settled into a hard run. They seemed evenly matched, feet hitting the pavement in unison, the distance between them maintaining a frustrating constancy.

The world around him turned vaporous, indistinct. He could feel the effects of his sprint. His wind was shortened, his heart beating fast. He tore air from the night to fill screaming lungs.

Another city block passed. He saw Ferguson turn again, still driving forward, seemingly unaffected by the run. Wilcox pushed on, sliding as he tried to cut the corner closely, his feet scrabbling on the pavement. For a sickening instant, he felt a dizziness, a stab of vertigo, and then he lost his balance. The cement came up fast, like a wave at the beach, striking him solidly. Breath exploded from him. A shock of red pain swept across his eyes. He heard some article of clothing tearing and felt a gritty taste in his mouth. He slid, partly stunned, finally coming to rest against a streetlight. Instinct fought against shock and hurt, and he forced himself back to his feet, rising, struggling to regain his rhythm. He had a sudden memory of a high-school wrestling championship when he'd been thrown through the air, and as he tumbled toward the mat, his mind had razored off a decision as to what move to employ so that when his opponent's arms sought to encircle him, he was already rolling free. He blinked hard and found himself running again, racing forward, trying to grasp where he was and what he was doing, but finding the blow from the street had scrambled his senses, and he was being driven merely by wild fury and impatient desire.

As he ran, he saw Ferguson abruptly slice across the street, heading toward a dark, empty lot. Headlights from an approaching car trapped him for an instant. There was a loud screeching sound, followed instantly by the blare of a horn.

For an instant, he thought it was Detective Shaeffer, and he cheered, 'That's it! Cut the bastard off!'

Then he saw that it wasn't. A sudden shot of anger pierced him: Where the hell is she? He pushed on, dodging the same car, leaving the driver shouting imprecations at the two wraithlike shapes that had disappeared as swiftly as they had materialized.

He scrambled over rubble and debris, which grabbed at his ankles like tendrils in a swamp. He caught a glimpse of Ferguson up ahead, maneuvering with identical difficulty through the abandoned junk of the inner city. For an instant, Ferguson rose up on top of a pile of boxes and an old refrigerator, outlined by a distant streetlamp. Their eyes met for a second time and Wilcox impulsively yelled, 'Stop. Police!' again. He thought he saw a flash of recognition and disbelief in Ferguson's eyes. Then the quarry vanished, leaping down out of the meager light. Wilcox muttered obscenities and struggled on.