The woman kept whispering words Sachs couldn't hear. She radioed Haumann about the woman's condition and location, and he immediately sent medics and backup. Then she thought: But it'll take a few minutes for EMS to get here. I have to save her. A tourniquet would slow the bleeding. I can save her life.
But then: No. He's not getting away. She looked around the corner, low, fast, and saw Boyd drop out of the hall window into the side yard.
Sachs hesitated, looking back at the woman. She'd passed out, and her hand had fallen away from the terrible wound on her leg. Already, blood pooled under her torso.
Christ . . .
She started toward her. Then stopped. No. You know what you have to do. Amelia Sachs ran to the side window. She looked out, fast again, in case he was waiting for her. But, no, Boyd expected that she'd save the woman. Sachs saw him sprinting away from the apartment down the cobblestoned alley without a glance back.
She looked down. A six-foot drop to the ground. Her story about the pain from the fall she'd told to Sellitto twenty minutes ago was fake; the chronic pain wasn't.
Oh, brother.
She scooted up onto the sill, clear of the broken glass, and swung her legs out, then pushed off. Trying to ease the shock of the landing, Sachs kept her knees bent. But it was a long drop and as she landed her left leg collapsed and she tumbled onto gravel and grass, crying out at the pain.
Breathing hard, she struggled to her feet and started off after Boyd, now with an honest limp slowing her up. God gets you for lying, she thought.
Shoving her way through a row of anemic bushes, Sachs broke from the yard into an alley that ran behind the houses and apartments. She looked right and left. No sign of him.
Then, a hundred feet ahead of her, she saw a large wooden door swing open. This was typical of older parts of New York--unheated, stand-alone garages lining alleys behind row and town houses. It made sense that Boyd would keep his car garaged; the Search and Surveillance team hadn't found it anywhere on the surrounding blocks. Jogging forward as best she could, Sachs reported his location to the command post.
"Copy, Five Eight Eight Five. We're on our way, K."
Moving unsteadily over the cobblestones, she flipped open the cylinder of Sellitto's Smittie and grimaced to see that he was among the more cautious gun owners; the cylinder beneath the hammer was empty.
Five shots.
Versus Boyd's automatic with three times that many and possibly a spare clip or two in his pocket.
Running to the mouth of the alley, she could hear an engine start and a second later the blue Buick backed out, the rear toward her. The alley was too narrow to make the turn in one motion, so Boyd had to stop, drive forward then back up again. This gave Sachs the chance to sprint to within sixty or seventy feet of the garage.
Boyd finished the maneuver and, with the garage door as a shield between him and Sachs, accelerated away fast.
Sachs dropped hard to the cobblestones and saw that the only target she had was under a narrow gap at the bottom of the garage door: the rear tires.
Prone, Sachs sighted on the right one.
It's a rule in urban-combat shooting never to fire unless you "know your backdrop," that is, where the bullet will end up if you miss your shot--or if it penetrates your target and continues on. As Boyd's car peeled away from her, Sachs considered this protocol for a fraction of a second, then--thinking of Geneva Settle--came up with a rule of her own: This fucker's not getting away.
The best she could do to control the shot was to aim low so that the bullet would ricochet upward and lodge in the car itself if she missed.
Cocking the gun to single action, so the trigger pull was more sensitive, she aimed and squeezed off two rounds, one slightly higher than the other.
The slugs zipped under the garage door and at least one punctured the right rear tire. As the car lurched to the right and collided hard with the brick wall of the alley, Sachs rose and sprinted toward the wreck, wincing from the pain. At the garage door she paused and looked around it. It turned out that both right tires were flattened; she'd hit the front one as well. Boyd tried to drive away from the wall, but the front wheel was bent and frozen against the chassis. He climbed out, swinging the gun back and forth, searching for the shooter.
"Boyd! Drop the weapon!"
His response was to fire five or six shots toward the door. Sachs responded with one shot, which struck the car body inches from him, then she rolled to her right and rose fast, noting that Boyd was fleeing from her into the street beyond.
She could see the backdrop this time--a brick wall across the far street--and squeezed off another round.
