you information that will result in his acquittal.”
“How much time do you need?” I ask, though I can’t imagine an answer that I will be willing to go along with.
“Ninety-six hours.” I am struck not only by the absurdity of the number but also by its specificity.
“You’re wasting my time. You have ninety-six minutes to tell me what I need to know, and then, if it’s as valuable as you say, I’ll hold off on reporting what I already know.” I’m okay with making this pledge, since all I really have on him are suspicions without proof.
He doesn’t answer for so long that I think he may have quietly hung up. Finally, “I will meet you tonight.”
“In a public place,” I say, thinking of Franklin’s arranged meeting with Karen.
“No, it can’t be. Believe me, that is not possible.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“You don’t know the people you are dealing with. But you can choose our meeting place, and you can bring anyone you want with you, so long as it is not the authorities. I will be alone.”
I’m not thrilled with this, but I don’t think I can push him any further. I direct him to Eastside Park, where I will have home field advantage, and he says he can be there by eleven. That will give me plenty of time to make sure my buddy Marcus is there by my side.
As soon as I get off the phone I call Marcus. He’s probably right outside the house but doesn’t say so one way or the other when we talk. I tell him what is going on and that I want him here at 10:45. He grunts either yes or no; I’ll know for sure at 10:45.
“What will you do if Marcus doesn’t show up?” Kevin asks when I hang up.
“Call Pete Stanton and ask him to come.”
“Didn’t Hamadi say no police?”
“I’ll tell Pete not to show his badge.”
Marcus shows up right on time, and I explain the ground rules to him. “I just want to talk to the guy. If he wants to do anything other than talk, you should stop him. As hard as you want.”
Marcus and I drive to the same area of the park where we had our encounter with Windshield Man. It is on the lower level near the baseball fields, and to get there we drive down a road that we referred to as Dead Man’s Curve when we were kids. While it’s a fairly steep hill as it wraps around, the nickname we gave it shows that a child’s perspective can be a little warped.
Marcus and I are there at a minute before eleven, and we get out of the car together. There’s plenty of moonlight, and I walk a few yards to where I can see the curve, since that is the way Hamadi will be entering. There is no sign of him, but it’s not that easy to find this place, so I’m willing to give him a grace period.
“Let’s give him a few minutes,” I say to Marcus, but he doesn’t answer, which is no great surprise. What is a surprise is that when I turn to look at Marcus, I discover that he is gone.
“Marcus?”
No answer. I’m going to take it on faith that Marcus is still here but has decided that protecting me is more easily accomplished by staying out of sight.
With nothing better to do, I look back toward the curve. At about ten after the hour I see a car up above, beginning to make its way down. It’s traveling slowly, as if the driver is unsure where he is going. That’s a good sign.
The car moves silently along until it is about halfway down the curve, wrapping around and descending toward me, though still at least two hundred yards away. Suddenly I hear a deafening noise and see a sight so amazing I have to do a double take to make sure it’s real.
The car is now completely engulfed in a ball of flames, yet it continues to roll down the curve. In the darkness it looks surreal; it’s momentarily hard to realize that someone has undoubtedly just burned to death in it.
Before I even have time to react, I feel a smashing blow in my gut, and I find myself off my feet, up in the air. In an instant I am literally flying, and I’ve flown maybe twenty yards before I realize that I have been lifted off the ground by Marcus, and that