Fear

SEVENTEEN

Miles, coming out of Joy’s office up on the second floor, saw the man, saw him flip the sign and lock the door, and thought: He’s here for me. He took four silent steps back from the railing, ducking behind a sculpture of a crouching cougar and wondering if this was the man who had chased him from Allison’s apartment. The shooter.

Then the man spoke to Joy and Cinco, asking for him by name, and Miles was sure.

He had no weapon, but he grabbed a small sculpture – an iron figure of a Sioux warrior. The rider rose high above the horse, a spear thrusting forward, and Miles decided he’d hit the shooter in the temple, where the bone and flesh were weakest. He couldn’t let the man hurt Joy and Cinco.

But then, God bless Joy, who said he wasn’t there. Cinco played along. Miles listened to the conversation, heard her parry with and then lie to the guy. Then he crept back to the office, thinking, He won’t kill anyone if he thinks they’re on the phone. So he lifted the handset, punched in the extension for Joy’s desk, heard it give off its internal buzz; Joy, smart, acted as if she’d gotten an outside call and Miles said to her, ‘Get busy, he’ll leave.’

Then a rattling on the door, and he heard the footsteps of the shooter leaving, heard him offer a polite excuse-me to a customer at the door.

He counted to ten, started down the stairs. Joy rushed past two women, possibly ignoring a buyer for the first time in her life.

‘Who was that?’ she said.

‘You lied to him,’ Miles said in surprise.

‘I didn’t like him. The sunglasses, the way he asked for you. I know trouble when I see it. You don’t do sales. So I knew he was lying.’ She grabbed his arm, hurried him to the back, told Cinco to go deal with the browsers. She slammed the door behind her. ‘Could a bad guy from your old life be hunting you?’

He knew she meant the Barradas but it was easier not to explain. ‘Yes. Listen to me. Close the gallery right now. Leave. In case he comes back at six. And I’ll make sure he leaves you alone.’

‘I’ll take you wherever you want to go.’

‘No. I’m not involving you further. Just go. Now.’ His face burned. ‘Thanks, Joy, for being my friend, you don’t know how much you and this job meant to me. Don’t tell Cinco about me, okay?’

‘I’ll make up a good story.’ Tears in her eyes, she tiptoed up and kissed his cheek. Then she opened the door, announced to Cinco and the ladies that they were closing immediately, nicely shepherded the two women out of the door, told Cinco to go home.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Cinco demanded.

‘Get your mother home,’ Miles said. ‘Now.’

‘Would you please tell me why we’re all panicking?’ Cinco asked.

‘Michael, let us give you a ride…’

‘No. Go, Joy, please.’

Joy squeezed his hand and then she hurried Cinco to her car. They drove off in a peal of tire.

The shooter knew his name. Andy, seated on Cinco’s desk, said, ‘Game’s over, Miles.’

Miles ignored him, grabbed a University of New Mexico Lobos baseball cap from Cinco’s desk, pulled it low on his face, and then ran around to the back of the building. He needed to get back to his hotel. The gallery next door was owned by three potters – and he remembered that one always biked to work. He’d call her and tell her where the bike was later. He still had his lockpicks in his pocket and he worked the bike lock open in ten seconds.

‘Reduced to being a bicycle thief,’ Andy said. ‘Shame on you.’

Miles jumped on the bicycle, awkwardly – he hadn’t ridden one in ten years – found his rhythm, then sped around the building’s corner, out onto the lot, onto Canyon Road.

And saw the shooter behind the wheel of a car, heading back up Canyon, veering straight toward him in a scream of rubber.