Peggy Sue Got Murdered

14

They sat in the dining room, in chairs upholstered in green and yellow plaid. There was a bowl of plastic fruit on the table and on the wall hung a picture of a soulful young Elvis, gazing like some patron saint from an oil and canvas eternity. Lila lit a cigarette, blew out tendrils of smoke that wreathed her close-cropped hair.

"I was just a friend of hers," said Lila. "I mean, a good friend, but that's all. We used to hang out together, cruise the bars. You know, girl stuff." She flicked off an ash. "Then I got hitched, and we sort of drifted apart. I knew she was having a hard time of it. Kept trying to borrow money from me till I just didn't have any to give her. See, Peggy Sue, she liked to party, and she wasn't exactly responsible. Had this kid at home and she'd just go out and leave her."

"Is that Peggy Sue's child?" asked M. J., nodding toward the TV room.

"Yeah. That's Missy. Anyway, I got tired of Peggy Sue coming around for cash, so we had this falling out. It was her fault. I mean, she was working and all, but she just couldn't manage her wallet."

"She had a job?"

"She worked the phones in some boiler room. A company called Peabody or Peabrain, over on Radisson and Hobart. They do telemarketing. You know, sell Florida vacations to poor shmucks in Jersey. Easy work, sitting all day on your tush. It wasn't bad money, either. But Peggy Sue, she liked nice stuff. She couldn't keep any money in the bank."

"We never heard she had a job," said Adam.

Lila's brown eyes focused admiringly on Adam. Hitched or not, the woman still had an appreciation for the masculine form. She exhaled a lungful of smoke. "It was under the table. You know, no taxes, that kind of thing. Anyway, she quit about six months ago."

"Then how did she support herself?"

"Hell if I know." Lila laughed. "Girls like Peggy Sue, they survive. One way or another, they do okay. If they can't bum off friends, then they pick up cash somewhere else. Maybe she found herself a sugar daddy."

"She mention any names?" asked M. J.

"No. But I figure there must've been someone, 'cause she suddenly had money to burn. All she'd say was, she got lucky, that she was set up for life. I'd babysit Missy once in awhile, see, and Peggy Sue'd drop her off here. God, she'd come back high as a kite."

"You mean on drugs?"

"Oh, yeah. She liked a hit once in awhile. Not all the time. She wasn't that irresponsible."

"So this started when?" asked M. J. "The money, the drugs?"

"About six months ago."

"The same time she quit her job."

"Yeah. About."

"And then what happened?"

Lila shrugged. "She started getting… weird."

"How?"

"Looking over her shoulder. Closing all my curtains. I figured it was the drugs. You know, they make you a little crazy after a while. I tried talking to her about it, but all she'd say was, things were fine. Then, a couple of weeks ago, she dropped Missy off and told me to keep her for a while. Said she was gonna party seriously."

"Meaning?"

"Get high. She was going to try out some new stuff she'd bought off a kid in the neighborhood." Lila crushed out her cigarette butt. "And that was the last time I saw her."

"Why didn't you call the police?" asked Adam. "Report her missing?"

Lila paused and looked away. "I didn't want to get involved."

There's more to it than that , thought M. J., watching the woman's eyes, noting how she looked everywhere but at them.

"Why are you afraid of the police?" asked M. J.

"Get busted a few times," Lila muttered, "and you wouldn't be a fan either."

"No, you're actually afraid of them."

Lila looked up at M. J. "So was she. The last thing she says to me-the last time I saw her-she tells me, any cop comes around, it was real important I play stupid. Tell 'em the kid's mine and I don't know any Peggy Sue. She says I could get hurt if I start blabbing. That's why you scared me, at the cemetery. I thought maybe you were one of them."

In the next room, Missy was flipping channels. They could hear the clack-clack of the dial, the intermittent blasts of music.

"What about Missy?" Adam asked. "What happens to her now?"

Lila thought about it for a moment. "I guess she'll stay with me." She sighed. "I sort of like the kid. And my old man, he doesn't mind." Lila gave a shrug and lit up another cigarette. "After all," she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke, "where else is the kid gonna go?"

"So Peggy Sue Barnett turns out to be a major screwball," said M. J. as she drove north on Sussex.

"You almost sound disappointed."

"I don't know why. I guess I kept thinking of her as a victim. And I felt sorry for her. No one at the burial, no one even asking about her. A sort of… lost soul." She sighed. "Maybe I identified with her."

"You're not a lost soul. You never were."

