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Some wave of serenity came over Timko’s face, which I read as her having made up her mind. To her we were dead cops walking, and now she was thinking ahead to how to get rid of ou
r bodies.
She said to her brother, “Walt, here’s an idea. We can get into the processing plant. You can work the grinder, right?”
“You’re thinking cop burgers?”
“Exactly. Cop Prime. With bacon. Well done.”
They both had a good laugh.
I couldn’t help it. I pictured my body going through an industrial-grade meat grinder and heard the whirr of the blades cutting through muscle and bone. It gave me the horrors.
Why didn’t Walter and Donna just shoot us now?
Simple answer. It would be easier for them if we went into the transport van on the hoof.
I wanted to look at Conklin but didn’t dare take my eyes off the sweetheart of Chuck’s executive board, a woman who had sympathized with the bomb victims and the little people who worked at Chuck’s and was now transformed into a grinning, bloodthirsty ghoul.
Timko was not only thinking ahead, she wanted my opinion.
She said, “That’ll work, right, Sergeant? Take you out through the garage, and we all get into the van. Who knows, we might drop you off somewhere and make a run for Canada.”
“That’s a better idea than the meat processor,” I said. “We go missing, the FBI will be all over that plant, and you know human blood and remains will spell it all out, PDQ.”
“Good point. Well, I’m loaded with ideas. That’s my best one so far. Walt, get his gun. Come on. I can’t do everything.”
Walt was a lefty.
He walked over to Conklin and pressed the gun muzzle to his temple. Sweat rolled down my sides, but my partner was cool, give him credit. Give him all the credit in the world.
Walt said, “Take out your gun with the tips of your fingers and pass it to me. No sudden moves. My metabolism is high, normally. Now? I could shoot you out of pure freaking jitters. So do what I say. Okay?”
If Conklin didn’t hand over his gun, Brenner might reach for it. That would give my partner an opportunity to head-butt him, elbow him in the groin, any number of moves that might work—or get us both killed.
Timko flicked her eyes toward Conklin, who was gauging the situation, looking to see what her brother was going to do.
I knew what I had to do, and that I had to get it right the first time.
It might be the only chance Conklin and I had to get out of El Cerrito alive.
CHAPTER 84
MY HANDS WERE flat on the table, but I hooked my thumbs under the edge of it. I took a breath, gathered my strength, and exhaled. Rising out of my chair, I flipped the dining table away from me and toward Donna Timko.
Donna yelped as the tabletop went vertical. She bolted out of her chair before the hundred pounds of tiger maple came down on her thighs, but she lost her footing and fell backward to the floor along with her chair and the fancy bone china crashing around her.
At the moment I flipped the table, Walt reflexively turned his gun on me.
Conklin went into action. Using both hands, he slammed Walt’s forearm away from his head to the left, and using the power of his legs, drove Walt into the wall. He followed that body slam up with a knee to Walt’s groin, then moved to get the gun out of his grip. He wrenched Walt’s gun backward. The angle of the trigger guard snapped Walt’s finger.
I heard it break.
Brenner’s scream was part shock, part fury, and then there was the pain. And Conklin wasn’t through with him yet.
As Conklin forced Walt’s arm behind him and brought him to the floor, I went for Timko.
I’m fit and she was a loose pile of what-the-fuck happened crammed into the corner behind an upended chair and dining table. I threw the chair out of my way, got around the table, and found the big woman lying on her shooting arm.
