street went down and that’s the way he was forced to go outside his front door, meaning at the end of his run when he was dog-tired he’d be coming up. The gravity always started him out too fast and this morning was no exception. Two blocks later he regulated and got into a sustainable pace. The world was dark, broken only by streetlights and the occasional bathroom light.
The air was crisp.
He sucked it deep into his lungs.
A fox bounded out from behind a car, stopping long enough to turn a startled head in Drift’s direction before trotting across the street and disappearing into the shadows.
The dirt was serious.
A homicide unit couldn’t have a rogue running around doing illegal things all in the name of the end game. There could be lawsuits. There could be evidence thrown out. The Constitution required fair play.
The Constitution was bigger than Drift.
If he got caught, he would be discharged.
There wouldn’t be another option.
His record, his personality and his excuses however noble wouldn’t save him.
Nor should they.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
How did he get so stupid?
The four beers didn’t help but he couldn’t blame them. He’d drunk four beers plenty of times before without going out afterwards and trampling all over the law.
He hadn’t read the notes yet.
What if he just went home and burned them to ashes and then flushed those ashes down the toilet? That would get him about as close back to square one as he could ever hope at this point.
But what if Pantage ended up dead and then he found out afterwards that the notes had information that would have prevented it?
Which was more important, him staying clean or Pantage staying alive?
It was the same question as last night.
Three miles clicked by.
“One more.”
He did two.
When he got home the notes were sitting on the counter exactly where they should be. Drift gave them a sideways glance as he got the coffee pot going. Then he headed for the shower.
Decide before you get out, he said.
Read them or burn them.
Do one or the other by the time the first cup of coffee is done.
Be done with it.
36
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Yardley’s dark ride in Cave’s claustrophobic trunk was marked with hip-hop pounding with such an amped-up, overdrive blare that the metal vibrated. Cave’s voice rose over the speakers, violently, and his fist drummed on the console. Halfway through a song he’d punch to a different station, swear when he got a crap song, then punch to the next, ten or fifteen times if he had to.
Yardley kept the gun in her hand until her fingers got tired and then stuffed it under her body where she could feel it.
Her back was cramped.
Her legs were cramped.
The muscles on the right side of her neck were on fire from constantly being stretched to the left.
She fought the urge to open the trunk and stick her legs out. Someone might see them and flag Cave down.
Songs came and went.
After a long time the vehicle turned right and the smoothness of pavement gave way to gravel and ruts. The terrain rose gently but steadily then dropped steeply with a number of switchbacks.
The tires stopped rolling.
The engine didn’t shut off.
The vehicle rocked slightly as Cave got out. The door didn’t slam shut. What was he doing? Opening a gate?
He got back in, pulled the car up a short distance, then got out again.
That must be it.
He was going through a gate.
The vehicle drove for another couple of minutes and then came to a stop. The engine shut off. Cave got out and slammed the door.
Yardley got the gun into her hand and pointed it at the lid of the trunk.
There was no need.
Wherever Cave went it was somewhere else.
Yardley waited for a full minute, maybe two, to let Cave get situated, then she silently felt around in the darkness until she found the release latch. When she pulled it the lid popped and caught, barely audible but with a slight sound nonetheless.
Cool air worked its
The air was crisp.
He sucked it deep into his lungs.
A fox bounded out from behind a car, stopping long enough to turn a startled head in Drift’s direction before trotting across the street and disappearing into the shadows.
The dirt was serious.
A homicide unit couldn’t have a rogue running around doing illegal things all in the name of the end game. There could be lawsuits. There could be evidence thrown out. The Constitution required fair play.
The Constitution was bigger than Drift.
If he got caught, he would be discharged.
There wouldn’t be another option.
His record, his personality and his excuses however noble wouldn’t save him.
Nor should they.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
How did he get so stupid?
The four beers didn’t help but he couldn’t blame them. He’d drunk four beers plenty of times before without going out afterwards and trampling all over the law.
He hadn’t read the notes yet.
What if he just went home and burned them to ashes and then flushed those ashes down the toilet? That would get him about as close back to square one as he could ever hope at this point.
But what if Pantage ended up dead and then he found out afterwards that the notes had information that would have prevented it?
Which was more important, him staying clean or Pantage staying alive?
It was the same question as last night.
Three miles clicked by.
“One more.”
He did two.
When he got home the notes were sitting on the counter exactly where they should be. Drift gave them a sideways glance as he got the coffee pot going. Then he headed for the shower.
Decide before you get out, he said.
Read them or burn them.
Do one or the other by the time the first cup of coffee is done.
Be done with it.
36
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Yardley’s dark ride in Cave’s claustrophobic trunk was marked with hip-hop pounding with such an amped-up, overdrive blare that the metal vibrated. Cave’s voice rose over the speakers, violently, and his fist drummed on the console. Halfway through a song he’d punch to a different station, swear when he got a crap song, then punch to the next, ten or fifteen times if he had to.
Yardley kept the gun in her hand until her fingers got tired and then stuffed it under her body where she could feel it.
Her back was cramped.
Her legs were cramped.
The muscles on the right side of her neck were on fire from constantly being stretched to the left.
She fought the urge to open the trunk and stick her legs out. Someone might see them and flag Cave down.
Songs came and went.
After a long time the vehicle turned right and the smoothness of pavement gave way to gravel and ruts. The terrain rose gently but steadily then dropped steeply with a number of switchbacks.
The tires stopped rolling.
The engine didn’t shut off.
The vehicle rocked slightly as Cave got out. The door didn’t slam shut. What was he doing? Opening a gate?
He got back in, pulled the car up a short distance, then got out again.
That must be it.
He was going through a gate.
The vehicle drove for another couple of minutes and then came to a stop. The engine shut off. Cave got out and slammed the door.
Yardley got the gun into her hand and pointed it at the lid of the trunk.
There was no need.
Wherever Cave went it was somewhere else.
Yardley waited for a full minute, maybe two, to let Cave get situated, then she silently felt around in the darkness until she found the release latch. When she pulled it the lid popped and caught, barely audible but with a slight sound nonetheless.
Cool air worked its
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