A Certain Justice

Frank kept staring at Kevin, wondering if that was it.

'Wes Farrell. Okay, then.' Maggie, knowing who she was going to go after.

Frank appealed to her. 'What do you want me to do, Maggie, call the police? Why don't we just let these people go on their way?'

"Yes, that's exactly what I think. I think we should call the police. They're parked illegally. They've stolen my place and they should pay for it.'

'We will pay you,' Kevin said. He was getting out his wallet. 'What do you want?'

Frank spread his hands. "That won't be necessary. Come on, Maggie, please move your car, let 'em pull out.'

Maggie, arms still folded across her chest, stared at the three others, tapping her foot once or twice, sighing. 'Oh, all right.' She slid back behind the wheel of her Mercedes, slammed the door closed, rolled down her window. 'This is not the end of this, Frank.'

Melanie was heading for her car. Frank fell in beside Kevin and the two of them walked to the button by the gate.

'I'll get the gate,' Frank said. 'I want to close it up after you're out.'

The Mercedes started up, pulled forward a couple of feet – enough to let the GEO out of the space – and Melanie hit the ignition. Kevin jogged a few ragged, painful steps in her direction.

When he got to the car he turned around. The gate was open, Frank standing by the button. Suddenly, just as Kevin was getting into the GEO, Frank snapped his fingers and called out. 'Maggie! Back up, quick! Stop 'em.'

At the same time, he turned and pushed the button to close the gate again. 'That's Kevin Shea! That's who it is! Kevin Shea!'

Melanie yelled, 'Get in,' and Kevin half fell into the front seat as the car jerked forward. The Mercedes had not yet had the time to react, but the gate was closing and Frank stood in the center of the drive, blocking them as they turned into it. Melanie leaned on the horn.

'I'm go

'He'll jump out of the way! He'll have to.'

She pressed down on the accelerator and the tires squealed on the smooth concrete. The gate was nearly halfway closed. She kept her hand on the horn, heading toward Frank, whose hands were up in front of his face.

'I can't,' Melanie said. She hit the brakes. The gate slammed into Kevin's side of the door. Frank came forward a step and put his hands on the hood.

'Hold on,' Melanie said, and pressed her foot down, the sudden movement lifting Frank onto the hood as it went out over the sidewalk. He fell off into the street as she turned into it.

She ran the stop sign at the corner of Junipero Serra, turned right at the next one, then left, then back up to 19th Avenue, where the traffic was lighter and at least it appeared that no one knew who they were.

Melanie was driving north on 19th Avenue. The sun was setting below the clouds, bright red with smoke in the atmosphere.

Frank's recognizing Kevin built on the closeness of the previous night's escape. Neither said a word for seven blocks, until Kevin pointed. 'What's that?' On either side of them up ahead pillars of smoke were rising – new outbreaks begi

'I don't know.'

She changed into the right lane. Ahead of them a crowd of people was visible a couple of intersections ahead. Were they throwing things onto passing cars? That was what it looked like. They could make out people ru

Twenty minutes later they had parked at the end of Page and walked around the corner of Stanyan by the border of Golden Gate Park. A

Melanie let them into the apartment building with her key. When the door closed behind them she made sure it had locked, then something seemed to go out of her. She stopped and turned into Kevin, pressing herself against him, shaking. He enfolded her into him and they stood there a long moment, embracing as the last rays of the sun slanted through the ancient vestibule windows. Finally he lifted her chin and kissed her. 'We'd better get upstairs,' he said.

A

As soon as they had let themselves in, Kevin crossed to the windows and pulled the blinds. He turned on a couple of low-watt lights, made a quick tour of the living room. Potted plants squatted on every available surface – a million plants. Also a video camera on a tripod – A

'Melanie?'

'What?'

She was standing by the entrance to the kitchen and turned. Their eyes met, and they froze with the realization of what they'd come to, what they were doing…

Minutes passed. The room had darkened, the sun now fully down. Kevin lifted his body from the chair. Melanie was somewhere in the back half of the apartment. 'What are you doing?' he called.

'Might as well feed the fish since I'm here. And water the plants,' she called back.

Kevin looked around again. 'That could take weeks. How many plants does old A

'I've never counted. She's only got three fish. Want to meet them?'

'It would give meaning to my life. But first maybe we should call Wes, find out how it all went.'

'Oh, come meet the fish. Wes is either going to be back or not, and either way we left the note saying we'd call. He'll wait.'

That was true enough, but Kevin wasn't disposed to wait. This was his life, and hers too, they were talking about. He made his way through the living room and stopped in the kitchen doorway.

Melanie was feeding the goldfish, her hands passing back and forth over the aquarium. She had taken off Wes's white shirt, which along with her bra was hanging on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Kevin stood in the doorway, watching the action of the smooth muscles in her back as she moved her arm over the water. She half-turned, her face betraying nothing, then came all the way around, facing him. 'I know we could call Wes right now,' she said, 'but then again I thought – '

He moved toward her.

Farrell was surprised at the note but couldn't blame them for their caution. They'd both had a hairy couple of days and he thought they had earned the right to get cautious. Still, Glitsky had given his word, and even though they were on opposite sides – prosecution and defense – he sensed the man played straight.

'Yo, Bart!'

He had the television set turned back on, had cracked another beer and was opening a can of dog food by the kitchen window that overlooked Junipero Serra when the doorbell rang from down below. At the box by his front door he pushed the intercom button.

'Wesley Farrell?'

Wesley? He thought. Not even his wife had called him Wesley. 'That's me,' he said.

'This is Sergeant Stoner, a special investigator for the district attorney's office. I have a warrant down here to search your apartment on information and belief that you may be harboring a fugitive…'