She glanced at him, saw he was watching her with that penetrating gaze of his. Quickly she looked back at the road. "Oh yeah, I'm tough," she said with a laugh. "No chinks in my armor."

"I didn't say you were invulnerable."

One look at you, and I know just how vulnerable I am , she thought. The old temptation was back, to give it a chance, to let this relationship take root. She was feeling brave and scared at the same time, one minute certain it would work, the next minute just as certain it would be a disaster. This was someone she could love far too much, and for that sin of recklessness, there was a special place reserved in hell. Or heaven.

She concentrated on her driving, navigating the stop-and-go traffic along Sussex.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Just a detour. To Bellemeade."

"Why?"

"I have this hunch. Something that might pull together some loose ends."

"And which of the dozen-plus loose ends are we talking about?"

"Nicos Biagi."

She turned onto Flashner Boulevard. A half mile up, they came to the intersection of Flashner and Grove. On one corner stood La Roma Arms, a white stucco apartment building with wrought-iron verandas. From its name, M. J. assumed it was designed to resemble an Italian villa; it looked more like a crumbling version of the Alamo. She pulled into the Roma driveway and parked next to the pool area. The pool itself was empty, and a sign was posted on the fence: Temporarily closed for maintenance. About two years' worth of dead leaves were rotting at the bottom.

"Peggy Sue's apartment?" asked Adam.

"This is it. Flashner and Grove."

"Why are we here?"

"I just wanted to take a look at the neighborhood."

She glanced up and down the street, her gaze tracing Grove Avenue. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"The Big E Supermarket." She pointed up the street to the grocery store, looming at the next corner. "Only a block away."

"The Big E," muttered Adam, frowning. "Isn't that where Nicos Biagi worked? As a stock boy?"

"You got it. A convenient location, wouldn't you say? All Peggy Sue had to do was walk down to the Big E, pick up her purchase, and she's ready to party. And Nicos goes home with a nice delivery fee. And his own private sample of the drug."

"Which kills all of them."

"But see, that's the part that doesn't add up," she said. "Business-wise, I mean. Here you've got a new drug that could make you millions on the street. What supplier would hand out a poisonously pure sample, thereby killing off his market?"

"A supplier who's out to kill one buyer in particular," said Adam. "Peggy Sue Barnett."

"But why Peggy Sue?" M. J. frowned, trying to pull the pieces together. She knew Peggy Sue was a party girl, a flake. A loser on a permanent downhill slide. Then, six months ago, her fortunes had changed. Suddenly she had money to burn. She'd quit her job and embarked on a spree of spending and partying. Was there a sugar daddy, as Lila had suspected? Or some new job with high rewards- and high risks?

"We're missing something entirely," said Adam. "Where did all her money come from? She was getting a steady supply of cash from somewhere. And that was after she quit her job…"

M. J. suddenly popped the car into gear. "That's our next stop. Radisson and Hobart."

"What, her old job?"

M. J. grinned at him. "Your synapses are finally catching up."

"Whatever happened to solving crimes the old-fashioned way? Letting the police do it?"

"Under normal circumstances, yeah. I'd take the lazy gal's way out and dump this mess in their laps."

"Under normal circumstances?"

"When alarm bells aren't going off in my head. But I'm hearing enough bells to give me a splitting headache. First, Maeve swears it's the city elite that's killing off junkies-meaning, the authorities. Then we hear Peggy Sue was afraid of the cops. So afraid, in fact, that she hid her kid from them, and told the babysitter Lila to play dumb. And finally, there's Esterhaus. Okay, so maybe he did steal the Zestron and have it delivered to Peggy Sue. But why? Who could've pushed him into it?"

"Someone who knew about his old connections with the mob. And could blackmail him."

M. J. nodded. "The authorities."

"Good Lord." Adam sat back, shaken by the thought. "A revolutionary method to mop up crime."

"I'm not going to jump to conclusions here. Let's just say I'm not quite ready to take this to the cops."

It was a good twenty-minute drive to the Watertown District. Along the way, they stopped at a phone booth to check the yellow pages. There was no listing for Peabody under Telemarketing. In fact, there were no ps listed at all. Directory Assistance likewise came up with a blank.

They drove on anyway, to Watertown.

