Alez Kava - One False Move

"Grace, glad I found you."

It was Pakula and only then did she remember she hadn't called him back after they'd been disconnected.

"I'm okay. I know I should have called you back after we got cut off."

"What?"

"My damsel-in-distress call."

"Oh, yeah. No, that's okay. That's not why I'm calling. I've got something you're gonna wanna see."

Grace looked around for a pen. She knew if Tommy didn't have time to joke around this was serious.

"What's going on?"

"I'm at the Nebraska Bank of Commerce, that little branch off Highway 50. You know the one? Back behind Sapp Brothers, off 1-80."

"You're actually at the bank?" She found a pen and looked for paper, settling instead for the top of a packing box to jot down the directions.

"Yeah, it's a fucking mess."

"Pakula, you're the last one I need to remind, bank robberies are the feds' mess."

"Not when there's a homicide."

She figured as much. "You think it's the convenience-store robber moving up and getting trigger-happy?" There had been three robberies across the city at different convenience stores. It wasn't unusual for a robber to get cocky and think he was ready for a bigger hit.

"A black and white got a good look. We're running the plate number. Hold on," he said and she could hear a muffled conversation. She recognized Pakula's "Holy crap," followed by a "fuck." Then he was back on the line. "This is one fucking mess. You think you can come take a look?"

"I need to take Emily over to my grandmother's. I should be there in about fifteen to twenty."

"I have to warn you, Grace-"

"I know, it's a fucking mess."

"I don't think I've seen this much blood in one place since the Jepperson drug bust in '97."

"So there's more than one homicide?"

"Last count there might be five."

"Christ, Pakula! Why didn't you say that in the beginning?"

"I thought I did. I better go. See you in fifteen."

5:38 p.m.

Melanie laid on the horn but the SUV in front of them didn't budge, adhering to the sixty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. In the rearview mirror, she could see cars and trucks pulling to the roadside, like waters parting, for the flashing cruiser. He'd be on her tail in seconds. There were hills, inclines, not enough room for passing zones. Yet when Jared yelled, "Go around the motherfucker," Mela-nie didn't hesitate.

Sure enough, on the other side of the hill was a truck headed straight for them. She'd never make it. In front of the SUV was a blue compact she hadn't anticipated. She jerked back to the right, scraping against the SUV, shocking the driver into pulling to the side of the road. Now in her side mirror she could see him driving through the ditches before smashing into a fence.

"Serves him right," Jared said. "Maybe the others will know to get out of our way."

But even as he said it, Melanie had to weave around the blue compact. A pickup truck with a trailer was up ahead, and Melanie knew she'd never make it around him before the curve. And from what she could see, it looked as if they were coming to another bridge and another town.

"Don't slow down," Jared warned her. "Use the shoulder."

"Are you nuts? It's not wide enough."

"Sure it is. Just do it." He was turned in his seat again with the gun aimed at the back window. "Do it now, damn it."

She wanted to close her eyes. The curve was impossible at this speed-eighty-five at her last glance-and she might not be able to keep control.

"You can do it, Mel." His tone was somewhere between soothing and a yell.

She held her breath and twisted the steering wheel to the right. She heard the tire hit the edge and felt the pull. The car bounced, the steering wheel jerking out of her grasp. Before she could maneuver the car back onto the pavement, her hands were slick with sweat. So was her back, the T-shirt fabric stuck to her like a second skin. Her heart pounded loud enough to keep her from hearing Jared's continued instructions. She barely pulled the car back onto the highway before the bridge. A few more yards and they would have been flying into the water.

The bridge slowed down the cruiser. With no place on the sides for cars to pull over, the flashing blue and red lights stayed behind the pickup and trailer. Melanie floored it despite the REDUCE SPEED signs and despite entering the outskirts of Louisville.

More curves. More inclines.

"Turn up ahead," Jared instructed her, and she wouldn't have noticed the tumoff except for a sign with an arrow for Platte River State Park.

She followed his directions, only seeing his wisdom after she took another curve going seventy-five. With all the inclines and curves, the cruiser hadn't been in sight when she turned. He couldn't see her now, either. He would automatically think they'd continued on Highway 50.

"Did we lose him?" She almost didn't want to know.

"Keep going."

"I am. But is he still coming?"

"Up ahead. Off to your right is the state park. Pull in there." He was already pointing but she couldn't see it. "It's a long road into the park. There should be a sign."

"I can't see him." She watched the rearview mirror, her eyes trying to take in all angles. She was tempted to turn around, just for a second or two, to look.

"It's there. It's right there," Jared yelled.

But it was too late. She was going too fast. She saw the park entrance. Perhaps she felt cocky after all the stunts she had pulled off. She thought she could make it despite not slowing enough. She thought she had judged the distance, the angle. She twisted the steering wheel too much, too quickly, and suddenly the car was airborne, flying over the deep ditch, scraping through the barbed-wire fence-the screech of wire against metal-before slamming hard, the chassis rocking. They skidded through the tall cornstalks, a sound like wind whipping against the glass. The smell of antifreeze and gasoline filled her nostrils along with hot, stale air.

When they finally came to a complete stop all Melanie could see through the windshield were cornstalks and bulging gray thunderheads.

5:51 p.m.

An Omaha police officer waved Grace through the maze of rescue vehicles, cruisers and media vans. She didn't know all the younger officers, including this one, but most of them knew her or at least knew who she was. It wasn't unusual for the police and the district attorney's office to work together, starting at the crime scene. However, it had taken a while-certainly not an overnight victory-for the Omaha Police Department and the Douglas County Sheriff's Department to treat the only woman county prosecutor like an asset instead of a pain in the ass.

At a side door to the brick bank building another officer handed Grace a pair of latex gloves, shoe covers and a face mask. She declined the mask, slipped the paper shoe covers over her leather flats and tugged on the gloves. She followed the narrow hallway past two closed doors, one with a nameplate. Hopefully, Mr. Avery Harmon had taken the day off or left early.

Even before she reached the lobby, she could smell it. It filled her nostrils: sour and rancid, so strong she could almost taste it. She stopped at the doorway, but only because she wanted to examine the scene. She wanted to take it all in, memorize it for later, imagining the lobby without the detectives, without the coroner, without the Douglas County lab technicians.

She counted three bodies. Pakula had said there might be five. One, a woman, lay facedown close to the bank's double glass doors that led to a small entrance. Was she a customer on her way out when the shooting began? From where she stood, Grace couldn't tell where the bullet had entered, though it looked like a back head shot. That's where the blood had pooled. A man in a shirt and tie lay crumpled in the doorway to a side office, his crisply starched white shirt now stained red. At the teller counter lay an old man, flat on his back. He was the closest to Grace, so close she could see his blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, one lens of his wire-rimmed glasses crushed.