whoever-the-hell-it-was without getting a clear look.
Fumbling to keep the gun on the dumpster and pick up the flash, Otto stumbled, went to a knee on the wet pavement, and finally had the light and gun pointed at the new arrival.
"Freeze!" Otto yelled.
The figure looked up, saw Otto, the flashlight, and the gun ... and screamed.
Then the screamer ducked back down into the dumpster, out of sight, but not out of mind.
Otto had only a glimpse to go on: the body shape had seemed male, but the scream was as high-pitched as a little girl's; and the person's hair was long enough that Otto couldn't tell whether he'd just cornered a man or a woman.
"Federal agent," he said, perhaps too loudly. "Put up your hands, then slowly stand."
No one stood, but Otto thought he could discern a soft whimpering from inside the dumpster.
"I'm not going to tell you again. Hands up and stand up slowly."
First he saw the.dumpster dweller's hands, then the person slowly stood, the rain dripping off a disheveled mat of dark hair. "I didn't do nothin'," the man said.
Older man.
Otto shined the light on the guy's face—late fifties, kind of frail, wearing a lightweight navy windbreaker. The dumpster dweller had a scruffy beard and bad teeth that he managed to smile with. His way of showing he was on the up and up.
"What're you doing in there?"
"Gettin' out of the rain."
"You were making some kind of noise in there, a tapping—what was it?"
The old man's face went blank, then he looked down inside the dumpster. "Oh, that?"
"Oh, what?" Otto asked.
"Scrounged me a flashlight. Tried to knock it against the side, to get it to work. But the batteries is bum."
Otto came up to the edge of the dumpster, shooed the old man to the other end, then looked over the edge. He shone
the flashlight in, and on the bottom caught a glimpse of metal. He homed in on it with the light, and when he finally figured out what he was looking at, his heart sank.
The thermal imager—beaten almost beyond recognition.
"Okay, old man—time to get out."
The dumpster dweller did as he was told, but not without bitching about it: "What'd /
do?"
"Did you put that, uh ... flashlight in the dumpster yourself?"
"No! It was there already, when I went fishin' inside. Honest. Swear to God."
Otto believed the old guy. The man didn't seem to be strong enough to have taken out a sector cop; and if he had, why was he down rooting in the dumpster?
"Go on, gramps. Take a hike."
The old man frowned. "Can I take the flashlight?"
"No."
"I found it. It's mine. You guys didn't repeal finders keepers, did ya?"
Fishing into his pocket, Otto pulled out a five and held it out to the guy.
"Bet it's worth more than that."
Otto brought the gun up and gave the guy a good look at it. The bum took the hint, and the five spot, climbed out and started to walk off in the direction of the briefcase.
"The other way, gramps."
The old man held up his hands. "You got it, boss! Other way it is."
When the old boy had disappeared around the corner, Otto finally took another breath.
He shook his head—feelings of fear and anger gave way to relief. But uneasiness remained; what did the imager turning up mean? Where the hell was that greedy sector cop? Five dollars had bought what five grand was supposed to....
Profanity running a race through his mind, Otto went over and stuffed the soaked bills back into the briefcase and carried it over to the dumpster, as if he were about to throw the damp money away.
Now it was Otto's turn to climb into the soggy filth to pull out the thermal imager. He took a quick look around, set the case on the ground, edging it behind the dumpster, and hol-stered his pistol. Using the edges of the container, he pulled himself up and over and inside.
The dumpster smelled—not surprisingly—of rot, decay, and, if he didn't miss his guess, human feces. Otto tried to bring to mind the time when he'd loved his government job, and as he shined the flashlight down
Fumbling to keep the gun on the dumpster and pick up the flash, Otto stumbled, went to a knee on the wet pavement, and finally had the light and gun pointed at the new arrival.
"Freeze!" Otto yelled.
The figure looked up, saw Otto, the flashlight, and the gun ... and screamed.
Then the screamer ducked back down into the dumpster, out of sight, but not out of mind.
Otto had only a glimpse to go on: the body shape had seemed male, but the scream was as high-pitched as a little girl's; and the person's hair was long enough that Otto couldn't tell whether he'd just cornered a man or a woman.
"Federal agent," he said, perhaps too loudly. "Put up your hands, then slowly stand."
No one stood, but Otto thought he could discern a soft whimpering from inside the dumpster.
"I'm not going to tell you again. Hands up and stand up slowly."
First he saw the.dumpster dweller's hands, then the person slowly stood, the rain dripping off a disheveled mat of dark hair. "I didn't do nothin'," the man said.
Older man.
Otto shined the light on the guy's face—late fifties, kind of frail, wearing a lightweight navy windbreaker. The dumpster dweller had a scruffy beard and bad teeth that he managed to smile with. His way of showing he was on the up and up.
"What're you doing in there?"
"Gettin' out of the rain."
"You were making some kind of noise in there, a tapping—what was it?"
The old man's face went blank, then he looked down inside the dumpster. "Oh, that?"
"Oh, what?" Otto asked.
"Scrounged me a flashlight. Tried to knock it against the side, to get it to work. But the batteries is bum."
Otto came up to the edge of the dumpster, shooed the old man to the other end, then looked over the edge. He shone
the flashlight in, and on the bottom caught a glimpse of metal. He homed in on it with the light, and when he finally figured out what he was looking at, his heart sank.
The thermal imager—beaten almost beyond recognition.
"Okay, old man—time to get out."
The dumpster dweller did as he was told, but not without bitching about it: "What'd /
do?"
"Did you put that, uh ... flashlight in the dumpster yourself?"
"No! It was there already, when I went fishin' inside. Honest. Swear to God."
Otto believed the old guy. The man didn't seem to be strong enough to have taken out a sector cop; and if he had, why was he down rooting in the dumpster?
"Go on, gramps. Take a hike."
The old man frowned. "Can I take the flashlight?"
"No."
"I found it. It's mine. You guys didn't repeal finders keepers, did ya?"
Fishing into his pocket, Otto pulled out a five and held it out to the guy.
"Bet it's worth more than that."
Otto brought the gun up and gave the guy a good look at it. The bum took the hint, and the five spot, climbed out and started to walk off in the direction of the briefcase.
"The other way, gramps."
The old man held up his hands. "You got it, boss! Other way it is."
When the old boy had disappeared around the corner, Otto finally took another breath.
He shook his head—feelings of fear and anger gave way to relief. But uneasiness remained; what did the imager turning up mean? Where the hell was that greedy sector cop? Five dollars had bought what five grand was supposed to....
Profanity running a race through his mind, Otto went over and stuffed the soaked bills back into the briefcase and carried it over to the dumpster, as if he were about to throw the damp money away.
Now it was Otto's turn to climb into the soggy filth to pull out the thermal imager. He took a quick look around, set the case on the ground, edging it behind the dumpster, and hol-stered his pistol. Using the edges of the container, he pulled himself up and over and inside.
The dumpster smelled—not surprisingly—of rot, decay, and, if he didn't miss his guess, human feces. Otto tried to bring to mind the time when he'd loved his government job, and as he shined the flashlight down
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