It was a section of the city M. J. seldom had reason to visit. Situated at the southeast corner of Albion, it had evolved over a half century from a thriving port to a malodorous district of fish processing plants, decaying piers, and ramshackle warehouses. At least there was still evidence of economic life in the neighborhood, mostly dockside bars and army surplus outlets. In fact, standing at the intersection of Radisson and Hobart, M. J. could spot three surplus stores. Across the street, a sign hung in the window: Guns and ammo-for the sake of those you love. The Atlantic Ocean was only a block away, but the sea wind couldn't wash the smells of diesel and processed fish from the air.

The name of the company, it turned out, was Piedmont, not Peabody. They had to ask at a corner bar to find it, as the name itself appeared on none of the buildings. The company occupied a third-floor office in the Manzo Building on Hobart Street. The sign on the door said simply: Piedmont. From the room inside came the whine of a printer.

They knocked.

"Yeah, who is it?" a man called.

M. J. hesitated and then said, "We're friends of Peggy Sue Barnett."

An instant later the door opened and a man appeared, looking cross. "Where the hell has she been?" he demanded.

"Maybe we can we talk about it?" said M. J.

The man waved them inside, then shoved the door shut. It was a dismal office, if one could even call it that. Bare walls, a steel desk. In the corner sat a computer, its printer spewing out a list of names and telephone numbers. Another doorway led to an adjoining room, equally dismal.

"So what's the story, huh?" said the man. "She wanna come back to work or something? Well, you can tell her, forget it. And by the way, she still owes me."

"For what?" asked M. J.

"Two weeks' salary. I give her an advance, and she skips out."

"Excuse me, Mr…"

"Rick. Just Rick."

"Rick. I guess you haven't heard. Peggy Sue Barnett's dead."

He stared at her, looked at Adam, then back at her. "Aw, Christ. Now I'll never get the three hundred back." The phone rang. He went over to the desk, picked up the receiver, and slammed it down again. "That's what I get for being Mr. Nice Guy."

"You're not the least bit interested in how she died?" said Adam with undisguised disgust.

"Okay," Rick sighed. "How'd the bitch'die?"

"A drug overdose."

"I'm real surprised." Rick dropped into a chair and looked at them with utter disinterest. "So why're you here? She leave me something in her will?"

"Rick, my friend," said M. J., pulling up a chair. "We have to talk. I'm from the medical examiner, see, and I have to ask you some questions."

"You and what cop?"

"Take your pick. There's my buddy in Homicide, Lieutenant Beamis. Or maybe you'd like to meet the guys in Fraud. They'd probably like to meet you." She glanced around the office. "What is it you sell here, by the way? Bargain vacations?"

Rick sank, glowering, into his chair.

"We're in the right mood now, are we?" said M. J.

"I don't know nothing."

"Peggy Sue quit her job six months ago. Is that right?"

Rick grunted, a sound M. J. took to be a yes.

"Why did she quit?"

Another grunt, coupled with a sullen shrug. Communication worthy of a caveman.

"Was she mad about something?" asked Adam. "Did she give you a reason?"

Maybe it was the fact a man was now asking the questions; Rick finally decided to answer. "She didn't tell me anything. She just walked off the job. Called a few days later to say she wasn't coming back. She had something better going."

"Another job?"

"Who knows? The bitch was flaky, you know? One minute she's at her desk, working the phone. Then I get back from lunch and there's a note on the door sayin' she's outta here. No explanation, just-poof! Here I am, paying rent on two rooms, and I can't get anyone to man the other desk."

"She had her own office?" said Adam.

"That room over there." He pointed to a doorway. "Her own private space. Didn't appreciate it none."

"May we see the office?" asked Adam.

"Go ahead. Won't tell ya nothin'."

The adjoining room was like the first, but without a computer. There was a window that looked down on a grim back-alley view of broken glass, trash cans.

Adam opened and closed a desk drawer. "Not much in here," he said.

"She took it all with her," said Rick. "Even the pencils. My pencils."

"No papers, no notes." Adam pulled out the last drawer. "Nothing." He shut it.

"See?" said Rick. "I told ya there wasn't anything to look at. Just a desk and a telephone." He glanced at M. J., who was gazing down at the alley. "And a window," Rick pointed out. "I was generous. I let her have the view."

"And a lovely view it is," said M. J. dryly.

"Okay, so it's not the seaside. But it faces south and you get some sun. And Bolton's a quiet street so you don't get blasted away by traffic noise."

"Well," said Adam. "I guess there's not much more to see in here."

"That's what I said. You satisfied now?"

M. J. was still gazing out the window. In the alley below, a man appeared, lugging a trash bag. He dumped it in a can, slammed down the lid, and retreated back up the alley. Something was still bothering her. It had to do with this window, with Peggy Sue Barnett and the reason she'd left her job so abruptly six months ago.

