Beneath a Weeping Sky

NINE

Friday, April 19th

Day Shift

1456 hours

Tower stood near the corner of the small conference room, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He’d watched people slowly trickle into the meeting, guessing at their identities as soon as they came through the door.

The prosecutor was easy to pick out. Patrick Hinote had the confident stride of a veteran attorney and a firm handshake. Of course, the nice suit and the briefcase provided a couple of slam-dunk clues. Tower didn’t award himself any points for figuring that one out.

Next to arrive were a pair of women. The first was a slender woman with a shock of coppery hair drawn back in a ponytail. She looked about thirty to Tower. Accompanying her was a younger, heavy-set woman wearing a pair of round, thin-framed glasses. Her black hair was cut in a tight bob.

Advocates, Tower guessed.

Patrick Hinote introduced them. “Detective Tower, this is Julie Avery and Kami Preston.”

Tower held out his hand. The dark haired woman reached out first. “Kami Preston,” she said, her tone terse and business-like. Tower shook her hand. Her grip was firm but not overbearing.

Patrick put his briefcase on the conference table. “Kami is assistant counsel on this case.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tower said.

Great. Rookie lawyer.

He moved on to Julie Avery. She gave him a pleasant smile as she took his hand. He expected her grip to be much softer, but she surprised him with an even firmer grip than Kami’s.

“I’m on the Prosecutor’s Crisis Team,” she told him.

“Oh?” Tower nodded. He’d been right about at least one of them, then. She was a rape advocate. “That’s great.”

Julie’s smile broadened. “You don’t sound too convinced, detective.”

She’s direct, Tower thought. He cleared his throat nervously. “No? Sorry, I’m just a little distracted by this case.”

The truth was he’d worked around advocates before on other cases. For the most part, they were helpful, both to the victim and for his investigation. He’d heard horror stories about situations where an advocate interfered with an investigation or tried to play junior attorney, but he’d personally never seen it. Most of the time, they offered an ear and a resource to the victim, which made that victim a better witness in the criminal case.

Still, they weren’t going to have any victims at this meeting, or as part of the task force. So why did the prosecutor bring along an advocate?

Tower sipped his coffee and retreated toward the corner of the room. The foursome stood around awkwardly for several minutes until Lieutenant Crawford and Captain Reott arrived. Renee entered the room only a few moments later. Introductions were made all around and the meeting began.

“Let me get straight to the point,” Captain Reott said. “The police department is forming a small task force to deal with this so-called ‘Rainy Day Rapist.’ We want to get the Prosecutor’s Office on board right early on to make sure that when we get the guy, he’s stays got.”

“I appreciate that, Captain,” Patrick said. “We’ll help in any way we can.”

Reott nodded his understanding. “I’m sure you will. Right now, what we’re thinking is this. If Tower needs any search warrants or arrest warrants, you’ll assist him so that there’s no chance of it getting shot down later on by some judge. Also, if there are any more assaults, I’d like you to respond to the scene to offer any advice or assistance.”

“We can do that,” Patrick said. “I’d like to get copies of all the incident reports to review.”

“I’ll ship them to you,” Tower said.

“Thanks. In the meantime, could you give us a brief synopsis of where things are at?”

Tower glanced at Crawford, took a deep breath and sighed. “The truth is, we’re nowhere.”

“Detective, I realize you may have a difficult case, but-”

“I’m not exaggerating,” Tower interrupted. “We have very little in the way of witness testimony and no physical evidence that points to a particular suspect. Even if the guy came in and confessed, I don’t know if we could convict him off the evidence we’ve been able to collect.”

“Do you have any DNA?”

Tower shook his head.

Kami Preston scrawled furiously on the yellow legal pad in front of her.

“Any injuries the attacker may have sustained in the commission of the offense?” Patrick asked.

“His last victim, a schoolteacher, blasted him with a small canister of pepper spray,” Tower explained. “But within a few hours, all evidence of that was probably gone. One trip through the washing machine cleans the clothes. A few hours and lots of water takes care of the spray effects on the bad guy’s eyes and face. So if he lives alone, and he probably does-”

“Why do you say that?” Julie asked him.

