The Twelfth Card

Which meant of course that there was only one way for Boyd to go – toward her. She hunkered down for cover behind some bushes. Boyd had stopped firing but she could hear his footsteps getting closer. He was twenty feet away, she guessed. Then ten. She was sure that at any minute she’d see his face, followed by the muzzle of his weapon. Then she’d die…

Thud.

Thud.

Rising on an elbow, she could see the killer, close, kicking at another basement-apartment door, which was slowly starting to give way. His face was eerily calm – like that of The Hanged Man in the tarot card he’d intended to leave beside Geneva Settle’s body. He must’ve believed he’d hit Sachs because he ignored where she’d fallen and was concentrating on breaking through the doorway – the only escape route left. He looked behind him once or twice, toward the far end of the block, where the uniformed officers were making their way toward him – though slowly since he’d turn and fire at them occasionally.

He too would have to be out of ammo pretty soon, she figured. He probably -

Boyd ejected the clip from his pistol and slipped a new one in. Reloaded.

Okay, well…

She could stay where she was, safe, and hope that other officers would get here before he escaped.

But Sachs thought of the brunette lying bloody in the bungalow – maybe dead by now. She thought of the electrocuted officer, the librarian killed yesterday. She thought of the young rookie Pulaski, his face battered and bloody. And mostly she thought of poor young Geneva Settle, who’d be at risk every minute Boyd was free and walking the streets. Clutching the empty gun, she came to a decision.

Thompson Boyd delivered another powerful kick into the basement door. It was starting to give way. He’d get inside, he’d -

“Don’t move, Boyd. Drop the weapon.”

Blinking his stinging eyes in surprise, Thompson turned his head. He lowered his foot, which was poised for another kick.

Well, now, what’s this?

Keeping his gun low, he turned his head slowly and looked toward her. Yes, like he’d thought, it was the woman from the crime scene at the museum library yesterday morning. Walking back and forth, back and forth, like the sidewinder. Red hair, white jumpsuit. The one he’d enjoyed watching, admiring her. There was a lot to admire, he reflected. And a good shot, too.

He was surprised that she was alive. He thought for sure he’d hit her in the last barrage.

“Boyd, I will shoot. Drop your gun, lie down on the sidewalk.”

He thought a few more kicks at this door should break it in. Then into the alley behind the place. Or maybe the people who lived here had a car. He could take the keys and shoot whoever was inside, wound them, draw off more of the police. Escape.

But, of course, there was one question that had to be answered first: Did she have any ammunition left?

“You hearing me, Boyd?”

“So it’s you.” Squinted his stinging eyes. Hadn’t used any Murine lately. “Thought it might be.”

She frowned. She didn’t know what he meant. Maybe she was wondering if he’d seen her before, wondering how he knew her.

Boyd was careful not to move. He had to figure this out. Shoot her or not? But if he made the slightest motion toward her and she did have rounds left she’d fire. He knew that without a doubt. Nothing squeamish about this woman.

They’ll kill you in a kiss…

He debated. Her gun was a six-round Smith & Wesson.38 special. She’d fired five times. Thompson Boyd always counted shots (he knew he himself had eight left in his present clip, and one more fourteen-round clip in his pocket).

Had she reloaded? If not, did she have one more round left?

There are police officers who keep an empty chamber under the hammer on revolvers on the rare chance that accidentally dropping it will cause the gun to fire. But she didn’t seem to be that sort of person. She knew weapons too well. She’d never drop one accidentally. Besides, if she was doing tactical work, she’d want every round possible. No, she wasn’t an empty-cylinder kind of cop.

“Boyd, I’m not telling you again!”

On the other hand, he was thinking, this gun wasn’t hers. Yesterday at the museum she’d worn an automatic on her hip, a Glock. She still had a Glock holster on her belt now. Was the Smittie a backup piece? In the old days, when all cops had six-shooters, they sometimes carried another gun in an ankle holster. But these days, with automatics holding at least a dozen rounds and two extra clips on the belt, they usually didn’t bother with a second weapon.

No, he bet that she’d either lost her automatic or loaned it to somebody and had borrowed this one, which meant she probably didn’t have rounds to reload. Next question: Did the person she borrowed the Smittie from keep an empty chamber under the hammer? That, he’d have no way of knowing, of course.

So the question came down to what kind of person she was. Boyd thought back to the museum, seeing her searching like a rattlesnake. Thinking of her in the hallway outside the Elizabeth Street safe house, going through the door after him. Thinking of her coming after him now – leaving Jea

He decided: She was bluffing. If she had a round left she’d have shot him.

“You’re out of ammo,” he a

She grimaced and the gun slumped. He’d been right. Should he kill her? No, just shoot to wound. But where was the best place? Painful and life-threatening. Screaming and copious blood both attract a lot of attention. She was favoring one leg; he’d shoot the painful one, the knee. When she was down, he’d park another round in her shoulder. And get away.

“So you win,” she said. “What is it now? I’m a hostage?”

He hadn’t thought of this. He hesitated. Did it make sense? Would it be helpful? Usually hostages were more trouble than they were worth.

No, better to shoot her. He began to pull the trigger as she pitched her gun to the sidewalk in defeat. He glanced at it, thinking, Something’s wrong here…What was it?

She’d been holding the revolver in her left hand. But the holster was on her right hip.

Thompson’s eyes returned to her and gasped as he saw the flashing knife cartwheeling toward his face. She’d flung it with her right hand, when he’d glanced at her gun for a second.

The switchblade didn’t stick into him, or even cut – it was the handle that collided with his cheek – but she’d tossed it directly at his poor eyes. Thompson ducked away instinctively, lifting his arm to protect them. Before he could step back and draw a target, the woman was on him, swinging a stone she’d picked up from the garden. He felt a stu

He pulled the trigger once, and the gun fired. But the shot missed and before he could fire again the rock slammed into his right hand. The gun dropped to the ground. He howled and cradled his wounded fingers.

Thinking she’d go for the gun, he tried to body-block her. But she wasn’t interested in the pistol. She had all the weapon she needed; the rock crashed into his face once more. “No, no…” He tried to hit her, but she was big and strong, and another blow from the rock sent him to his knees, then his side, twisting away from the blows. “Stop, stop,” he cried. But in response he felt another blow of the rock against his cheek. He heard a howl of rage coming from her throat.

They’ll kill you…

What was she doing? he wondered in shock. She’d won… Why was she doing this, breaking the rules? How could she? This wasn’t by the book.

…in a kiss.

In fact, when the uniformed officers sprinted up a moment later, only one of them grabbed Thompson Boyd and cuffed him. The other got his arm around the policewoman and struggled to wrestle the bloody stone from her grip. Through the pain, the ringing in his ears, Thompson heard the cop saying over and over, “It’s okay, it’s okay, you got him, Detective. It’s cool, you can relax. He’s not going anywhere, he’s not going anywhere, he’s not going anywhere…”