the Fair Grounds.
Then I spot the shrapnel, the screws, bolts, and nails, scattered all over the runway, ready to—
Ready to—
I stop, lean over, and vomit, again and again…like a rookie cop, looking at his first dead body.
Then I get up, start walking again, wanting to see a dead Billy, and his dead comrades. I can see Billy going through with this, his deranged thoughts and fantasies, but whom did he convince to join him? Who would these men have been? And more importantly…do they have allies out there, waiting for—God forbid it—a third attack?
I get to the crumpled cabin of one of the Cessnas, and lean down, peering through the shattered windshield, at the crumpled seat and broken instrument panel, and—
There’s nobody there.
Nobody!
There are controls there, and a laptop computer, and a broken system of cables and pulleys, and it comes to me.
This wasn’t a suicide mission.
This was an out-and-out kill mission, using these Cessnas as huge, weapons-filled drones.
No wonder one of the hangars had a large radio antenna behind it.
That’s how they were controlled.
Angus, back when I had interrogated him at the bridge.
And they even got these smarty scientist types, smarter than you, cop, you can be sure.
This wasn’t a suicide mission, then.
Meaning…
I whip around, look to the two open hangars, and there—
Is the Audi, speeding away.
Escaping.
Billy getting away with it.
I could yell, scream, shout, but I instantly react with my cop instincts.
I throw myself to the petroleum-stained grass, pull out my pistol, start shooting.
Not like the movies or TV, with rapid-fire shots.
The odds are against me.
I force myself to relax, to focus, and most of all, to aim.
I fire one shot.
Another.
Another.
With each second the Audi is getting farther away from me, closer and closer to final escape, and I can’t let that happen.
It’s all up to me.
Another shot.
Another.
I lead the Audi, like a duck hunter aiming ahead of his prey, and I keep on shooting, not aiming for the tires, or the gas tank, but for the windows.
I mean to kill the son of a bitch.
I shoot again.
Then…
The Audi slows down.
Sways back and forth, back and forth.
Slows some more.
I get up, shaking, legs quivering, my hammered chest feeling like the bones there are about to impale my heart and cause me to bleed out near the burning wreckage, and I don’t care.
I’m beyond caring.
I start my long walk to the still Audi.
Once again, a gamble has paid off for my beloved Big Easy, its people, and most of all, my Vanessa.
Vanessa.
It feels like half the morning has passed before I get to the car. The engine is still running but the windshield and side windows are pockmarked with bullet holes.
I tug the driver’s door open and Billy slides out.
It looks like one of my rounds got him in the shoulder.
There’s lots of blood on him, and the seat.
He tumbles to the ground.
His eyes open.
He’s still alive.
I kneel next to him.
He’s talking to me, cursing me, promising vengeance, a violent death.
I shove the end of my pistol into his mouth.
His eyes widen; he tries to scream with the cold metal in his mouth.
I lean over so he can hear me.
“Remember the other day when I said I’d screw my pistol into your worthless mouth and pull the trigger?”
I push it in farther. “It was you who sent people to attack Marlene! To trash my truck!”
His eyes are wide and he’s trying to talk, but I don’t take the gun out. I don’t care what he has to say. “It was you who sent those Nazis after Vanessa! Why? To get to me? Are you the one who told Lucas Dodd about me and Vanessa, too?”
He’s coughing and gagging, trying to explain himself, but there’s nothing he can say. And I can tell from his desperate expression that all my accusations are true. “Sixty-five thousand people! You were going to murder sixty-five thousand people!”
His good arm lifts up, tries to push me away, but he can’t do it. He’s too feeble and I’m too determined.
“Sixty-five thousand! And those innocent people—innocent children!—killed in the parade! You animal!”
Then I pull the pistol free.
He coughs, chokes.
The end of the muzzle is wet with his bloody spit.
“Go to hell, Billy,” I say. “But it won’t be today…because each bullet in my pistol is worth about fifty cents, much more than you’ll ever be.”
Then I sit back and wait.
Chapter 99
“GIMME FIVE scoops, three quacks, six waddles, two meows, and nine shakes!”
I’m hunched over the flaming-hot stove, soaked head to toe in sweat.
I’m scarfing an endless