Tower glanced at her. “He’s a rapist.”

“That means he lives alone?”

“I just think it would be hard to-”

“I wonder, detective, if you are falling into the trap of stereotyping your suspect.”

Kami Preston paused in her feverish writing and looked up. Tower felt her eyes and those of everyone else in the room boring into him.

“Excuse me?” He asked, stalling for time. “Stereotyping?”

“Yes,” Julie answered immediately. “It’s a common mistake. There are a lot of myths surrounding rape. It wouldn’t be good to…”

Jesus, she’s a pit bull, Tower thought. And she’s all over my ass.

“…immediately assume that a certain myth or stereotype holds true. In fact, it may even hamper your ability to discover…”

Tower held up his hand, interrupting her. “The thing about stereotypes, Ms. Avery, is that while they might make some people of a particular political persuasion uncomfortable, they became stereotypes for a reason.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And what, pray tell, is that reason?”

“Because they are usually true.”

“That’s a rather ignorant view of the world, don’t you think?”

“No,” Tower said. “It’s a rather realistic one.”

“All right, that’s enough,” Captain Reott said. “Let’s remember we’re on the same team here.”

“Just a friendly discussion, Captain,” Tower said icily.

Reott shot Tower a warning glare before continuing. “I think what Detective Tower was getting at was that if the suspect lives alone, there won’t be any witnesses to him coming home covered in pepper spray. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

Kami Preston renewed her frantic note taking.

Tower shrugged. “Sure, that’s part of it.”

“What’s the rest, then?” Julie asked.

Tower glanced at Renee, then back at the advocate. “Well, it’s just a theory, but I think it’s clear that this guy is pretty angry at women. Probably too angry to be in any sort of relationship right now.”

“Whose theory is this?” Patrick asked. “Has the FBI profiled this guy or something?”

That’s just what we need, Tower thought. The Feebs.

“No,” he told the prosecutor. “But-”

“I have,” Renee said.

All eyes turned to Renee, including Tower’s. He regarded the analyst with mild surprise.

“Go on,” Patrick said.

Renee cleared her throat. “I’ve reviewed all of the witness statements, as well as Detective Tower’s investigation of the crime scene. The medical evidence, too. Based on all of that, I think we have someone with obvious anger issues toward women. I believe he is acting out his anger at one or possibly two women by attacking another, unrelated woman. It’s called psychological transference.”

The assembled group digested her words. Tower allowed himself a little smile. Despite the fact that he’d been a jerk to Renee, the analyst was sticking up for him. He glanced over at Julie. The copper-haired woman was nodding her head slightly in agreement.

“Indulge me for a moment,” Patrick said, “but why wouldn’t he just strike out at the person he’s angry at?”

“Could be any number of reasons,” Renee answered. “She could be unavailable, located far away. If it is a mother or grandmother he’s angry at, she could even be dead. But more likely, he is too intimidated by that person to strike directly. If it is a maternal figure, she’d have had control over him for most of his adult life. That grip may still be too strong, even now. So instead, he lashes out at other women. In doing so, he symbolically lashes out at her.”

“You think it’s a mother figure?” Julie asked her.

Renee turned to the advocate. “I believe that is the most likely candidate, yes. Even though it is a bit of a stereotype.”

Julie’s eyes widened slightly at the comment. Then she pressed her lips together and gave Renee a small nod. Touche, she seemed to say.

Tower watched on, amazed.

“Of course,” Renee continued, “as we see that the violence in his surrogate assaults is escalating, that gives me concern that he may be girding himself for a strike at the true object of his anger.”

Patrick nodded. “Meaning he’s working up the guts to go after Mommy Dearest.”

“Possibly,” Renee said. “Either way, there’s no denying that his violence is escalating.”

“It would appear so,” the lawyer agreed. He turned back to Tower. “Do you agree with her assessment, detective?”

“Yes,” Tower answered immediately.

