Cold Frame by P. T. Deutermann Page A

them again. This time he really did want to look over his shoulder, but his cop sense told him everything he needed to know. It was another box. He touched his right hand to his gun pouch, and then remembered he wasn’t alone this time. He glanced at Rue: she was oblivious, head down, putting one foot in front of the other. He had no idea what these guys intended, if anything, but he wished she wasn’t in the mix just now.
    He saw the bridge he’d stopped at with the fake cramp coming up ahead. There was a thick stand of scraggly trees on the river side of the towpath. Now there was no one else around, and that in itself was strange—ten minutes ago there’d been all sorts of foot traffic. All of a sudden it was just the six of them, running almost in formation, at a jog pace. He had the clear sense that both pairs of runners were subtly shortening the box. He casually draped his right hand over the groin pouch, ready to draw. And then from up ahead, at the bridge itself, came a loud: Kiyai!
    â€œWalking now,” he murmured to Rue. “Stay close to me.”
    â€œWha-at?” she said, looking around.
    As they dropped down into a walk, Av took her by the arm and veered to the left, walking over to the side of the towpath closest to the canal. The two guys behind, surprised by his sudden turn, trotted by and then slowed down, while the two up ahead had stopped. Then all four turned to stare at the apparition rising on the towpath.
    Wong Daddy stood there just on the other side of the bridge like an ambulatory oak tree, beginning his foot-stomping routine and carrying on in the unknown Asian dialect. He was wearing a size fifty-something judo gi pants, a tent-sized Metro PD sweatshirt, and a black band around his forehead. His fists were clenched and he was amping up the volume while staring wild-eyed at the four runners. Each time he raised his arms to balance the next stomp, his gold shield and holstered gun became visible. The four runners backed up a few steps as they realized Wong Daddy was approaching them with each stomp. He had coarsened his voice and was now sounding like the senior samurai in a Kurosawa movie.
    â€œWhat is that?” Rue asked, pointing at Wong while sticking to Av like glue. “And who are those guys?”
    â€œâ€™Bout to find out, I think,” Av said, pulling up his T-shirt to expose his own gold shield, and drawing his snub-nose. “Go sit on that bench over there, and if there’s shooting, get into the water.”
    â€œShooting? What?! ”
    The four runners were in a close group now, and two of them had their hands under the right side of their own extra-long tees. Then, from behind the approaching madman, came the growl of a siren as a Metro black-and-white came crunching slowly up the towpath, blue lights strobing. When it reached the approaches to the arched bridge, the engine shut down and Miz Brown unlimbered his lanky frame from inside the Crown Vic. He was dressed in a suit and tie, with his gold shield pinned to his left breast pocket.
    There was nowhere for the four runners to go except back the way they’d come, and by now Av was standing on the towpath in their way. Miz Brown gave Wong Daddy a tender little pat on his bald pate as he walked by, opening his credentials and asking the four men to identify themselves. Wong Daddy stopped his performance and then joined Miz Brown. When he got to within six feet of the four nervous-looking individuals, he growled something, hunched forward, and then began to sidestep around the group of four, his fingers opening and closing as if they were independently seeking something to squeeze the life out of. Miz Brown stepped into the magic circle, and displayed his credentials more prominently.
    â€œMetro PD, gentlemen,” he said. “ID, please? Preferably before I lose control of my troll here?”
    Av could see that the four were considering a bolt, either by rushing Brown,