The Night Gardener

Michael had seen the results of such a move, in his family and in so many others where he'd come up. He wasn't about to step off that ledge. Besides, he didn't believe that killing turned a boy into a man. That was street wisdom, which most times equaled bullshit. The violent game had broken his mother's heart and stolen his brother's youth. That was all he needed to know. It wasn't go

Tate found himself at the tree line behind the house. A light was on in one of the rear windows. He could see the top half of the woman. Some of her curly hair had come down about her shoulders. She was sitting, rubbing one hand against the other. She was a dark outline of a woman in a room, framed by the window, trapped inside that square. What was that word Tate was looking for… a silhouette. A silhouette of a woman, stressed and beautiful. Like a stressed and beautiful thing caged in a room.

Tate walked slowly out of the woods, toward the back of the house.

Chantel Richards felt a presence and looked up to a see a shadowy figure moving toward the window. She glanced at the locked bedroom door. She knew that she should open it and shout out to Romeo. Because surely this was one of those who had come to cause Romeo a world of hurt. But she didn't do this. Instead she watched as the young man's face came into view, and then studied it as he put it very close to the glass. She saw in his brown eyes that he was not there to hurt her, and she went to the sash window and pushed up on it so the two of them could talk.

'Chantel?'

'Keep your voice down.'

'You are Chantel,' said Tate, now speaking just above a whisper.

'That's right.'

'My name's Michael.'

'You come to kill us?'

'If you stay here, it's go

'Then why ain't you shootin yet?'

'I'm giving you a chance to get out before it gets hot.'

Chantel looked back into the room. Tate saw that her hand was shaking and he reached into the open window and held it.

'Come on, girl,' said Tate. 'What's go

'I need to get my suitcase,' said Chantel.

'And the key to your whip,' said Tate.

Tate watched her go to a dresser up against the far wall of the bedroom, where she looked down at something on the floor. She hesitated, then bent forward and came up with a suitcase in her hand. She returned to the window, and he took the suitcase from her and helped her out, taking her in his arms and easing her down until her feet softly hit the ground.

He looked at her feet. She was wearing a pair of single-band, leopard-print slides with three-inch heels. He had seen a photograph of this exact shoe in a magazine.

'We headin for the woods,' said Tate. 'Ain't you got nothing else in that suitcase you can put on your feet? Those Donald Pliners must go for two and a half.'

'I didn't pack any other shoes,' said Chantel, now looking at him with interest. 'How you know these were Pliners?'

'I'm what you call fashion forward,' said Tate. 'Don't worry, I'm not fu

'I didn't get that vibe.'

'Let's go,' said Tate, pulling on her elbow, guiding her toward the tree line.

'You better have a plan,' said Chantel.

Michael Tate's plan was to sit far back in the woods and wait till the mayhem began. Then he and Chantel would get themselves down to Hill Road and take off in Chantel's Solara. To where, he didn't know.

'Trust me, girl,' said Tate.

Her hand squeezed his as they entered the woods.

Officer Grady Du

He reached behind him, unholstered his MPD-issue Glock 17, and slipped it under the Explorer's seat. There he found his latest throw-down weapon, a ten-shot Heckler & Koch.45 with shaved numbers that he had taken off a suspect in Park View. He holstered it where his departmental Glock had been and got out of the SUV.

Du

Anger was good. It would keep him on point for the task at hand.

Romeo Brock had become a problem, though it was no fault of Du

Now Brock, eager to make a rep, had gone and shot a man for no reason and taken another man's woman. Du

Du

He turned and walked up the gravel road. He pulled the.45 and eased a round into its chamber. He was going straight in. He wasn't a criminal. He was police.

Romed Brock stood on the front porch of his house, smoking a cigarette. His stomach was tight, and his palms carried sweat. He was aware of his fear and he hated it. A man like him, the kind of man he imagined himself to be, was not supposed to feel this way. Still, his hands were wet.

He looked out into the darkness. Night had come just about full. He was hoping to see Conrad walking back toward the house up the gravel road. Conrad, who was strong of body and will, would know what to do. But Conrad did not appear.

Brock had phoned Du