Rook’s lunge knocked the cable out of Windsor’s hand. He let go of the reins
and bent down into the well of the coachman’s box to retrieve it. While the
undriven horse began to run a circle in the meadow, with screaming protestors diving
for safety, Rook clambered to drape himself over Rainbow, reaching down past him to
get the switch out of play. When Windsor came inches from getting to the end of the
cable, Rook switched tactics. He balled a fist and started pounding the fresh
gunshot wound. Rainbow shrieked in pain but held fast to the wire. Rook punched his
calf again and again. Windsor twisted to punch Rook, and when he did, Rook snatched
the cable from him and tossed the deadly end of it over the back of the seat, where
it dangled out of reach.
Rainbow removed his hands from his bleeding calf and elbow-smacked Rook’s nose. As
Rook fell to the side, Windsor pulled his knife from a belt sheath. Through watering
eyes, Rook caught the glint of the blade and swung his forearm up. Just as he made
contact with Rainbow’s wrist, the carriage double-bumped over the stone curbing of
the park path and the combination flung the knife out of the killer’s hands and
onto the passing ground. Unarmed and desperate, Windsor hurled himself up, bending
over the back of the seat rail, groping to reach the swaying cable. But the fire
carriage lurched again as Heat caught up and leaped aboard. She snatched Windsor by
the back of his belt and shoved him headfirst right over the seat. He fell into the
gap of air between the coachman’s box and the boiler, landing hard on the ground
speeding underneath. The wagon shuddered as the rear wheels rolled over him. Nikki
jumped off.
Sniffing back blood, Rook grabbed the cable and drew it safely into the coach. He
called a soft “Whoa” and tugged the reins. The horse came to a docile stop amid
hundreds of marchers. Across the lawn he could hear Rainbow, facedown in the grass,
pleading to Heat who stood above him. “Shoot me! Aw, fuck, please, just fucking do
it!”
But not all destinies are fulfilled. Nikki ended the killing right there. She cuffed
him, holstered her gun, and waited for the rest of the crew to catch up while Rook
neatly coiled the orange cord.
And then under the thrum of hovering airships and the urgent wail of sirens, a
strange and graceful quiet enveloped her, as if mayhem’s shadow had been carried
away on the spring breeze off the harbor. In her soundless world cushioned by
deliverance, Nikki looked around at all the faces in the crowd, at all the people
who were going to live. And looking down at Rainbow, she knew she was going to live,
too.
Ten years, twenty-three weeks, and four days of agony, apprehension, and dread—all
over in a single moment. She reflected on that decade-plus. Her entire adult life
had been honed by loss, faith, preparation, sacrifice, and tenacity. But also by
fortune. A deadly plot might have been fulfilled if it hadn’t been for a serial
killer getting himself involved.
And if Detective Heat hadn’t been juggling both cases.
Monday evening Nikki came home from the federal arraignment of Carey Maggs feeling
relief and agony. When Rook called from his suite at the SLS in Beverly Hills to
check in on her, she said, “You know, everyone says there’s no such thing as
closure. But I’m starting to learn I’m not so much interested in that as I am in a
finish. I expect it’s natural that I’ll carry this hurt about my mom all my life,
but I sure wouldn’t mind having the work of it end.”
“And Maggs pleading not guilty keeps it in your face.”
“Absolutely. Months and more of trial and delays. I want to be done, Rook.”
“At least the investigation part is.”
“There’s that,” she said. “You should have seen him today with his Dream Team of
legal heavyweights. It looked like he was sitting there with Mount Rushmore.”
“The feds are still going to nail him, you know that.”
“But it won’t be without a long fight. His team already has petitioned to throw
out the corroborative testimony from Glen Windsor’s confession. They’re calling it
fruit from a tainted tree.”
“I hate that,” said Rook. “What has this country come to when you can’t trust
the word of a serial killer?”
“I’d laugh if it weren’t true. I’ve been involved in enough cases to know how
this will work, too. The prosecutor will trade that away if the defense doesn’t
pursue DHS taking Maggs off for his extracurricular interrogation.”
“They do have a Black Barn, I know it.”
“So tell me about your meetings. Is your head swimming with fruit-basket love?”