“So what I’m hearing is that we have no substantive witnesses for a rapist that is leaving virtually no physical evidence of any prosecutorial value and who is becoming progressively more violent. In fact, what I’m actually hearing is that this may become a homicide case before it is over.” Patrick sighed. “Wonderful. So what are we going to do?”

“That is what this task force is going to address,” Captain Reott said. He pointed at Tower. “Detective Tower remains lead investigator, with you and your staff to assist him. Lieutenant Crawford will head up the task force. Lieutenant?”

Crawford began speaking without preamble. “The task force will consist of two parts.” He held up one finger. “The first part will be a pair of my Major Crimes detectives who will be available for any investigative follow-up that Tower needs done.”

“Such as?”

“Canvassing for witnesses, monitoring and screening the tip line, things like that. Shoe leather and grunt work. They get anything hot, they’ll bring it to me and Tower.”

Patrick nodded and motioned for Crawford to continue.

The lieutenant held up a second finger. “The second part will be a decoy detail. We’ll run a decoy officer around the city in a variety of locations that Renee here believes would be likely targets for the rapist. The decoy will be dressed as a jogger. There’ll be a two-officer cover team assigned to her at all times. Our hope is that the scumbag decides to go after our decoy. If he does, we take him down.”

Patrick considered the plan. He traced a stick figure on the top of the notepaper, the only writing he’d done during the meeting so far. Next to him, Kami Preston’s pen skipped across the yellow page in front of her.

“Let’s say you catch the offender,” he said. “From what you’ve already told me, you have no evidence to link him to these other attacks, correct?”

“That’s right,” Crawford said. “But if we bag him on an attempted rape, we might be able to get a search warrant for his car and his house. There may be evidence from the other rapes in one of those two places.”

“That’s a fishing expedition, Lieutenant,” Patrick said. “You know that no judge will sign a search warrant for that. The warrant has to be to look for evidence related to that specific arrest.”

“I’m not asking you to put in the search warrant that you’re looking for evidence of the other rapes. But if you can get into the guy’s house, and while searching for evidence of the most recent assault, the detective comes across evidence of the other assaults, well that’s just lucky.”

“That’s pretextual.”

“It’s good police work,” Crawford said.

“Maybe so,” Patrick replied, “but it would be attacked in court and likely suppressed as evidence. Avoiding that sort of thing is, I believe, why my office was brought on board at this early juncture, correct?”

Crawford ignored his question. “Even if you don’t get enough for a search warrant, we’ll have the guy on an attempted rape. That’s a solid charge.”

“I agree,” Patrick said. “But how will we know it is the right guy?”

“The rapes stop,” Crawford told him. “Or maybe he confesses.”

“Both would be nice,” said Patrick.

“The most important thing is to stop this guy, one way or another,” Captain Reott said. “Before another woman gets hurt.”

“I agree,” Julie said quietly.

“Me, too,” Tower added.

There was a moment of silence in the room. Then Patrick asked in a soft voice, “What do you think the odds are of this tactic drawing out the rapist?”

“Not very good,” Crawford admitted. “But a hell of a lot better than doing nothing at all.”

Graveyard Shift

2108 hours

Lieutenant Robert Saylor put aside the “hot board” full of briefing memos after he read the final one aloud to the assembled graveyard patrol officers. Just in case he wasn’t finished, though, Officer Katie MacLeod kept her pocket notebook in front of her.

“Last item,” the lieutenant said. “As most of you already know, the Rainy Day Rapist struck again yesterday. That makes his third victim. This one was a fifty-six year old school teacher.”

Angry muttering erupted and rumbled through the roll call room.

Saylor raised his hand for quiet. “In response to this, a task force is being formed to focus on this case until he’s caught. Investigations is heading it up, with Detective Tower still in the lead. However, Patrol will assist. I’ve been asked for four volunteers. One will be a female decoy, three will rotate as part of a two-officer cover team.”

Katie swallowed. A small surge of adrenaline pulsed through her limbs.

If they need a female, there aren’t many to choose from. They’ll probably ask me to —

Officer James Kahn raised his hand. “El-Tee, I nominate Hiero for the job of female decoy,” he said.