She turned to Rick. "Did you say that was Bolton Street out there?"

"Yeah. Alley comes off it."

"What are the nearest cross streets?"

"To Bolton?" Rick shrugged. "Radisson's to the east. And west, that'd be, uh…"

"Swarthmore," said M. J. softly. It came to her like a lightning flash of memory: the name of the street. Its significance.

Bolton and Swarthmore. That's where my partner went down. Drug bust went sour, got boxed in a blind alley…

M. J. swung around to look at Adam. "My God, that's it. That has to be it!"

Adam shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

"There was a cop killed there! In that alley!" She glanced at Rick. "When did Peggy Sue quit her job?"

"I told ya. Six months ago-"

"I need the exact date!"

Rick went into the front office, pulled out a ledger book. "Let's see. Last call she logged was October second."

"I have to use your phone," snapped M. J., grabbing the receiver.

"Hey, no long distance."

"Don't worry, it's a local call."

Adam was shaking his head, trying to catch up with her leaps of logic. "A dead cop? How does that fit in?"

"It was blackmail," she said, punching in the phone number. "That's where Peggy Sue's money was coming from. She saw a cop get killed in that alley. And she was squeezing the killer for cash…"

"Until he refused to be squeezed any longer," Adam finished for her.

"Right. So he arranges to have a little poison slipped her way. Courtesy of the local drug dealer, Nicos… Hello? Ed?"

The voice on the other end of the line sounded harassed, "M. J.? I'll call you back, I'm already late-"

"Ed, one question. That cop, Ben Fuller. The one who arrested Esterhaus. Where was he killed?"

"Somewhere out in Watertown."

"The date?"

"That's two questions."

"The date, Ed!"

"I don't know. October sometime. Look, the parade starts in twenty minutes and I gotta get out to the limo-"

"Was it October second, Ed?"

A pause. "Could've been."

"I want you to find out one more thing."

"Now what?"

"The name of Ben Fuller's partner."

"I'd have to check-"

"Then do it."

"Yes, ma'am!" growled Ed and hung up.

She looked at Adam. "It was Ben Fuller who died in that alley. The police called it a drug bust gone sour. I think he was murdered. By another cop."

They stared at each other, both of them shaken by their conclusions. By what they had to do next.

Adam took her arm. "Let's go. We're taking this straight to the police commisioner."

"He'll be in the parade. So will everyone else."

"Then we head for City Hall. The sooner we unload this bomb, the sooner we can stop watching our backs."

"You think he knows we're on to him?"

"Are you kidding? Ed's probably griping to everyone in earshot about his ex-wife and her wild theories. The word'll be out."

"Hey!" called Rick, as they headed out the door. "What's all this with the cops? Am I gonna have trouble?"

"Not to worry," said Adam. "You, Rick, are of absolutely no interest to anyone."

"Oh. Well, that's good," said Rick.

They left the office and headed down the stairs. Their descent had suddenly taken on the panic of flight. We know too much, M. J. thought. And it could get us killed .

By the time they reached the ground floor, her hand was sweaty against the banister. They emerged from the building, into the gloom of an impending storm. From the Atlantic, black clouds were roiling in, and the very air smelled of brine and violence.

Adam glanced up and down Bolton Street, his gaze quickly surveying the shabby buildings, the windblown sidewalks. Across the street, a man emerged from a bar, hugged his coat, and trudged away. At the intersection, a car stood idling, music booming from its radio. So far there was no sign of danger. Still, she was glad when Adam reached for her hand; the warmth of his grasp was enough to steady her nerves.

They started up the street. Her car was right around the corner, on Radisson. As they reached it, the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall.

M. J. pulled out her keys; Adam reached over and took them out of her hand. "I'll drive," he said. "You look shaken up."

Their gazes met. She was shaken up, and there he was, to steady her. Unlike any man she'd ever known.

She nodded. "Thanks."

He unlocked the passenger door and helped her in. Then he circled around and slid into the driver's seat, bringing in with him the comforting scents of damp wool, of skin-warmed after-shave. He pulled the door shut. "We'll get this over with," he said, "and then I'm taking you home."

She looked at him. "I think I'd like that," she said softly. "I'd like that very much."

They smiled at each other. He reached down to put the key in the ignition. Her gaze was still focused on his face. Only vaguely did she register the shadow moving alongside the car, closing in on her window. She glanced to her right just as the door was yanked open.

