The Third Rail by Michael Harvey Page A

along the lake from Addison to North Avenue. We're getting some choppers up, and I got the description out there. If he didn't jump in a car, we got a chance."
    "How many did he hit?"
    Rodriguez shrugged. "Don't know. But it doesn't sound good."
    The detective smoked his tires taking a left off Sheridan and gunned it the wrong way down Diversey, to a dead end and a parking lot. It was less than five minutes since the last shot was fired. The lot had three cars in it. All of them empty. Rodriguez and I pulled our guns and moved to the soccer fields that lay just beyond.
    "The area she described is just over the hill," Rodriguez said. "I'm gonna go straight up. You circle around to the south. If he's still on foot, there's a chance he headed that way."
    Rodriguez was right. If our shooter had headed north or west, he'd have to navigate a half mile's worth of open ground. To the south was the parking lot. Beyond it, cover in the form of winding paths, trees, and a series of underpasses.
    "Put me on your net so some cop doesn't shoot me," I said.
    Rodriguez nodded. "You're on it. Just don't change clothes on me. Here, take a radio."
    The detective threw me a handheld and headed toward the hill. I checked the volume on the two-way to make sure it was squelched and started jogging south along a running path that skirted Diversey Harbor and Lincoln Park Lagoon. Two minutesand a hundred yards later, a dog stood at the top of a small rise, wagging his tail for no apparent reason. I knew a little about dogs. Very little. My pup, however, rarely wagged without a reason, usually because she saw something or someone. I pushed up the incline.
    "What do we got here, boy?" I scratched the dog behind the ears. He wagged his tail even harder. Ahead, the jogging path dipped to the left and ran underneath a bridge that spanned Fullerton Avenue. I crept toward the black hole under the bridge. The dog stayed where he was. Smart dog.

CHAPTER 26

    R obles wore navy-blue running pants, a blue hooded sweatshirt, running gloves, and a hat. He kept a snub-nosed revolver tucked in one pocket of his sweatshirt and a set of keys in the other. Fullerton Avenue above him was quiet. A chopper beat somewhere in the distance. Robles was twenty yards beyond the bridge when he heard someone call out to the dog. Time was running thin. Nelson had stressed he'd have about ten minutes from his last shot to get to where he needed to be. That was seven minutes ago. Robles could have run for it, but he didn't. Instead he veered off the path, into the scrub alongside the lagoon, and waited. He heard the crunch of gravel, the slosh of water, and the rumble of a garbage can as its cover was removed. A head peeked out from underneath the bridge. Then, a hand and a gun. Robles fired twice. A body fell back into the darkness. Robles looked around. There was a lot of swirl, but it was all still a mile or so north, focused on the tragedy and neglecting the periphery. Just as Nelson had predicted. Robles stood up, brushed the dirt off his pants, and began to jog again. Fifty yards later, he found the building he was looking for, fitted a key into a lock, and disappeared inside.
    * * *

    THE FIRST ROUND scored the pavement a foot or so to my left. The second knocked me to the ground. I knew I was hit and saw my gun lying in a puddle of water a few feet from my head. I struggled to my feet and wedged myself between a steel girder and a trash can. My right arm wouldn't cooperate, so I reached for the gun with my left. Then I waited for the pain to settle. The air under the bridge was cold and damp. Water dripped down the walls and pooled in the broken cement at my feet. I slipped my hand under my vest. It came away red, but the wound didn't seem too bad. I gave it another ten seconds and crept out again. The running path was empty. Whoever had shot me was gone.
    I moved down to the water's edge, slumped into the weeds, and looked out over the lagoon. A couple of ducks looked back.