go?”
Grayson banged out the door.
“Christ, the guy ran right over me,” the rookie said. “I never saw him coming. He pushed me over with one hand!”
“Where’d he go?” I demanded.
“Toward Josephine.”
“All the way through to the street?” Grayson asked. Lopez and Raksen rushed out the door.
The rookie thought a moment. “Footsteps sounded like it.”
I ran for the street, as Grayson spewed orders—he had access to the walkie-talkie and the car radios; he would coordinate the search till the sector sergeant arrived. I had only a beeper, useless in a chase. Grayson yelled for the rookie to check Rue Driscoll’s and the yard opposite, Lopez to guard the restaurant, and Raksen to get back to work. A light went on upstairs in Rue Driscoll’s bedroom.
At Josephine I stopped, gritting my teeth against the pain in my back, and waited for Grayson. The house on the right was dark. Cars lined the curb. Yankowski could be crouched behind any of them. There was no sign of life across the street, no porch lights, no lights in bedroom windows. The people who slept there were too far away to hear Grayson on the radio telling the dispatcher to pull down the units from the north hills.
Through the thin fog I peered to the left. Branches swayed stiffly in the night wind, leaves crackled, and in the distance wind chime pipes smacked against each other atonally. Grayson shouted into the mike for Murakawa to circle south from Paradise. Two houses down, a cat skittered across the lawn. But there was nothing the size of Yankowski. To the right, trees in front yards shaded the streetlights. “How could he disappear so fast?” I demanded. “The guy’s the size of a house trailer.”
“Got a good jump on you. Should have had someone on the back door,” Grayson muttered before pushing in the button on the mike to answer a call from officer 836.
“Mmm!” This wasn’t the time to ponder “should haves.” There would be ample time later. I turned to the right again, looking up the street as it rose to a hummock two blocks away. Halfway between, at the far side of the parked cars, a shadow moved. “There he is! Look!”
“Stop where you are, Yankowski!” I yelled.
Yankowski froze momentarily, then raced toward the crest.
“Give me your flashlight.”
Grayson thrust it toward me. Grabbing it, I ran full out, up the middle of the street, racing across the dark intersection. A block to the right on King Way, a car accelerated. With each step the pain clawed my back. I pumped my legs faster, pushing off harder. I hit the top of the rise. The block ahead came into view, but there was no sign of Yankowski. In the distance sirens of converging patrol cars singed the night. I pushed on to the corner and stopped, glancing right. No Yankowski. And left. Nothing. I had to choose. To the right was King Way—traffic, patrol cars. Ahead, another residential block. To the left a short block, then Martin Luther King Junior High School, with its three-winged building, its smattering of outbuildings, and a two-acre paved yard that dropped abruptly twenty feet down to the track, playground, and pool on the north side—a fugitive’s heaven. A figure moved in the shadows by the school. Turning the flashlight on and off so Grayson would be sure to see, I pointed left. “School!” I yelled.
Grayson would have the dispatcher get units to the four corners surrounding the school yard. Backups on foot would head inward through the underbrush to the east, through the backyards on the west, the track and playground. They’d converge on Yankowski, if they weren’t too late.
I ran down Rose, cutting right on Grant. To my left was the dark stucco wall of the school, to my right a smattering of tree-shrouded houses. The gate to the yard was closed, locked. Through the hurricane fence I could see movement in the school yard. Was that Yankowski? I ran for the fence, pulled myself up, flung a leg over the top, and dropped to the
Grayson banged out the door.
“Christ, the guy ran right over me,” the rookie said. “I never saw him coming. He pushed me over with one hand!”
“Where’d he go?” I demanded.
“Toward Josephine.”
“All the way through to the street?” Grayson asked. Lopez and Raksen rushed out the door.
The rookie thought a moment. “Footsteps sounded like it.”
I ran for the street, as Grayson spewed orders—he had access to the walkie-talkie and the car radios; he would coordinate the search till the sector sergeant arrived. I had only a beeper, useless in a chase. Grayson yelled for the rookie to check Rue Driscoll’s and the yard opposite, Lopez to guard the restaurant, and Raksen to get back to work. A light went on upstairs in Rue Driscoll’s bedroom.
At Josephine I stopped, gritting my teeth against the pain in my back, and waited for Grayson. The house on the right was dark. Cars lined the curb. Yankowski could be crouched behind any of them. There was no sign of life across the street, no porch lights, no lights in bedroom windows. The people who slept there were too far away to hear Grayson on the radio telling the dispatcher to pull down the units from the north hills.
Through the thin fog I peered to the left. Branches swayed stiffly in the night wind, leaves crackled, and in the distance wind chime pipes smacked against each other atonally. Grayson shouted into the mike for Murakawa to circle south from Paradise. Two houses down, a cat skittered across the lawn. But there was nothing the size of Yankowski. To the right, trees in front yards shaded the streetlights. “How could he disappear so fast?” I demanded. “The guy’s the size of a house trailer.”
“Got a good jump on you. Should have had someone on the back door,” Grayson muttered before pushing in the button on the mike to answer a call from officer 836.
“Mmm!” This wasn’t the time to ponder “should haves.” There would be ample time later. I turned to the right again, looking up the street as it rose to a hummock two blocks away. Halfway between, at the far side of the parked cars, a shadow moved. “There he is! Look!”
“Stop where you are, Yankowski!” I yelled.
Yankowski froze momentarily, then raced toward the crest.
“Give me your flashlight.”
Grayson thrust it toward me. Grabbing it, I ran full out, up the middle of the street, racing across the dark intersection. A block to the right on King Way, a car accelerated. With each step the pain clawed my back. I pumped my legs faster, pushing off harder. I hit the top of the rise. The block ahead came into view, but there was no sign of Yankowski. In the distance sirens of converging patrol cars singed the night. I pushed on to the corner and stopped, glancing right. No Yankowski. And left. Nothing. I had to choose. To the right was King Way—traffic, patrol cars. Ahead, another residential block. To the left a short block, then Martin Luther King Junior High School, with its three-winged building, its smattering of outbuildings, and a two-acre paved yard that dropped abruptly twenty feet down to the track, playground, and pool on the north side—a fugitive’s heaven. A figure moved in the shadows by the school. Turning the flashlight on and off so Grayson would be sure to see, I pointed left. “School!” I yelled.
Grayson would have the dispatcher get units to the four corners surrounding the school yard. Backups on foot would head inward through the underbrush to the east, through the backyards on the west, the track and playground. They’d converge on Yankowski, if they weren’t too late.
I ran down Rose, cutting right on Grant. To my left was the dark stucco wall of the school, to my right a smattering of tree-shrouded houses. The gate to the yard was closed, locked. Through the hurricane fence I could see movement in the school yard. Was that Yankowski? I ran for the fence, pulled myself up, flung a leg over the top, and dropped to the
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