The assembled group burst out in raucous laughter. Katie reluctantly allowed herself a small smile. Humorous moments from James Kahn were infrequent at best. Of course, it figured that he’d choose something like this to joke about. In addition to being the platoon grump, Kahn was also a dyed-in-the-wool skirt-chaser. Katie didn’t know what women saw in him, other than the badge, maybe. He reminded her of an older, less handsome and much crasser version of Giovanni.

Hiero, who sometimes rode partners with Kahn, waited for the laughter to subside. Then he shook his head. “Sir, if you assign me, the first thing I’m doing is filing a sexual harassment suit against Jimmy here. It’s hard enough fending off his clumsy advances all night. If I have to wear a skirt — ”

Another round of laughter exploded around the room. This time, Katie didn’t join in. It always amazed her how quickly gallows humor swept in to displace the anger and concern.

“All right,” Saylor said, raising both hands up for quiet. “Joking aside, this is a serious assignment. Sergeants, meet me after roll call so we can get the task force personnel figured out.”

Saylor turned and strode from the room.

“A little touchy, isn’t he?” Kahn muttered, returning to grouch mode. Katie figured he’d spend the rest of the shift that way, maybe the rest of the week.

Sergeant Shen looked around the table. “I guess he figures that these assaults are a pretty serious issue, that’s all.”

“Everything we deal with is serious, Sarge,” Kahn said.

“So it is,” Shen agreed. “Is anyone interested in volunteering for this task force?”

No one looked at Katie, but she felt the attention of her entire platoon on her. Warmth rushed to her face. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Don’t ask me to do this. Ask me anything else, but not this.

She licked her lips. Since coming on the job five years before, she’d been involved in a variety of sticky situations. An armed robber fired shots at her once in a dark construction lot. A drugged out wife-beater threatened her with a bloody knife. And, of course, she faced the unwinnable situation the previous spring on the Post Street Bridge.

She faced every one of those situations head-on. She pushed through them. She survived.

I don’t want to do this.

Besides, how many rape reports had she taken? Dozens, at least. And how many rapists had she arrested? Ten or so? More? She’d never been afraid of any of them. So why was she afraid now?

I do NOT want to do THIS!

A couple of her sector mates had turned their eyes toward her during the brief silence following Shen’s question. She looked up at each of them, then at Shen. The sergeant regarded her calmly.

I don’t want to do this.

I don’t-

“I’ll be the decoy,” she told Shen. Then, clearing her throat, she repeated, “I’ll do it.”

Sergeant Shen nodded his thanks.

Katie MacLeod, who sometimes hid but never ran, nodded back.

2127 hours

Sergeant Miyamoto Shen closed the door to the sergeant’s room behind him as he entered. Lieutenant Saylor sat reviewing and approving patrol reports. He glanced up as Shen entered and set aside the stack of papers.

“How’d it go?”

“Did anyone volunteer from the other two sectors?” Shen asked him.

Saylor shrugged. “A few cover officers.”

“But no decoys?”

Saylor shook his head. “There’s all of three women on graveyard right now. One of them is MacLeod, who’s yours. The other two females weren’t interested. One of them is going on vacation tomorrow and the other one…well, she just wasn’t interested.”

“MacLeod volunteered,” Shen said.

“I figured she would. She’s got grit.”

Shen nodded thoughtfully. “She’s a warrior, I agree. But everyone has limits.”

Saylor looked closely at Shen. “You don’t think she’s up to it?”

“I’m sure she is. That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just that she’s been through a lot in the last couple of years. I don’t wonder about her ability to handle any one incident, just about how she’ll handle the cumulative effect of all of them.”

Saylor considered, then shrugged. “That’s the life of a cop.”

Shen pressed his lips together in obvious disagreement. “I just don’t want to lose a good troop because we push her too hard or ask too much of her.”

He may be right, Saylor thought.

Nonetheless, he reached out and clapped Shen on the shoulder. “Relax, Sergeant. We ask too much of these men and women every day. At least, we ask them to face the possibility of paying too much. They can handle it. MacLeod can handle it.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Shen said, but his voice had a hint of a doubtful tone.

