sat on the roof, leaning back so that her center of gravity was lower. Stevie
let go of her leg and gasped in relief.
"Thanks," Jazz said.
"Jump," Stevie said. "We have seconds."
She glanced at Stevie and the gun in his hand and wanted to say, Don't make things any worse, but
she realized they were as bad as they could get. If these men caught them, they'd be dead.
Jazz eyed the limb of the oak tree, balanced on her feet with her arms outstretched for balance, then
leaped. The branch punched her in the chest and she held on, legs swinging, hands scrabbling for purchase.
"Swing left!" Stevie called, and behind his voice were others, quieter and less panicked, more in
control.
Jazz swung her legs to the left and kicked a branch. One trainer caught and she heaved her other leg
up, swung both arms over the branch before her, and then lay across it, look-ing back to Stevie.
"Come on!" she said, but he had already turned to look up the slope of the roof. A shape appeared
above the ridge and he shot at it, aiming again even as Jazz saw that it was a diversion.
"Look out!" she shouted. Farther along the ridge a man rose up —Philip, a loose slate in each hand.
He flung them. The first bounced from the roof and shattered, shards flying over Stevie's head. The second
caught him square in the face.
He dropped the gun. It slid from the roof, caught in the gutter for a second, then spun down to the
ground below. Jazz watched. There was solid paving down there, a patio, and it was at least twenty-five
feet down.
"Stevie!" she shrieked.
He turned to her slowly, but he could not see. The slate had caught him across the bridge of the nose
and just be-neath his eyes, and the wound it had made was horrendous.
"Jump!" Jazz said, but it came out more like a sob.
Philip and another man were sliding down the roof toward him, taking their time because they knew
they had him. Philip grinned madly. They could see the blood, and the shiver that went through Stevie was
all too apparent.
Perhaps it was a final act of defiance. Maybe Stevie was already unconscious. Jazz would never
know. But she would never forget the sight of him falling forward from the edge of the roof and striking the
ground headfirst. Nor would she forget the sound his body made as it hit concrete, or the dis-appointed
expressions on the men's faces as they realized Stevie had denied them their revenge.
Jazz had no fear now; she was numb. There was little thought about where the best handholds were.
She reached the trunk of the tree and climbed down, finding another heavy limb that led out toward the
street. She walked along this one, ducking below other branches, holding on to what-ever she found above
her, until she could see the tall bound-ary wall below her. She lowered herself down, jumped from the wall,
and landed on the pavement, rolling to the left.
Hands grasped her shoulders.
"Come with me!" Terence said softly. He helped her stand and guided her across the road, and she
followed in mute acceptance. She knew that if there was any chance of escape, it would be with him. He
cursed as they ran, mutter-ing to himself and hauling Jazz as though she were a bit of baggage.
Terence ripped off her hat and glasses and buried them in a bin, ruffled her hair, tried to wipe her
tears away. Unable to stop herself, she cast one last glance at the mayor's house.
Mortimer Keating stood on the street corner, beside the open rear door of a black BMW. He seemed
calm, as though the events that had just unfolded —the sound of gunshots and the appearance of Jazz from
the branches of that tree— had been no surprise at all. Uncle Mort held something to his ear, a radio or a
phone. From that distance she and Terence could easily have outrun him, but he didn't make any move to
pursue them. Instead, he simply waved at Jazz and smiled, as though he had a secret.
"What the hell is that about?" she said.
Terence looked back as Uncle Mort slipped into the backseat of the BMW. The car pulled away.
"What's what about?" Terence said.
Jazz didn't reply. Her mind whirled. As she hurried along the street, she stole glances down alleys
and into parked cars, even looked up at the windows of houses. The back of her neck burned with the
feeling of being observed. Her mother had raised her to be paranoid, but she couldn't shake the idea that
this was more than
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