But just as the gun fired, Boyd turned aside as if he'd been expecting this. The slug sailed past him, also inches away. He returned fire, a barrage of shots, and she dropped hard to the slimy cobblestones again, her radio shattering. He disappeared around the corner, to the left.
One shot left. Should've used only one on the tire, she thought angrily, as she rose and hurried after him as best she could on the painful leg. A pause at the corner where the alley met the sidewalk, a fast glance to the left. She saw his solid form sprinting away from her.
She grabbed the Motorola and pressed transmit. Nope, it was gone. Shit. Call 911 on the cell? Too much to explain, too little time to relay a message. Somebody in one of the buildings had to've called in about the shots. She continued after Boyd, breath rasping, feet slapping on the ground.
At the far intersection, the end of the block, a blue-and-white rolled to a stop. The officers didn't climb out; they hadn't heard the shots and didn't know the killer and Sachs were here. Boyd looked up and saw them. He stopped fast and leapt over a small fence then ducked underneath the stairway of an apartment building leading to the first floor. She heard kicking as he tried to break into the basement apartment.
Sachs waved toward the officers but they were looking up and down the cross street and didn't see her.
It was then that a young couple stepped out the front door of the apartment directly across from Boyd. Closing the door behind them, the young man zipped up his vest against the chill day and the woman took his arm. They started down the stairs.
The kicking stopped.
Oh, no . . . Sachs realized what was about to happen. She couldn't see Boyd but she knew what he was going to do. He was sighting on the couple now. He was going to shoot one or both, steal their keys and escape into the apartment--hoping again that the police would divide their forces to look after the wounded.
"Get down!" Sachs shouted.
Nearly a hundred feet away, the couple didn't hear.
Boyd would be drawing a target on them now, waiting for them to get closer.
"Get down!"
Sachs rose and limped toward them.
The couple noticed her but couldn't make out what she was saying. They paused, frowning.
"Get down!" she repeated.
The man cupped his hand behind his ear, shaking his head.
Sachs stopped, took a deep breath and fired her last bullet into a metal garbage can about twenty feet from the couple.
The woman screamed and they turned, scrabbling up the stairs into their apartment. The door slammed.
At least she'd managed to--
Beside Sachs a block of limestone exploded, pelting her with hot lead and bits of stone. A half second later she heard the loud pop of Boyd's gun.
Another shot and another, driving Sachs back, bullets striking feet from her. She stumbled through the yard, tripping over a foot-high wire edging fence and some plaster lawn ornaments, Bambis and elves. One slug grazed her vest, knocking the breath from her lungs. She went down hard in a planting bed. More slugs slammed home nearby. Boyd then turned toward the officers leaping out of their cruiser. He peppered the squad car with several rounds, flattening the tires and driving the officers to cover behind the car. The uniforms were staying put but at least they'd have called the assault in and other troops would be on the way.
r /> Which meant of course that there was only one way for Boyd to go--toward her. She hunkered down for cover behind some bushes. Boyd had stopped firing but she could hear his footsteps getting closer. He was twenty feet away, she guessed. Then ten. She was sure that at any minute she'd see his face, followed by the muzzle of his weapon. Then she'd die . . .
Thud.
Thud.
Rising on an elbow, she could see the killer, close, kicking at another basement-apartment door, which was slowly starting to give way. His face was eerily calm--like that of The Hanged Man in the tarot card he'd intended to leave beside Geneva Settle's body. He must've believed he'd hit Sachs because he ignored where she'd fallen and was concentrating on breaking through the doorway--the only escape route left. He looked behind him once or twice, toward the far end of the block, where the uniformed officers were making their way toward him--though slowly since he'd turn and fire at them occasionally.
He too would have to be out of ammo pretty soon, she figured. He probably--
Boyd ejected the clip from his pistol and slipped a new one in. Reloaded.
Okay, well . . .
She could stay where she was, safe, and hope that other officers would get here before he escaped.