“I am,” Saylor assured him. “Now, who should we assign as cover officers?”

“As soon as she volunteered, Battaglia and O’Sullivan offered to serve as cover officers.”

“Are you all right with that?”

Shen nodded. “Both are good cops, if a little immature at times. And they like MacLeod. They’ll take the job seriously.”

“Who’s your number three, then?”

“I’m going to assign Chisolm. The first night of operations for the task force is tomorrow and he’ll be back from his days off. He can rotate through with Battaglia and O’Sullivan.”

Saylor nodded his approval. The presence of a veteran officer like Chisolm would keep Battaglia and O’Sullivan grounded.

“Good choice,” he agreed.

“Let’s hope they’re successful,” Shen said.

God willing, Saylor added silently.

2319 hours

He felt it in his chest. It was like a burning pain at times. Other times, it felt more like a cold knife. No matter what, it welled up inside like a tsunami, forcing against his throat, his limbs, his mind.

It made him rock hard.

It made him tremble.

Hookers weren’t helping anymore, he discovered. He tried to go with one earlier in the day, but had to stop. He felt the energy, the power, surging inside him. He didn’t know if he could stop himself once he started. He didn’t believe that River City would care much about a dead hooker, but he didn’t want to waste his power on such a worthless target.

He wanted…no, he needed a real woman.

Someone who was closer to her.

He pulled in a deep breath of the cool night air. Sitting on a bench in Riverfront Park, he enjoyed the quiet of the night around him. The Looking Glass River flowed gently through the center of the park, located just on the fringe of downtown River City.

He liked it here. It was quiet, with only the light hiss of nighttime traffic in the distance. The air was cooled by the river. The coolness felt good on his face, eyes, and as he drew it into his throat. Although he’d been able to wash out all of the mace that woman had sprayed him with, a light burning remained.

His mind flashed to the front seat of the teacher’s car. She reminded him so much of Mrs. Reed, or what she would probably look like know. Sure, he hadn’t gotten the chance to fuck her -

Bitches ruin everything, don’t they?

— but he definitely laid the whammo on her, didn’t he? She got a good finger-banging first, then a good old fashioned beating. And if his eyes and throat hadn’t been burning like hellfire, he would have finished the job.

He smiled.

The park was nice for other reasons. People felt safe in this park. The wide paths and frequent lighting gave them a sense of security. Unarmed patrols of rent-a-cops bicycled through periodically, heightening that perception of safety.

But it was all an illusion.

No one was safe from him.

That made him smile even wider.

He’d been watching them pass by for over an hour now. Short, tall, fat, thin, beautiful, ugly. Didn’t matter. They were all bitches, every one of them.

Every womb of them.

He chuckled to himself, despite the burning anger in his chest. Was that really what he was doing? Showing every one of these bitches what he should have taught his mother instead? He would have, too, if she hadn’t been put in the ground by cancer before he got the chance.

How many of these surrogate sluts would it take before he could believe that his mother got the message? How long before she heard the news in hell?

He drew in another deep breath of the cool night air that was stroked by the river. Maybe it didn’t matter, he decided. Every time he did it, the pressure went away for a little while. Sure, it came back even stronger, but there was still some relief.

And there was something else. The first time, it was all about relief. But after that, he realized something was happening. Only a little at first, but it grew by leaps and bounds, until it was now even stronger than that pressure in his chest.

He liked it.

He liked the power. Their screams. The begging. He liked to inflict pain. To control the fate of the bitch in front of him.

It made him strong.

Important.

Hell, if he believed in God, he might even believe that he was one with God in those moments.

But since he knew there wasn’t a God, what did that make him in those moments?

His cheeks ached. He realized that he’d been smiling so hugely that the muscles in his face were fatigued. With purpose, he relaxed his face into what he hoped was an open expression. He pretended to stare out at the river while watching for women walking through the park.

But inside, he answered his own question.

It makes me a god.