A blast of chilly air swept across her face; colder still was the icy gun barrel pressed against her temple.

M. J. jerked taut. "No! Vince-"

"Not a muscle," growled Shradick. "Got that, Quantrell?"

Adam sat frozen behind the wheel, his gaze locked on M. J. "Don't," he said, panic seeping into his voice. "Don't hurt her."

"Into the back seat," Shradick ordered. "Move it, Novak."

On wobbly legs, M. J. stepped out of the car and climbed through the rear door into the back seat. Shradick slid in beside her and slammed the door shut. The gun barrel was still pressed to her head.

"Okay," said Shradick. "Drive."

Adam turned to look at them. "Leave her alone! There's no reason for this-"

"She knows. So do you."

"So does the DA!"

"He doesn't know crap. Far as he's concerned, it's a nuisance case. And his ex-wife's a pain." Shradick clicked back the gun hammer. "Which she is."

"No!" cried Adam. "Please-"

"Then drive."

"Where?"

"Up Radisson."

Adam threw M. J. a desperate look. He had no choice. Then he turned and started the engine. As they pulled into traffic, she could see his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. There was nothing he could do; one false move and Shradick would blow her away.

She said, "They'll figure it out, Vince. Ed knows you were Ben Fuller's partner. He's already wondering what really happened to Fuller. How could you do it to your own partner?"

"He wasn't a good sport."

"Meaning what? He wouldn't play along? Wouldn't take the payoffs?"

"Goddamn Boy Scout. God, honor, country. That stuff doesn't pay the bills. Ben and I, we just never came to an understanding. No common ground, see."

"Not like you and Peggy Sue Barnett," said Adam.

"Hey, Peggy Sue, I could sorta understand. Bitch saw an opportunity, she grabbed it. Trouble is, she started getting greedy. More money, always more."

"So you had Esterhaus pass along some poison. Something you thought couldn't be identified," said Adam.

Shradick gave a grunt of surprise. "He talked?"

"He didn't have to," said M. J. "We knew about his arrest. You were Fuller's partner at the time, weren't you? You would've heard all about Esterhaus. And his troubles."

"Yeah. Those Miami boys." Shradick laughed. "He was scared to death of them."

"So you two cut a deal. He got you the drug. And you didn't call Miami."

"Hey, it worked."

"Except for one detail, Vince. Zestron-L killed a few too many victims. One body, the ME might overlook. But four? That was a trend."

They pulled to a stop at a red light. Shradick glanced at the street sign. "Turn right," he said.

"Where are we going?" asked Adam.

"The docks."

Adam flashed M. J. a backward glance. Keep your cool, it said. I'll get us out of this somehow .

He turned right.

Three blocks east took them to the wharf. The rainswept docks were deserted. A series of piers jutted out, most of them long since abandoned to disuse. A single fishing trawler rocked in the gray water, straining at its moorings.

"That warehouse up ahead," said Shradick. "Drive there."

"The pier won't hold the weight," said Adam.

"Yes it will. Go."

Adam pulled off the pavement and slowly guided the car onto the pier. They could hear the wood creak under the weight, could feel the thump of the tires over the boards. At the warehouse entrance, they rolled to a stop.

"Okay," said Shradick. "Out of the car."

M. J. stepped out. The wind whipped her hair and lashed her face with sea spray. She stood with the gun shoved against her back, her heart pounding.

"Quantrell! Open the warehouse door," ordered Shradick.

"Two more murders," said Adam. "What's it going to get you, Vince?"

"My freedom, maybe? Open the door."

Adam reluctantly set his shoulder against the sliding panel. "You killed Fuller," he grunted, pushing against the door. "And Esterhaus. And Peggy Sue Barnett." Slowly the panel slid open, revealing a seemingly impenetrable darkness. "Where's it going to end?"

"With you two." Shradick waved the gun. "Inside."

There was no arguing with a bullet. They stepped out of the wind's assault, into the gloom. The darkness smelled of dust and sea rot.

"Beamis will figure it out," said Adam. "He'll find us-"

"Not for a while. See, this particular warehouse belongs to Vito Scalisi. And his sentence runs till 2003. By the time they open the building again, the rats'll have taken care of things. If you catch my drift."

Meaning our bodies , thought M. J. with a rush of nausea. Quickly she glanced around and saw, through the shadows, a jumble of old crates, wooden pallets. Overhead, ropes dangled from a catwalk. And high above, rainwater dripped steadily through a hole in the roof. There were no other exits, no way out.

