The Third Rail by Michael Harvey Page B

Then they flapped their wings and lifted into the air. Far above them another bird hovered. This one was a police chopper, scouring the shoreline. I waved, but it moved off. The water below was quiet, chunks of ice floating here and there. Around a soft bend in the shoreline, a single boat suddenly appeared, a kayak paddling out from the Lincoln Park Boat House, heading toward the lake. The kayaker wore a hat, gloves, and a dark sweatshirt. It seemed like an odd outfit, but then again, I had never kayaked through a Chicago winter. Didn't know anyone who had.
    I inched back a little deeper in the scrub and watched some more. The kayaker was struggling with his stroke, unable to coordinate the lift and fall of the double-bladed paddle. After twenty yards or so, he smoothed out and began to move a little better. I stretched out on my stomach and lay flat on the ground. The man might have caught my movement, becausehe stopped paddling and leaned forward. For a moment, I saw the short shape of a gun, outlined against the hard winter gray. Then it disappeared back in the bottom of the boat.
    I held my nine in front of me with two hands. The blood flowed a little more freely down my side, but the pain had subsided, and my head was clearing. The kayak was moving again, from right to left, maybe fifty yards away. I knew I was at maximum range for my gun and squeezed down over the sight. The boat drifted closer and the shot got easier. I moved the gun from temple to jaw and then down over the mass of the kayaker's body. The mayor's face slipped across the edge of my vision. As did a federal agent, with a badge and a knowing smile. I tightened up another notch on the trigger. Then I exhaled and pushed back into the weeds.
    My words tasted like dust, but I radioed in anyway and told Rodriguez about the boat. I could hear the rotor chop above me fade for a moment, then grow louder. They had drifted a bit north, but would arrive in plenty of time to cut off whoever our kayaker was. He continued his slow crawl across the lagoon. I pulled the gun up again and tracked him. Just for fun this time. The kayaker ducked and paddled, still a rough but steady stroke. His face turned once, as if he sensed something, and his profile flashed in a column of light. I lowered my gun. Then I heard a crack, and the kayaker's chest exploded in a cloud of tissue and red.
    ROBLES HEARD A POP and felt a tug at his throat. Then he was at the bottom of the kayak, staring up at the sky and choking on his own blood. Robles thought about the girl from last night. He'd enjoyed killing her. This morning on the Drive, even more. He thought about all the others, womenstruggling against the darkness, children submitting, small graves in the woods. Those were his private treasures. His secrets. Today had been his glory.
    Robles' mind emptied, and filled again with a summer day. He was a kid gone fishing. The sun gentled and the boat rocked as the man moved in the bow and then settled, cigarette in one hand, line in the other. Robles remembered the trout he'd caught that day, silver and pink against the roughed-out bottom of the boat. The man gripped the fish, belly down, and hit it twice with the rounded butt of a knife. Then he threw the trout into a rusty hold filled with water. Robles remembered looking into the well, seeing the black eyes peering out from under. Then the lid closed, and the eyes were gone. The man returned to his perch and fell asleep. The boy remained where he was, breathing softly and watching the water move around him.
    Such were Robles' thoughts as he looked up at the sky, lungs swollen with blood, police chopper drifting, and then nothing.

CHAPTER 27

    I 'm fine," I said, for the fourth time in the last minute and a half. The inside of my mouth tasted like dry wool. I reached for a paper cup and felt the pull of an IV in my arm. The water slipped down my throat, but seemed to have no discernible effect.
    "You realize how close you came to