“I don’t know. I swear.”
“Where’s Dendoncker?”
“Don’t know.”
“Then where were you supposed to take me?”
“To the house. That’s all I was told to do.”
“Address?”
“I don’t know the address. It’s just ‘the house.’ That’s what we call it.”
“So you get me to this house. Then what?”
“I send a text. Someone will come for you.”
“This house. Is it far?”
“No.”
“In the town?”
“Yes.”
“OK. You can show me. We’ll go there together. Then you can send that text.”
Chapter 19
I heard a sound. From farther up the street. A vehicle engine. I looked around and saw a car moving toward us. Not fast. Not slow. Just cruising around. Looking for trouble. It was a Dodge Charger. Its hood and fender were black. It had a bullbar on the front and a slimline lighting rig on the roof. Clearly the police. Probably local. Possibly state. Either way, their timing sucked.
I let go of the guy’s neck, dropped my arm into my lap, and made my hand into a fist. “Make any kind of a move…”
“Don’t worry.” The guy pulled a road atlas out of the gap next to his seat. He opened it wide and held it up so that it covered his face. “From fry pan to fire? I’m not stupid.”
The police car drew closer. It slowed down. Came alongside us. And stopped. Two cops were inside it. They weren’t looking at me. Or the guy with the bleeding mouth. Yet. They seemed more interested in the Chevy. They weren’t young. They might have had a vehicle like it, once. Maybe even that actual one. Cops used to say the Caprice was the best patrol car ever. Maybe they were nostalgic. Maybe they were bored. I just hoped they weren’t suspicious. They sat and stared for a minute. Two. Then the driver lit up their roof bar and sped away into the distance.
I reached for the guy’s neck. He closed the atlas. Raised it. He had both his hands behind it. The cover was shiny. It was slippery. My hand slid off its surface. I wound up grabbing his shoulder. He jabbed at my eye with the corner of the map, then wriggled free. He scrabbled for the handle. Got the door open. Dived out. Rolled over on the sidewalk then scrambled up and started to run.
I jumped out and followed him. The guy was fast. He was well motivated. I’d made sure of that. The gap between us was growing. He reached a cluster of buildings. Another courtyard arrangement. The windows facing the street were all boarded up. The guy should have kept on running. I would never have caught him. And I couldn’t have risked a shot. Not in a residential area. But he didn’t keep going. The lure of potential cover was too strong. He bolted through the archway. And disappeared.
I covered the remaining ground as fast as possible and stopped just before the entrance. I didn’t want to risk presenting a silhouette. He could have had a backup weapon. I crouched and peered around the corner. I saw a bunch of disparate buildings like the ones that had been made into Fenton’s hotel. Only these had two stories. They were joined together and boarded up with solid wooden panels, like a fence. There was a scaffold tower in each corner, leading to the roof. The process of conversion was under way. But there was no buzz of activity. No sound at all. The work had stalled. Maybe it had been abandoned altogether. Maybe the market had crashed. Maybe tastes had changed. I had no idea how the economics for that kind of development worked.
I craned my neck a little farther and I spotted the guy. He was standing alone in the center of the courtyard, just looking around. I guess the place was not what he had hoped for. There was no way out. And nowhere to hide. He moved a couple of feet to the left, then to the right, like he couldn’t decide which way to go. I straightened up and stepped through the arch. He heard me and turned around. His face was pale and the blood from his mouth was flowing faster. The price of exertion, I guess.
“Do what I tell you and you won’t get hurt.” I kept my voice calm and even.
The guy took one step toward me then stopped. His eyes were flicking from me to the arch, back and forth, over and over. He was figuring the distance. The angles. Weighing the odds of getting past me. Then he turned. He ran for the scaffold tower on the right. He started to climb. There was no way I was going to follow him up. He was lighter. Far more nimble. He would reach the top long before me. There was no doubt about that. So I would emerge with my head exposed and no way to defend myself. He could have a weapon already. He could find something to use as one. A scaffolding pole. A hunk of masonry. A roof tile. Or he could just keep things simple and kick me.