"Case dismissed!" The judge whacked his gavel three times, a look of relief spreading across his heavy face as he sprang for the door to his chambers.
Several reporters bolted for the exit door, elbowing their colleagues to the side. The sketch artist from Channel 7 Eyewitness News dropped her Staedtler Mars-Lumograph 3H pencil and watched it disappear under two rows of trampling feet before someone stepped on it. Just as well, she thought. That was the one she'd used to sketch Dirk Fallows, and she had a strict rule, a superstition really, about such things. Once she sketched a man like him with a pencil, she never used it again. Actually threw it away as soon as possible. Silly, maybe. But she looked at brushes, pens and pencils as some kind of spiritual antennas, receivers of the spirit. And she didn't want Fallows' spirit any where near her. She gave a brief shiver and marched briskly toward the doors.
A thick shoulder from Steve Jennings at Channel 9 nudged her in the back and sent her tripping forward. Her hands groped ahead as she started to fall, her briefcase flying from her shoulder, the contents spilling beneath urgent feet.
Then a hand was holding her firmly by the shoulder and she was falling no more. The hand came from behind and at first she thought it was Jennings. But no, there he went out the door, bullying past the Times Metro reporter with as much grace as a waltzing lumberjack. She turned to thank the man, gasped slightly when she recognized him.
"Uh… I mean, thanks… uh, thanks, Mr. Ravensmith."
Eric didn't answer. He stooped down and somehow created a circle around her spilled briefcase. He didn't say anything to anyone, didn't touch anyone. His face wasn't threatening. Gentle, really, though after sketching him for two months, she knew that he was feeling anything but gentle right now.
He straightened up, carefully slipping her sketch pad back into her briefcase. "I'm afraid there are some footprints on the one of the coroner," he said.
"How'd you do that?" she said.
"Do what?"
She made a stirring motion with her finger. "You know, get these animals to walk around you."
"Maybe it's my cologne," he said, but there was no smile on his face, in his reddish-brown eyes. In fact, he wasn't even looking at her, he was looking past her, over her shoulder. She knew at what, but turned to look anyway.
Col. Dirk Fallows.
He was standing, his lawyer smiling and chattering happily at him. But Fallows wasn't listening. He was staring past the crowd, burning a path through them with his pale blue eyes. So pale they almost seemed colorless. Yet, set in that long V-shaped face, framed by the premature white hair, they were strangely compelling.
How many times had she traced the rocky slopes of his face with her Staedtler 3H, shaded the hollows under his cheeks, struggled to get the cruelty in those thick, full lips? How could she convey the arrogant tilt of his head, the sneer that flashed across his face like the shadow of a passing bird? And hadn't she once or twice even thought it was a handsome face, in a fascist sort of way? She winced at such thoughts. Why does the moth fly so close to the flame, until singed and exhausted it lies, beating useless wings against a table top? Oh, Christ, here I go again, she sighed. Save it for your diary, babe, it's safer.
Not that Eric Ravensmith was much better. He was a good family man, at least according to a character witness, the Chairman of the History Department where he taught. "Well thought of was the phrase Dr. Leopold had used. But what about the black scabs on Joshua Sempleton's face. The cast on his wrist. The kid's testimony of how he was dragged across the kitchen floor, how coolly Ravensmith had popped open the dishwasher looking for something to torture the boy with. Finding a damn cheese grater, for Christ's sake. And the whole court was buzzing with something that had happened only minutes before today's session. A shooting of some sort. Ravensmith blasting away in a crowded corridor, killing a man, wounding a dozen bystanders. She noticed for the first time a smudge of dried blood on his pants leg.
Still, the two men stared at each other. Silent, yet intense. Like two sophisticated computers exchanging information. Both their faces remained rigid, expression less, except for the corner of Fallows' mouth. It twitched slightly, finally stretching into a tight, grim smile. The triumphant grin of a jackal about to bury its face into the innards of a slaughtered deer. She shuddered, pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
"I'm Tracy," she said finally, offering her hand. "Tracy Ammes."
Eric hesitated, his eyes still fixed. Then he shifted his head slightly, almost a nod. A nod of resolution, Tracy thought. Resolving what?
