Cold Pursuit

He looked down at his hands, bloody and cinched at the wrists by a plastic tie. He noted that his knees were spread but his feet were held together by something heavy and tight. With significant anguish he turned his head down to see his bloody shirt, then let it loll to the left again.

"Welcome back, McMichael."

The voice was high-pitched and anxious. He cocked an eye to confirm Patricia as the speaker and driver.

"How's the head?" asked someone behind him.

From some suspecting cra

"More where that came from, so don't get any giant ideas," said Garland. "Watch the goddamned road, Pat."

McMichael lolled his head to the right, felt the stickiness of blood on his neck, saw the market where Sally Rainwater had bought firewood. He let his eyes fall to the sideview mirror, wondering if Hector was by some miracle behind them. But all he could see was the flank of the vehicle he was riding in and the lights shooting back along it. By pressing the inside of his upper left arm against his side he confirmed that his weapon was gone. With the inside of his right elbow against his other side he knew his phone was gone, too.

He coughed, felt the top of his head open to the stars. He swallowed a mouthful of shaved metal and gave one experimental, cutting tug on his wrist ties.

"Too bad you drew the case," said Patricia. "I knew the chances were one in four, but I could never win a hand at blackjack either."

McMichael squinted at the buildings along Rosecrans. Triplicate now. His head felt volcanic, but he was oddly outside himself, too, detached and objective, like he was watching himself go through this. He tried to focus his vision out beyond the rearview, but all he got was blur.

"We're all going for a sail," Patricia said brightly. "In case you were wondering. Aboard Christina and this little skiff Gar never registered. But the skiff is going to blow up accidentally with only you on it. Which, on the plus side, is why Gar hasn't already shot you."

McMichael tried to digest the details of his own death, but they seemed distant and inapplicable. "Why kill Pete?" he managed.

"Tom, that's a long and very personal story. I wasn't appreciated."

Garland chuckled from the back.

"And Tom, you know nothing in the world pisses me off like not being appreciated."

"Rainwater?"

"Born to fall and very convenient. You were a minus and she was a plus and you canceled each other out. I'm good at math, remember? Gar, he's good at sneaking in and out of places, leaving things for cops to find."

"He doesn't need the details," said Garland.

"I was just showing off," said Patricia. "But my hands are shaking I'm so nervous."

"Watch the road, goddamn it."

"Don't yell, Gar."

"Watch the road, Patricia."

"I see the road."

"Good. Pat's the micromanager," said Garland, stabbing at McMichael's head again. "I'm the big-picture guy. You want an executive summary, McMikey? Here goes. The old man tried to cut us out, so he could cut the nurse in. But we were the ones putting up with his endless shit, year after year. His petty little games, his foul mouth, his whores and his tantrums. What was his wedding present to us? He threatened to disinherit Pat if we went through with it. Pat managed to talk him out of it. Stuff like that builds up, man, it fucking builds up. Pretty soon, it blows."

"It takes you over," said Patricia.

McMichael let his head loll right again, tried to pick up some sign of Hector. He'd left his destination on Hector's machine. But Hector was keyed to meeting Garland Hansen's plane at the airport. McMichael figured that by the time things went froggy at Lindbergh Field, he'd be ten fathoms down. When Patricia changed lanes he saw a white Crown Victoria two cars back, but the picture changed when she straightened out.

"Bland and the TJ thing?" His voice was little more than a whisper.

"Blandon the TJ thing?" asked Patricia. "Gar must have hit you harder than I thought."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Garland asked, rapping the back of McMichael's head with something hard. "Blandon who?"

McMichael checked the sideview mirror for the Crown Vic, saw nothing but the lights flickering down the side panel. He had figured by now that they were in some kind of SUV- probably a big Ford, an Excursion or Explosion or whatever they called them. He found the power window control down to his right, and the power door lock, both conveniently illuminated. He thought of Joh

"Why Angel?" McMichael heard himself ask.

"I took control of some of Grandma's possessions after she died. You know, it takes a woman to appreciate certain things. But the hooker caught me switching out Grandma's hummingbird for a fake. She said maybe I could take care of her, and Grandpa would never know. So I took care of her. We'd put in too much pla

He sat with his head bowed, smelling his blood, watching the lights do freakish things on the windshield.

"Like my divorce story?" asked Patricia. "The apartment and the boxes at our place? We're going to rent out the apartment. And tomorrow we move the boxed stuff to Pete's house. Me and Gar are going to kind of squat there, possession being nine-tenths of-"

Suddenly, flashes of red and blue lights shot through the interior. Garland cursed and Patricia's gloved hands tightened on the wheel. McMichael managed to turn his head to the right, very slowly, and from the corner of his eye he saw two Crown Victorias with two gumballs on the top, two faint faces of Hector as he drove the cars under a streetlamp.

"Goddamn it!" yelled Garland.

"You're dead," McMichael muttered.

"Bullshit," said Patricia. She slowed for a red light, then gu

"Can't outrun a radio," said McMichael.

Garland reached past the headrest and whacked the side of McMichael's face, up on the cheekbone. McMichael wrenched right and tried to get a finger onto the lock control but Garland yanked him back, McMichael's head slapping back against the rest.

Patricia gu