The frequency of foot traffic had dwindled significantly since he first sat down. He’d seen a few candidates pass by, but none were quite right. There were a variety of reasons that might be. He was smart and not about to make a mistake that would allow the clueless police department to catch him. So if there were too many people around to see, he let the ones pass who were otherwise perfect. He let the ones with too much confidence pass on by, too. He’d learned from the teacher not to underestimate anyone.

The river flowed lazily in front of him. It had the help of a small dam at the west end of the park. In the distance, though, he could hear the rush of water. Most of the park was really an island, bordered on the north by the river in its true form, crashing over rocks with a powerful current. But the south side of the park enjoyed the quiet, slow roll of the part of the river controlled by man.

Eventually, though, after the waters passed the island park, they flowed back into one crushing current, tumbling over the rocks and headed toward a waterfall just before the Post Street Bridge.

He was like the river, wasn’t he? Some things nature controlled, some things he controlled. He could channel the river, his hatred. He could bottle it up and slow it down. Make it beautiful for others to see. But eventually, the fork in the river flowed together again. It always did.

He changed his thoughts, moving more toward the moment at hand. The park was good for other reasons, more practical ones. While there were several footbridges that provided access to the island, there were escape routes from every part of the park. All of the city streets that bordered the one hundred acres were arterials. They all had places to park a car. Bus stops were a dime a dozen. A man could slip out of the park and melt away into the city.

The light clacking of footsteps roused him from his philosophical contemplation. A short woman came into view on the other side of the river. Her quick steps brought her to the wide foot bridge and headed in his direction. She carried a folder of some kind under her arm. The footbridge was well lit, so he was able to see her conservative business attire easily.

Probably a secretary, he thought. Working very late. Maybe with the boss, the slut.

She continued north across the footbridge. He couldn’t see her features exactly at this distance, but as she drew nearer, he gave a small gasp.

Jenny.

His girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend, he reminded himself.

Dark anger rose up in his chest. Who did she think she was, anyway? Breaking up with him? Like she was something special. She was just another stupid, worthless bitch. Just like-

He glanced at her again.

It wasn’t Jenny. She was built the same, had the same hair, but it wasn’t her.

Still…

When she reached the end of the footbridge and turned his direction, he made his decision.

He rose from his seat and walked up the pathway eastbound, approaching the huge clock tower that reached upward into the night sky. At the clock tower, he could continue east or turn north. North led up a small rise and another path. East led to the Washington Street overpass about thirty yards farther on. Under the overpass was about fifteen yards of darkness.

He turned left and headed north, up the hill.

Trying not to appear like he was hurrying, he took long strides. His ears strained for the click-clack of her heels. He canted his head slightly and searched for her out of his peripheral vision.

She continued east.

Maybe she was headed toward the bus stop on Washington. A steep set of winding stairs led from the park path to the street above. He had marked that earlier as an excellent escape route. Now, it might just be her destination.

When he reached to top of the short hill, he turned east himself, following another path. His heart thudded in his ears. Excitement caused his fingers to tingle.

A slutty secretary. Or maybe some hoity-toity business bitch. Either way, he was going to lay the whammo on her. He was going to lay it on her so hard that Jenny would feel it wherever she was. And his mother was going to feel it from her ringside seat in hell.

As soon as he believed he was out of her line of sight, he sprinted. There was no overpass at the top of the hill because Washington became a three-block tunnel. He hurried east. Once he’d gone far enough that he was sure he’d passed over the tunnel below, he cut south through the low, trimmed bushes. He had to get to the east side of the overpass below before she did. That would be the best place.

The bushes became larger as he continued south. The neatly trimmed standard fell by the wayside, with chaotic natural growth taking its place. He scrambled through them and around a few trees. This would be a better place, but how was he supposed to get someone into this thicket? He could see the river below, but not the overpass yet.

She couldn’t have made it through yet, could she?

He looked further along the eastbound path below and saw no one.

She had to still be coming. Had to be.

He ducked beneath a tree limb and around a thick shrub. He was definitely on a downward slope now. The few trees gave way again, leaving only bushes in his way. He continued forward.

The steep set of stairs came into view, thirty or forty yards ahead, by his reckoning.

No sign of her.