"Nice to meet you." He turned to face her, shook her hand.
"I appreciate the help. I'm a little clumsy sometimes."
"Perhaps, but not this time. I saw that guy blindside you."
"Well, Steve's motto is Do Unto Others Until Thou Art Rewarded With a Network Anchor Job." She'd never been this close to him before, never really seen how wicked that scar was, the way it sprouted up out of his collar, wound around his jaw like a jungle river, then pooled against his cheek in that strange pattern. It must hurt, she thought.
"It doesn't," Eric said.
"Pardon me?"
"It doesn't hurt. The scar."
She felt her face flush. "I didn't mean to, uh-"
"Stare?"
She nodded. "I'm so embarrassed."
"Don't be," he laughed, the sound coming out oddly out of tone, as if he hadn't done it for a while.
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
"It's what everybody wonders when they see it. They think it must hurt. It doesn't though, no feeling at all. Kind of nice in a way."
Tracy could see he was just killing time with her until Luther Nichols finished arguing with Flip Bendix, the D.A.'s special assistant. Ravensmith's eyes kept drifting toward the closed door through which the cops had just hustled Dirk Fallows. He looked almost as if he could see through the door and was following Fallows down the hall.
"Heard you had some excitement earlier," Tracy said.
"Some."
She nodded again, not anxious to pursue it. After all, she wasn't a reporter. She was an artist. Let the glory boys do their own damn job.
"Let's go, Eric," Luther Nichols said, bustling by them. "We have to talk."
"I don't think so," Eric replied calmly, but with an unmistakable edge. "Everything's been said. The case is dismissed. Fallows will be out on the street. On my street."
"We're looking into possibly pressing charges against the Sempleton kid for-"
"Sempleton? Forget him. He'll be dead by the end of the day. Don't bother looking for the body."
"What do you mean?" Luther said.
"I mean he talked. He broke under torture. Brought Fallows' name into it. Dirk won't let that go. Bad discipline."
"Maybe we can put some men on them. Try to catch him in the act."
"Forget it. They can shake anybody you put on. Let it go."
"Well, there're still the two who attacked you. Sam DeSoto and Gordon Maag. Maybe we can tie Fallows in there."
"Sure. Maybe."
Luther looked at Tracy as if noticing her for the first time, "Hi, Tracy."
"Hi, Luther. Sorry about the loss."
Luther shrugged. "We'll get him. Eventually."
Eric snorted, started walking away.
"Hold up, Eric. We still have to talk."
"About what?"
Luther looked around the room. Most of the people had left, except the bailiff, Eric and Luther. And Tracy. "Let's talk in my office."
"Don't clam up on my account," Tracy said. "I was just leaving. Nice meeting you, Mr. Ravensmith. See you, Luther." She hurried past them and out the doors, glancing over her shoulder at Eric before disappearing down the hall.
"What did you tell her?" Luther asked,
"What's to tell?"
Luther sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Let's get out of here. I've got a bottle in my office."
"Why?"
"Why do I have a bottle in my office?"
"Why do we have to talk?"
"We have to discuss the charges."
"What's the big deal? They killed your guard and they tried to kill me. Murder and attempted murder."
"I don't mean the charges against them. I mean the ones against you."
Luther twisted off the cap of the Diet 7-Up. The resulting hiss sounded like escaping steam. He poured a glass for Eric.
"When you said you had a bottle in your office, I expected something a little more dynamic."
"Can't drink alcohol. Bad stomach. Besides, you don't drink anyway. I haven't seen you touch a single drop of booze since I've known you."
Eric sipped the soft drink without answering.
Luther continued. "And I noticed a couple other things. Like you've been spending more and more time working out at Goodman's gym. Sparring with some of his fighters."
"I'm just keeping in shape."
"More like getting back into shape. Not that you weren't already the envy of every man in that courtroom. Except maybe Dirk Fallows." Luther perched on the edge of his desk and sipped his drink, his eyes studying Eric's impassive face. "That guy must do push-ups in his sleep. There isn't a square inch on him that doesn't look hard and mean."