Adam was still trying to buy time. "People saw you at the burial, Vince-"

"I was there in the line of duty."

"They saw us, too! They'll put it together-know you followed us-"

"Me? I went home to bed. This damn virus, you see." He raised his gun. "Both of you, against the wall. Don't want to have to drag you. Not with my bad back."

Adam moved close to M. J. and wrapped his arms around her. She felt his breath warm her hair, felt his lips brush the top of her head. "Get ready," he whispered. "When I move, you run."

In bewilderment she stared up at him, and saw the unbending command in his gaze: Don't argue. Just do it.

"Skip the tender farewells, okay?" barked Shradick. "Against the wall."

There are so many things I want to tell you , she thought, still gazing up at Adam. And now I'll never have the chance.

He pressed one last kiss to her forehead. Then, with a nudge, he pushed her away, placing himself between her and Shradick. Calmly, he turned to face the gun.

"You know, Vince," said Adam. "You've neglected a few vital details. The car, for instance."

"Getting rid of the car's easy."

"I'm talking about my car." Adam took a step forward, so small it was scarcely noticeable. "An abandoned Volvo at the cemetery…" He took another step toward Shradick. Toward the gun. "It'll raise a lot of questions."

"I can take care of that, too."

"And then there's the matter of Peggy Sue Barnett's boyfriend."

"What?"

"You think she kept her little gold mine a secret?" Another step. "You think he didn't ask where all her drugs, all her cash, was coming from?"

Shradick was poised on the verge of finishing off the whole bloody business, but new doubts had been stirred. His hand wavered, the gun barrel dropping a fraction of an inch.

Adam was still ten feet away, too far to make his move. But he might not get a better chance.

M. J., standing behind Adam, could almost sense the tensing of his muscles, the last coiling up before the spring. Dear God, he's going to do it.

Adam's body would take the first bullet, and probably the second as well. By that time she could be on Shradick. It was a last-chance gamble, one they were almost certain to lose, but the alternative was to go down like sheep in a slaughterhouse.

She leaned forward, poised like a sprinter on the balls of her feet, waiting for Adam's move. Any second now…

The piercing beeps of Shradick's pocket pager suddenly seemed to trap them in an instant's freeze-frame. Pure force of habit made Shradick glance down at the pager looped to his belt. In that split second of inattention, Adam sprang.

He was halfway to Shradick when the first shot exploded. The thud of the bullet into his flesh scarcely slowed his momentum. Before Shradick could even squeeze off a second shot, Adam hurtled against him. Both men toppled to the ground.

M. J. scrambled forward to help, but the men were rolling over and over in a confusing tangle of limbs, grappling for the gun. Another shot went off, this one wild-the bullet whistled past M. J.'s cheek. Adam's hand shot out to grab Shradick's wrist. He managed to grunt out: "Run!" before Shradick, roaring like a bull, flung Adam aside.

M. J. attacked, clawing for the gun, but Shradick had too firm a grip. Enraged, he swung at her, his fist slamming into her jaw. The blow sent her flying. She tumbled across the floor to land in a pile of damp burlap. Through eyes half blinded by pain, she saw Shradick turn and walk over to look at Adam, who now lay motionless.

He's dead , she thought. Dear God, he's dead. Fueled by grief, by rage, she staggered to her feet. Even as blackness gathered before her eyes, she struggled desperately toward the warehouse door, toward the far-off rectangle of daylight.

Just as she reached the doorway, Shradick turned to her, raised his gun, and fired.

The bullet splintered the frame, and fragments of wood stung her cheek. She flung herself through the doorway, into the driving wind.

With Shradick right behind her, a few seconds' head start was all she had. Still dizzy from the blow, she was moving like a drunken woman. The car was parked a few feet ahead. Beyond it stretched the pier, barren of any cover. Running was futile. It would be a single shot, straight into her back.

No escape, she thought. I can't even see straight.

Just as Shradick came tearing out of the warehouse, M. J. ducked around the rear of the car. He fired; the bullet pinged off the rear fender. M. J. scurried alongside the car and yanked the passenger door open. One glance told her the keys weren't in the ignition. No escape in there, either-the car would be a trap.

Shradick was moving in for the kill.

She heard the creak of the planks as he moved along the other side of the car, circling to the rear. Ahead there was only the warehouse, another dead end.

She took a deep breath, pivoted away from the car, and leaped off the pier.