Michael Prescott - In Dark Places

She drew closer. "It counts."

He hung up the phone and stood staring at her from ten feet away. "Now what, Doc?"

"You talked about working together."

"I'm up for it. But you ain't never gonna work with me."

"Why not?"

"Ain't your style. You're a straight arrow. You don't pal around with a bad boy like me."

"If you think so, then why are you even talking to me?"

His brow wrinkled. "You shrinks ask good questions, you know? They teach that in shrink school?"

"Among other things. Why talk to me, Justin? Why call? What do you want?"

"I guess amp; I want you to believe me."

"Why does that matter? You're still a wanted man, whether you attacked me and the deputy or not."

"Right as rain on that one. Maybe I shouldn't care."

"Maybe you and I have more of a connection than you thought." She advanced again. "Maybe that's why it matters what I think of you."

"Don't go putting up a statue of yourself just yet, Doc. I'm a long way from cured, if that's what you're getting at."

"Maybe"another step"you're closer to a resolution of your problems than you want to admit."

He was five feet away, almost within reach. She could see his eyes. They flickered with new thoughts, new possibilities. She might be getting through to him.

"Know what I think?" Gray said. "I think it was a cop."

She stopped. "What?"

"Mr. Cool. I smell bacon."

"Why would you say that?"

"Who else knew you were brain-scannin' me between three and four this afternoon? It's not exactly public knowledge. This bozo had to know that shit if he was gonna pin the rap on me. There any reason the cops might be pissed at you?"

"There might be," she said cautiously.

"In that case, I wouldn't trust 'em to find Meg."

"We're only talking about one police officer."

"One guy?" His eyebrows lifted. "Your patienthe's a cop, is that it? You're branching out from us cons, going for a higher quality of clientele?"

"I can't talk about that."

"Yeah, he's a cop. And you figure he's working this thing alone?"

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"Somebody goes after youand Meg disappears the same time? Sounds like a conspiracy to me."

"I don't believe in conspiracies."

"Hey, I don't believe in jock itch, but I still got it. If the cops are on your ass, you can't expect 'em to find Meg. They might be the ones that have her."

"I have to trust somebody."

"Sure you do. Trust me."

"You're a killer, Justin."

"But I ain't a cop. Tell me who you think might be doing this number on you and Meg. Give me a name. I'll do the rest."

"I can't work with you that way. But amp; but I can help you."

"You're missing the bus, Doc. I'm the one who can help you . And maybe I will, just out of the goodness of my"

His gaze snapped past her, and his face changed.

"Fuck," Gray said, turning.

Robin looked back and saw Wolper and Brand emerging from the crowd, guns drawn.

She looked at Gray again, but he was already sprinting down the hall.

The two cops blew past her, chuffing air. She grabbed at Wolper, wanting to stop him, tell him how close she'd been to a breakthrough, but her fingers failed to close over his flapping sleeve, and then he was gone.

"Police, freeze!" he shouted as Gray dodged down a side hallway, out of sight.

He was gone. Wolper and Brand might catch him, but if they didn't amp;

Then Gray would remain at large. And he would never trust her again.

Wolper pulled out his cell phone and called 911, identifying himself as a police officer. "I'm in pursuit of the fugitive Justin Gray. Request patrol units at the corner of Hollywood and Cahuenga. Gray is inside the video arcade, rear of the building."

"Dispatching units now," the 911 operator said.

"Patch me through to Dispatch."

He and Brand rounded another corner and saw an exterior door swinging shut.

"Control," a new voice on the phone said, using the official term for the dispatchers' command center.

"Suspect has exited the building via a rear door. We need Air Support." A helicopter could keep Gray in view as long as he was outdoors.

The door opened on an alley. Wolper and Brand went through the doorway fast, ready to return fire if Gray started shooting. He didn't. He was already behind the wheel of the stolen Firebird, facing into the alley.

Wolper caught a blurred glimpse of Gray's face through the windshield before the headlights snapped on, blinding him. His gun was drawn, but he had no shot. He stared into a wash of bright light that concealed the driver in the glare.

He ran down the alley. The car's engine gunned, and there was a bad moment when Wolper thought Gray might accelerate and run him down.

A skid of tires, and the car retreated out of the alley at high speed, fishtailing onto the street.

And it was gone.

"He's in a car," Wolper gasped into the cell phone as Brand reached his side. "Blue Firebird'ninety-five, 'ninety-six model. Eastbound on Selma. Didn't get the plate number, but it's got to be the car he boosted when he dumped the Saab."

"We have two units on Selma," the dispatcher said. "They've been alerted."

"Stay on the line."

"What now?" Brand asked.

"We drive. Come on." Wolper led Brand out of the alley and around the corner to the side street where his Sable was parked. He saw Robin standing by the car.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," she said. "I take it Gray got away."

"Not for long."

"I was starting to make a connection. If you hadn't spooked him"

"Shut up," Wolper snapped. He wasn't in the mood. He unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat, Brand riding shotgun. He was pulling away from the curb when he noticed Robin in the backseat.

"You can't come with us."

"You can't stop me."

Wolper sighed. That was probably true.

He steered into traffic, cutting east on Selma. With the cell phone pressed to his ear, he said, "Control, you still with me?"

"I'm here. Six-Adam-eight has spotted the vehicle."

"They're in pursuit," he told Brand. Into the phone he said, "Location?"

"Still on Selmawait. He's just turned south on Bronson. Ran a red."

Wolper accelerated, knifing through traffic as he veered from lane to lane. He wished he had a siren or one of those bubble flashers, but the Sable was strictly his personal ride.

At Bronson he swung south. "Any word on Air Support?" he asked the dispatcher.

"Inbound. ETA five minutes."

In five minutes this could all be over. Justin Gray could be in custodyor dead.

"There," Brand said, pointing.

Ahead, the strobing light bar of a Hollywood patrol unit was visible. As Wolper watched, a second squad car pulled onto Bronson from a side street, siren caterwauling.

He still couldn't see the Firebird, but it had to be just beyond the two black-and-whites.

"Adam-eight is reporting that the license plate is wrong," the dispatcher said. "Doesn't match the stolen Firebird."

"He could've switched plates," Wolper said. "Can they make out the car's occupant?"

"They say driver is alone, hunched over the wheel."

"It's gotta be him."

Wolper had closed in on the nearest of the two squad cars. Just beyond the first car, the Firebird weaved across lanes as Gray fought for an opening in the traffic.

"Son of a bitch is panicking," he said with satisfaction.

"They can't kill him," Robin said from the backseat.

"What?"

"They have to take him alive. So he can tell us where Meg is."

The Firebird slewed onto the shoulder and barreled onto Fountain Avenue, westbound. The two squads followed, with Wolper right behind.

"He's trying to lose us," Wolper said. He shouted his location into the phone, even though he was sure the two Hollywood units were relaying the same information, then tossed a quick glance at Brand beside him. "Thrill of the hunt, huh, Al?"