"What's your point, Luther?"
"I want you to stay clean, that's my goddamn point. You've gone back into basic training again, as if you were still with the Night Shift in Nam. I have a feeling that you think you're going to take up where the law left off. Search and destroy. Target: Dirk Fallows. Am I right?"
"No."
"Bullshit, Eric. I've seen that look before. Everytime some slime gets off, the victim or the victim's survivors get that I'm-going-to-teach-him-justice look. With you it's buried deeper, camouflaged better. But it's still there. Well, I'm warning you right now, if it hadn't been for your methods in the first place, we might have nailed that bastard to the wall. He'd be doing hard time-"
Eric smiled.
It was an eerie smile that cut Luther short. He swallowed, shrugged. "Okay, we probably wouldn't have even been able to make the connection. And the only reason we're handling it in Los Angeles is because Orange County kicked it free and we established the conspiracy took place here. But that didn't make Greg McMurtry happy. You know how Greg wound up the District Attorney? You know how he started in politics?"
"I don't really care."
"Well, you'd better care, pal. Because he is not thrilled about us losing this case in an election year. He'd like to get some convictions. And since he couldn't get Fallows, he's starting to think about you and your damned shoot-out today." He swigged his soda and plopped back into his desk chair. "Greg McMurtry was twenty-one and just out of UCLA when he decided he wanted to run for office. He went down to the Democratic headquarters and told them he wanted to run for office. 'Which office?' they asked. 'Whatta ya got?' he answered. They laughed at him and told him to get lost. So he went over to the Republican headquarters and asked them the same thing. They talked to him a little, helped him get into law school, and he hasn't lost an election since. That gives you an idea of what his priorities are. If he thought dragging you down Rodeo Drive behind his Mercedes would get him votes, he'd be tying you to the rear bumper right now."
"So he wants to charge me with what?"
"Discharging a firearm within city limits. Creating public disturbance. Loitering in the men's room. Whatever he can make stick. So don't go mistaking California for Asia. I think I can handle things on this end, just don't make it rougher on yourself and me. Okay?"
Eric slowly stood up, stretched out his hand. "Thanks for everything, Luther."
Luther grasped Eric's hand with both of his and shook warmly. "I didn't think you'd listen to me, but I had to try."
"You're wrong, Luther. I'm not out to prove anything or get anyone. I'm just out to protect what I have. Whatever it takes."
"Just remember I haven't given up on this end yet. I know we'll get Fallows for something. Maybe even on this shoot-out today."
Eric nodded, started for the door. No point in arguing. Luther didn't know Fallows the way he did, didn't know what he was capable of.
"Give my love to Annie and the kids," Luther called after Eric.
Eric turned back to wave. Saw Luther opening his top desk drawer.
Heard an odd metallic click.
Like a cricket.
Somehow familiar.
Luther was peering into his desk, a puzzled look on his face. "Jesus Christ, what-?"
Then it all came back to Eric in a dizzying rush of data. Weight: 0.69 Ibs. Length: 4.5 inches. Diameter: 2.25 inches. Color: apple green with RGD-5 written on body. Explosive: 110 grams of TNT. Fuse: percussion with delay of 3.2 to 4.2 seconds. Type: RGD-5 anti-personnel hand grenade.
"Get out! Get out!" Eric screamed at Luther.
But Luther returned only a look of confusion, then a flash of understanding, and a sad look of acceptance.
The explosion tore the desk in half, spitting shards of wood like sharpened arrows through Luther's chest. The impact of the explosion twisted his head sideways, half ripping it off his shoulders. His body was lifted and tossed against the wall hard enough to imbed him momentarily in the plaster before his body plopped lifelessly to the floor. Thick, dark blood splotched the white plaster wall in a crazy buckshot pattern.
Eric was thrown against the opposite wall, his head cracking against a metal filing cabinet. He flopped to the floor, feeling his body being tugged this way and that, as if caught in a violent ocean tide. He remembered the last time he'd taken the kids body surfing. Thought he heard Annie calling his name, warning him not to swim out too far.
Then a dark, heavy wave washed over him and he went under.