The Blue Hour

Forty-Four

The trail led through the tall bamboo and she could only see him in flashes, out ahead, in the small clearings, looking back over his shoulder before vanishing back into the pale yellow thickness. Cats slithered through the stalks. In an opening she leapt over a small campfire surrounded by three stupefied men in rags who just stared at her, mouths hung in dirty beards, wordless as she flew past.

She wasn’t fully aware of how she had gotten here. The haze of the chloroform hadn’t fully cleared when she saw Hess, tried to warn him off, heard the shots boom, then saw the sunshine flood through the door as Colesceau made his escape.

Her instincts had made her pull on her clothes and take Hess’s backup gun, upend her purse, then stumble into the bright summer morning. She saw Hess lumbering down the alley and the Purse Snatcher skittering out ahead. And she willed her legs to carry her where she needed to go. While she ran she tore the tape from around her face, unreeling it in big rasping circles that left her skin burning but free.

Now she was deep in the thicket and Colesceau was thirty yards away. She felt the air piercing deep into her lungs and every step seemed to push more of the poisonous gas out of her. If he stopped and hid and waited, he could shoot her on her way by. She knew this and tried to watch the bamboo in font. And every time she saw him she thought of Hess and dug deeper and tried to close the distance. He looked wobbly. She wished she had her nine.

Colesceau heaved himself toward the trail. He wasn’t sure if his hormone-depleted legs could carry him much further and he knew the jungle would give way to the wide, dry riverbed soon and when it did he’d be out of cover. Then he’d have to start shooting. He had the fancy police gun but really no skill with it at all. His shot at the old bastard was pure luck, but from the whap sound of it, he’d hit him good.

The vest was heavy as steel around his chest and it pressed tightly against his breasts. But it had saved him from the ugly Hess. Now he wished he could just shed it and gain a little speed. He looked back again and saw Merci twisting her way through the towering bamboo. She was gaining fast and he knew how determined an angry woman could be. And weren’t they always angry about something?

So close, he thought, so close to getting what I wanted. Another ten seconds and he’d have had that carotid hooked and out and cut, and the insertion tube in place and the Porti-Boy churning and Merci Rayborn would be immortal right now. But the second he heard the car pull up outside, then heard someone trying at the doors, he knew it was the old man who was her partner. The tank captain. It made better sense to get on the vest and slaughter Hess than it did to start the preservation. Then he’d have had almost an hour before Pratt and Lydia and Garry arrived. Seconds, he thought. Just seconds from giving her all the fluids necessary for eternity.

He thought of his mother and how free and light he’d felt when he was done. Why had he waited so long? He thought of Trudy Powers and how satisfying it was to see her face when Stork went down. He thought of Lael and Janet and Ronnie and how liberating it was to be rid of them, their demands, their petty games, their selfish power.

Through the thicket ahead he could see the sandy expanse of the riverbed and he knew it was time to make his move. Rounding the next curve in the trail he saw a small pocket of space in the stalks. He stopped, turned and ran back to it. He got there and backed in and with both hands raised the big automatic up to his chest.

When he glanced down at the barrel it was like staring into a big dark pit.

Merci saw the riverbed through the bamboo and she went fast into the curve. She looked far up the trail before her and saw nothing. She looked right out in front of her and saw an elbow tip protruding from the foliage.

She slid like a base runner. Feet out in front, plowing her boots into the mulch. Made sure she had the .32 ready, left arm up to protect her face. The momentum of her body brought her upright, three feet from the blond man hiding in the stalks.

She fired twice and he flinched.

My body armor.

He pointed something at her.

She shot a snap kick, standard academy issue, not pretty but her boot caught his wrist and the gun barrel jumped. She ducked, dropped Hess’s gun, then came up fast and with both hands swept the stiletto across the top of the vest. A hiss. Colesceau’s eyes went wide. His head tilted back, and a gap yawning open under his chin. She changed her grip on the knife and brought it back higher, point first, planting it hard in his temple. She let go and brought both her fists down on his hands. The H&K went off with a crack and flew onto the trail. Colesceau sank to his knees, hands at his neck.

He looked up at her with eyes that seemed sad. The wig had slid up on his head.

“Tha... you,” he gurgled.

“You’re welcome,” she answered. She could barely hear her own voice, though the world was silent.

Colesceau looked down toward the H&K so she kicked him in the forehead and he went over backward.

She got her gun and stood over him with the barrel pointed down.

“Tha... oo.”

“You’re welcome.”

She pulled the trigger and his face jerked and his skull lost its shape but his eyes were still on her.

“Tha...”

She heard the half syllable and she shot him again.

Hess was sitting on a bench by the roses when she got back to him. His hat was on his lap and his head hung comfortably like a man in siesta. She saw the red all over his shirt and the little shiny puddle of it under the bench.

She knelt down in front of him. He was looking down toward the ground. His expression was hopeful and gentle and he was seeing nothing. The lines of his face had softened and he looked like he did that night when he fell asleep in the chair by the window and she had wanted so badly to touch his hair.

Merci touched his cheek. Then she saw motion to her left and she stood. A man was coming her way with a blanket in his arms. She recognized him as the same man she’d run past a few minutes ago, but then he’d been carrying a flat of flowers.

He stopped when he saw her, a large woman with blood on her and a big gun in her hand.

“He’s a detective,” said the nurseryman. “No one is going to remember him. He saved three lives.”

She looked at him. “It was four and you don’t know squat. Give me that blanket. Please.”