Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Nunn whooped, forced the Mercedes left to follow. One car length behind, maybe two. Thomas wove back and forth across the lanes, the oncoming traffic keeping him from opening the car up, and Nunn rode him down, closing the distance an inch at a time. Thomas went right and gained himself a quick twenty feet, until Nunn cut across the corner and took it back. He felt his lips curling in a smile unlike any he’d known in ten years.

Until the Aston Martin made another turn, and Nunn realized where Thomas was going.

No, no, no!

Nunn held the accelerator down, rocked back and forth in his seat, willing the car to go faster. He had to catch the man. Had to catch him soon.

The Bay Bridge was straight and broad and four and a half miles long. Thomas’s pretty little car would practically set it on fire.

Come on, come on .

Thomas hit Essex, spun the car hard, and started up the bridge. He began to widen the distance immediately, the roar of his engine louder even than Nunn’s heart.

No. It couldn’t be, not now. Not after all of this. It wasn’t fair.

Fair? Ask Rosemary about fair .

Because just like her, he was going to lose.

Christopher thrilled atthe sound the engine made, the way the Aston Martin responded to his command. He dodged between cars, easier now that he was going the right direction. When the RPM needle was deep in the red, he upshifted, felt the car leap ahead.

Something in the moment was quite lovely. For years he and Nunn had been collaborators of a sort. True, the cop hadn’t known he was alive, but even so, together they had created a work of art. The canvas had been spun of human lives, the paint mixed of blood and tears and semen, the subject wealth and desire and betrayal. And now it ended.

Collaborations don’t last, Jon. One man is always the greater artist .

Christopher felt something tighten deep in his belly, a feeling that reminded him of the one he’d had as Artie crawled across his carpet. That sweet, stretched feeling of complete victory. He grinned, brushed his hair back from his eyes. Looked into the rearview mirror, savoring the image of Nunn’s car shrinking. What the man must be feeling! It might be Christopher’s masterpiece, even better than Rosemary. To take so much from a man, not just his marriage, but his career, his faith in justice, even his hope, then simply leave him behind, powerless to do anything but watch, it was-

Bright fire bloomed in the Aston Martin. The light seemed to flare right in front of Christopher, as though he were snapping a lighter.

A metallic thunk , meaty and clean.

Another flash from behind, and his rear window spiderwebbed.

What is-he’s-is he-

Something shoved his shoulder. It felt like a punch, the kind of rough gesture men in pubs gave one another. Christopher glanced down and saw a hole in the Egyptian cotton of his shirt, then red, red- What? No .

He couldn’t believe it.

The pain surfed the wave of comprehension, suddenstabbingburning , and he gasped. Tried to move his arm and fire spread down it. A scream of horn jerked his eyes back to the road. He was feet from the back end of a semi. Panic overwhelmed pain as he spun the wheel, yanked it right. The car fought to respond. The tires shrieked, loud and embarrassing. The car cleared the end of the semi, but the spin had it now, chaos taking control. For a terrible second he thought it might roll, but it just kept turning, the heavy guardrails of the bridge, open sky beyond, then the front of the car was facing the wrong way, traffic racing toward him, cars struggling to stop, and then he saw the battered Mercedes headed right for him, and through its broken windshield he thought he saw Jon Nunn’s face.

Then the car slammed into the Aston Martin and ground and sky switched places.

Jon Nunn feltas if he’d been punched by a giant’s fist.

The impact had slammed him against his seat belt, sent his body rocking forward, but before his head could hit the wheel the air bag had exploded, a confusion of white and gray and the smell of gunpowder and a wallop to his chest and face.

For a moment there was only the feel of it against his cheek, and pain.

Slowly the drone of a horn penetrated. The world was dark, then he realized his eyes were closed.

When he opened them, he was staring over the deflating air bag, through the splintered windshield, at the graceful sweep of a bridge cable two feet thick. The barrier rail was crumpled and torn.

And atop it, upside down, a car that had once been beautiful rocked like a seesaw.

Nunn shook his head, regretted it immediately. Pain sloshed in his skull.

He fumbled for his seat belt. Pushed the air bag away, opened the door. Dropped out, catching himself on the window frame.

The night was cool and burnished with mist. The glowing bridge lights were fairy lamps. A passing car began to slow. Jon gestured them on, didn’t realize he still had the gun in his hand until the driver roared away.

Somewhere far off, sirens rose.

Jon took a tentative step, then another. Everything hurt, but nothing seemed broken.

The engine of the Aston Martin ticked. Something metal creaked. The roof of the car was crumpled by the concrete barrier. As he watched, something gave, and the car slipped an inch farther toward the abyss.

“Help me.”

The voice was thin. Jon followed it until he could see Christopher Thomas. The face was different. It wasn’t just that he hung upside down, or the blood streaming from his nose, or the ragged mess of muscle and tissue that was his shoulder. It was the eyes. The cocksure certainty was gone. In its place was a raw and animal panic.

Nunn stared at those eyes for a long moment. Then, slowly, he tucked the gun back into his holster.

Thomas’s right hand still clutched the steering wheel, but the fingers were shaking. “You can’t do this.”

“What?”

The breeze off the water smelled vibrant and alive. The car groaned as the wind whistled over it.

“You can’t kill me.”

Jon shrugged. “I’m not killing you.”

“Then help me.”

“Help yourself.”

Thomas stared with a 100-proof hate. Slowly he took his hand off the wheel and fumbled for the door. Nunn watched. The man was pale and shaky. He got a grip on the handle and tugged it. The angle of the car caused the door to swing open wide, pitching the balance of the car. There was a sound of sickening friction. The hood tilted down. Christopher threw himself back in his seat and turned to stone.

Jon Nunn thought of Rosemary after the injections, the way her skin had faded almost immediately. The sirens drew closer. More than one of them, and coming fast.

“You’re not a cop anymore.” Christopher was laying a veneer of reason over a wobble of panic. “You can’t do those things. Shoot at people. Chase them.”

“I did them anyway.”

“Get me out of here.” The wind sighed, and the car slipped again. “Get me out and I’ll tell them it was just an accident.”

Nunn didn’t move.

“I’ve got money. In the back. Millions.”

Nunn didn’t move.

“It won’t change anything, you know. Killing me. It won’t bring Rosemary back.” The man’s voice was rational, not quite pleading. “The dead stay dead. You’ll just have one more ghost. Can you handle that, Jon? Another ghost?”

“I don’t know,” Nunn said, surprised to realize he meant it. He was tired, so very tired, and Thomas was right. You didn’t have to work homicide long to realize that vengeance did nothing to decrease the sum total of pain in the world. Not only that, but there would be consequences for his actions tonight. Everything he’d done since leaving the museum had been beyond the law. If he could produce a murderer, banged up but alive, it would go a lot easier on him.