But Sachs thought of the brunette lying bloody in the bungalow--maybe dead by now. She thought of the electrocuted officer, the librarian killed yesterday. She thought of the young rookie Pulaski, his face battered and bloody. And mostly she thought of poor young Geneva Settle, who'd be at risk every minute Boyd was free and walking the streets. Clutching the empty gun, she came to a decision.
*
Thompson Boyd delivered another powerful kick into the basement door. It was starting to give way. He'd get inside, he'd--
"Don't move, Boyd. Drop the weapon."
Blinking his stinging eyes in surprise, Thompson turned his head. He lowered his foot, which was poised for another kick.
Well, now, what's this?
Keeping his gun low, he turned his head slowly and looked toward her. Yes, like he'd thought, it was the woman from the crime scene at the museum library yesterday morning. Walking back and forth, back and forth, like the sidewinder. Red hair, white jumpsuit. The one he'd enjoyed watching, admiring her. There was a lot to admire, he reflected. And a good shot, too.
He was surprised that she was alive. He thought for sure he'd hit her in the last barrage.
"Boyd, I will shoot. Drop your gun, lie down on the sidewalk."
He thought a few more kicks at this door should break it in. Then into the alley behind the place. Or maybe the people who lived here had a car. He could take the keys and shoot whoever was inside, wound them, draw off more of the police. Escape.
But, of course, there was one question that had to be answered first: Did she have any ammunition left?
"You hearing me, Boyd?"
"So it's you." Squinted his stinging eyes. Hadn't used any Murine lately. "Thought it might be."
She frowned. She didn't know what he meant. Maybe she was wondering if he'd seen her before, wondering how he knew her.
Boyd was careful not to move. He had to figure this out. Shoot her or not? But if he made the slightest motion toward her and she did have rounds left she'd fire. He knew that without a doubt. Nothing squeamish about this woman.
They'll kill you in a kiss . . . .
He debated. Her gun was a six-round Smith & Wesson .38 special. She'd fired five times. Thompson Boyd always counted shots (he knew he himself had eight left in his present clip, and one more fourteen-round clip in his pocket).
Had she reloaded? If not, did she have one more round left?
There are police officers who keep an empty chamber under the hammer on revolvers on the rare chance that accidentally dropping it will cause the gun to fire. But she didn't seem to be that sort of person. She knew weapons too well. She'd never drop one accidentally. Besides, if she was doing tactical work, she'd want every round possible. No, she wasn't an empty-cylinder kind of cop.
"Boyd, I'm not telling you again!"
On the other hand, he was thinking, this gun wasn't hers. Yesterday at the museum she'd worn an automatic on her hip, a Glock. She still had a Glock holster on her belt now. Was the Smittie a backup piece? In the old days, when all cops had six-shooters, they sometimes carried another gun in an ankle holster. But these days, with automatics holding at least a dozen rounds and two extra clips on the belt, they usually didn't bother with a second weapon.
No, he bet that she'd either lost her automatic or loaned it to somebody and had borrowed this one, which meant she probably didn't have rounds to reload. Next question: Did the person she borrowed the Smittie from keep an empty chamber under the hammer? That, he'd have no way of knowing, of course.
So the question came down to what kind of person she was. Boyd thought back to the museum, seeing her searching like a rattlesnake. Thinking of her in the hallway outside the Elizabeth Street safe house, going through the door after him. Thinking of her coming after him now--leaving Jeanne to die from the bullet wound in her thigh.
He decided: She was bluffing. If she had a round left she'd have shot him.
"You're out of ammo," he announced. He turned toward her and raised his pistol.
She grimaced and the gun slumped. He'd been right. Should he kill her? No, just shoot to wound. But where was the best place? Painful and life-threatening. Screaming and copious blood both attract a lot of attention. She was favoring one leg; he'd shoot the painful one, the knee. When she was down, he'd park another round in her shoulder. And get away.
"So you win," she said. "What is it now? I'm a hostage?"
He hadn't thought of this. He hesitated. Did it make sense? Would it be helpful? Usually hostages were more trouble than they were worth.
No, better to shoot her. He began to pull the trigger as she pitched her gun to the sidewalk in defeat. He glanced at it, thinking, Something's wrong here . . . What was it?