He smiled. He was going to make it. He was going to peek around the corner into that dark underpass and see her shadowy form coming toward him. Her clicking heels would echo under there. He’d wait until she was three quarters of the way to him, then he’d charge her. One crack in the mouth and she’d be quiet. Then he’d push her face into the wall and nail her.

And then-

The natural growth gave way to manicured bushes again. Right at the edge of the bushes, his foot struck something heavy and he tumbled forward onto the grass with a grunt. He was able to get his hands out to break his fall. The damp grass was slippery enough to cause him to slide several feet.

“What the hell, dude?”

He looked up. A tall, thin young man sat near the edge of the bushes. The kid was a flurry of movement, which took him a moment to understand.

He was pulling on his pants.

The smaller, shadowy figure beside him drew the blanket up to cover herself.

“What’s your problem, perv?” she asked in a shrill voice.

“I’m gonna to kick your ass,” the young man said, kicking his feet through the bottom of his pants.

He sat still for a moment. Down below, he recognized the distant echo of clicking heels on asphalt.

The young man pulled the trousers over his hips.

“I’m just out for a jog,” he told the young man, disguising his voice slightly.

“Bullshit,” the kid said, scrambling to his feet.

“I was.”

“Bullshit. Who jogs through the bushes with all these open paths?”

“Yeah,” the girl said. “And at night? You asshole pervert.”

He looked down at the overpass. The secretary or whatever she was emerged from the underpass and started up the steep stairs. To safety.

Goddamn it.

He’d missed her.

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” the young man told him again.

He turned back toward the skinny little bastard, anger coursing through him. He stood up and growled, “You ruined everything.”

“I’m going to ruin your face, asshole.”

The young man stepped toward him confidently, his fists balled at his side.

The anger turned cold inside. He had to be smart. He didn’t need any attention.

The tension in the young man’s body was obvious, even in the moonlight. He bounced with every step he took forward.

He waited patiently for the punch to come.

When the young man loaded up his punch and prepared to throw it, he was ready. Hell, he could have been ready three times over, it took the kid so long.

The punch came and the kid’s whole body behind it. If it landed, he’d probably be knocked out. But it wasn’t going to land.

As the punch neared his head, he slipped to the side, ducking out of the way. The young man’s fist whipped past his ear, but did not connect. The forward momentum carried the young man past him, causing him to slip on the grass and tumbled several yards down the hillside.

He didn’t wait for the kid to recover. Like a jackrabbit, he bolted back up the hillside, cutting through the bushes and around the few trees. Behind him, he heard a shout, but he kept on. When he broke through the brush and onto the path, he turned sharply to his left. The path yawned out in front of him. He took off, running with long strides that ate up the ground.

Even with a head start, he wondered if the kid might catch him. He was tall and thin, so he was probably a good runner. Still, he had no shoes on. That’d slow him down, whether he chose to run barefoot or paused to pull on some shoes.

As he reached the bottom of the sloping hill, the path split into three directions. He glanced over his shoulder for anyone in pursuit. No one.

He cut to the right, making for the footbridge that led off the island and into the parking lot where his car was safely parked.

Even if the kid was still chasing him, he didn’t know which way was the right way to turn. And he had the girl to get back to.

To finish with.

Like he should have finished that office bitch.

He pushed the thought of failure out of his mind and kept a steady run. His throat still burned with the after-effect of the mace. It seemed like his own body was mocking him. Calling out to him.

You’re nothing.

You’re worthless.

You’re like your father.

He glanced over his shoulder again. Still no pursuit. Maybe he was away clean. He slowed to a loping jog. His breath rattled in his ears.

He was like his father, at least in one way.

He knew how to treat women.

His father may not have taught him anything else worth a damn, but he sure taught him that.

He taught him about the whammo.

He taught him plenty.

When he reached the edge of the bridge, he cast another backward glance. Nothing. He let himself fall back to a trot as he veered to the left. Ahead, the trail led to the parking lot where he’d left his car.

Frustration gnawed at him. The pressure in his chest made his hands tremble.

Bitches ruin everything.

He would have to hunt again another night.