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They were soft, barely audible, faint slaps. He'd never heard a noise like that. Lon Sellitto now shivered and felt nauseous.
And the man's brown eyes . . . They were looking right into Sellitto's when the slugs hit. In a fraction of an instant there was surprise, then pain, then . . . nothing. It was the oddest thing Sellitto had ever seen. Not like drifting off to sleep, not distracted. The only way to describe it: one moment there was something complicated and real behind the eyes and then, an instant later, even before he crumpled to the sidewalk, there was nothing.
The detective had remained frozen, staring at the limp doll lying in front of him--despite the fact that he knew he should be trying to run down the shooter. The medics had actually jostled him aside to get to Barry; Sellitto had been unable to move.
Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
Then, when it came time to call Barry's next of kin, Sellitto had balked again. He'd made plenty of those difficult calls over the years. None of them easy, of course. But today he simply couldn't face it. He'd made up some bullshit excuse about his phone and let someone else do the duty. He was afraid his voice would crack. He was afraid he'd cry, which he'd never done in his decades of service.
Now, he heard the radio report on the futile pursuit of the perp.
Hearing, tap, tap, tap . . .
Fuck, I just want to go home.
He wanted to be with Rachel, have a beer with her on their porch in Brooklyn. Well, too early for beer. A coffee. Or maybe it wasn't too early for a beer. Or a scotch. He wanted to be sitting there, watching the grass and trees. Talking. Or not saying anything. Just to be with her. Suddenly the detective's thoughts shifted to his teenage son, who lived with Sellitto's ex. He hadn't called the boy for three or four days. Had to do that.
He--
Shit. Sellitto realized that he was standing in the middle of Elizabeth Street with his back to the building he was supposed to be guarding, lost in thought. Jesus Christ! What're you doing? The shooter's loose around here somewhere, and you're fucking daydreaming? He could be waiting in that alley there, or the other one, just like he was that morning.
Crouching, Sellitto turned back, examining the dark windows, smudged or shaded. The perp could be behind any one of them, sighting down on him right now with that fucking little gun of his. Tap, tap . . . The needles from the bullets tearing flesh to shreds as they fanned out. Sellitto shivered and stepped back, taking refuge between two parked delivery trucks, out of sight of the windows. Peering around the side of one van, he watched the black windows, he watched the door.
But those weren't what he saw. No, he was seeing the brown eyes of the librarian in front of him, a few feet away.
I didn't . . .
Tap, tap . . .
Life becoming no life.
Those eyes . . .
He wiped his shooting hand on his suit trousers, telling himself that he was sweating only because of the body armor. What was with the fucking weather? It was too hot for October. Who the hell wouldn't sweat?
*
"I can't see him, K," Sachs whispered into her microphone.
"Say again?" was Haumann's staticky reply.
"No sign of him, K."
The warehouse into which Unsub 109 had fled was essentially one big open space divided by mesh catwalks. On the floor were pallets of olive oil bottles and tomato sauce cans, sealed in shrink-wrap. The catwalk she stood on was about thirty feet up, around the perimeter--level with the unsub's apartment in the building next door. It was a working warehouse, though probably used only sporadically; there were no signs that employees had been here recently. The lights were out but enough illumination filtered through greasy skylights to give her a view of the place.
The floors were swept clean and she could find no footprints to reveal which way Unsub 109 had gone. In addition to the front door and back loading-dock door, there were two others on the ground-floor level, to the side. One labeled Restroom, the other unmarked.
Moving slowly, swinging her Glock ahead of her, her flashlight beam seeking a target, Amelia Sachs soon cleared the catwalks and the open area of the warehouse. She reported this to Haumann. ESU officers then kicked in the loading-dock door of the warehouse and entered, spreading out. Relieved for the reinforcements, she used hand signals to point to the two side doors. The cops converged on them.
Haumann radioed, "We've been canvassing but nobody's seen him outside. He might still be inside, K."
Sachs quietly acknowledged the transmission. She walked down the stairs to the main floor, joining up with the other officers.
She pointed to the bathroom. "On three," she whispered.
They nodded. One pointed to himself but she shook her head, meaning she was going in on point. Sachs was furious--that the perp had gotten away, that he had a rape pack in a smiley-face bag, that he'd shot an innocent simply for diversion. She wanted this guy nailed and she wanted to make sure she had a piece of him.
She was in the armored vest, of course, but she couldn't help thinking about what would happen if one of those needle bullets hit her face or arm.