She'd been holding the revolver in her left hand. But the holster was on her right hip.
Thompson's eyes returned to her and gasped as he saw the flashing knife cartwheeling toward his face. She'd flung it with her right hand, when he'd glanced at her gun for a second.
The switchblade didn't stick into him, or even cut--it was the handle that collided with his cheek--but she'd tossed it directly at his poor eyes. Thompson ducked away instinctively, lifting his arm to protect them. Before he could step back and draw a target, the woman was on him, swinging a stone she'd picked up from the garden. He felt a stunning blow on his temple, gasped at the pain.
He pulled the trigger once, and the gun fired. But the shot missed and before he could fire again the rock slammed into his right hand. The gun dropped to the ground. He howled and cradled his wounded fingers.
Thinking she'd go for the gun, he tried to body-block her. But she wasn't interested in the pistol. She had all the weapon she needed; the rock crashed into his face once more. "No, no . . . " He tried to hit her, but she was big and strong, and another blow from the rock sent him to his knees, then his side, twisting away from the blows. "Stop, stop," he cried. But in response he felt another blow of the rock against his cheek. He heard a howl of rage coming from her throat.
They'll kill you . . .
What was she doing? he wondered in shock. She'd won . . . . Why was she doing this, breaking the rules? How could she? This wasn't by the book.
. . . in a kiss.
In fact, when the uniformed officers sprinted up a moment later, only one of them grabbed Thompson Boyd and cuffed him. The other got his arm around the policewoman and struggled to wrestle the bloody stone from her grip. Through the pain, the ringing in his ears, Thompson heard the cop saying over and over, "It's okay, it's okay, you got him, Detective. It's cool, you can relax. He's not going anywhere, he's not going anywhere, he's not going anywhere . . . . "
Chapter Thirty-Three
Please, please . . .
Amelia Sachs was hurr
ying back to Boyd's bungalow as fast as she was able, ignoring the congratulations from fellow officers and trying to ignore the pain in her leg.
Sweating, breathless, she trotted up to the first EMS medic she saw and asked, "The woman in that house?"
"There?" He nodded to the house.
"Right. The brunette who lives there."
"Oh, her. I've got bad news, I'm afraid."
Sachs inhaled a deep breath, felt the horror like ice on her flesh. She'd captured Boyd but the woman she could have saved was dead. She dug a fingernail into her thumb's cuticle and felt pain, felt blood. Thinking: I did exactly what Boyd did. I sacrificed an innocent life for the sake of the job.
The medic continued, "She was shot."
"I know," Sachs whispered. Staring down at the ground. Oh, man, this would be hard to live with . . .
"You don't have to worry."
"Worry?"
"She'll be okay."
Sachs frowned. "You said you had bad news."
"Well, like, getting shot's pretty bad news."
"Christ, I knew she was shot. I was there when it happened."
"Oh."
"I thought you meant she died."
"Naw. Was a bleeder but we got it in time. She'll be all right. She's at St. Luke's ER. Stable condition."
"Okay, thanks."
I've got bad news . . . .
Sachs wandered off, limping, and found Sellitto and Haumann in front of the safe house.
"You collared him with an empty weapon?" Haumann asked, incredulous.
"Actually I collared him with a rock."
The head of ESU nodded, lifting an eyebrow--his sweetest praise.
"Boyd saying anything?" she asked.
"Understood his rights. Then clammed up."
She and Sellitto swapped weapons. He reloaded. She checked her Glock and reholstered it.
Sachs asked, "What's the story on the premises?"
Haumann ran a hand over his bristly crew cut and said, "Looks like the bungalow he was living in was rented in his girlfriend's name, Jeanne Starke. They're her kids, two daughters. Not Boyd's. We've got Child Welfare involved. That place"--he nodded toward the apartment--"was a safe house. Full of tools of the trade, you know."
Sachs said, "I better run the scene."
"We kept it secure," Haumann said. "Well, he did." A nod toward Sellitto. The ESU head said, "I gotta debrief the brass. You'll be around after the scene? They'll want a statement."