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“You won’t need your toothbrush,” Gervase said to the ceiling.
Jason said, “I’m going to cover the back entrance.”
Kennedy nodded. Gervase smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere.”
The chief was probably right. He’d lasted a long time at his job, so he probably knew his constituency pretty well, but this go-put-your-pants-on-and-come-with-us method seemed a haphazard way to bring in a suspect. Jason could tell by Kennedy’s expression that he too was listening closely to the sounds of McEnroe moving around his room, so maybe they were on the same page here.
He opened the front door and slipped outside, jumping from the steps and moving quietly along the side of the house, carrying his pistol at low ready.
The mowed weeds ran right up to the foundation of the building. They whispered beneath his feet as he passed the living room window and turned the corner of the house.
No screens on any of the windows.
The back of the house faced the woods. There was a half-constructed deck that looked like someone had got bored playing with giant Lincoln Logs, and a brand new hot tub still in its plastic wrappings. Reassuringly pros
aic. The back door screen leaned against the red siding, and the door itself was boarded up.
Nobody was leaving that way. Maybe Gervase knew that.
Those windows without screens made him uneasy. Jason crossed the back of the residence, heading for the east side again—in a minute he’d be going in circles—and turned the rear corner in time to see black curtains gusting in the breeze and McEnroe crawling headfirst out the bedroom window.
At the same instant, McEnroe spotted Jason and brought up his arm.
Jason found himself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
Chapter Four
Time stopped.
“Drop your gun,” McEnroe whispered.
Jason did not move a muscle. He could not have moved if his life depended on it, and there was a good chance it did. A perfect and boundless stillness washed through him as he waited for the shot. That terrifying bang that always came a split second after the worst had already happened.
“Drop it,” McEnroe hissed. His hand was rock steady.
It wasn’t even fear Jason felt so much as numb inevitability. He knew he needed to think past the pistol aimed at him, but he could not tear his gaze from the black hole of the barrel pointed at his face. A suicide special. A cheap, compact, small-caliber weapon. Equally special when used for homicide.
Getting shot in the chest with a .22 or a .25 was almost always fatal. That high velocity bullet would ricochet around tearing up organs and everything else in its path like a murderous pinball machine. Getting shot in the head…
Jason let his Glock slip from his fingers. It hit the ground in front of him with a dull thud.
McEnroe slid gracelessly the rest of the way out the window, pistol trained on Jason. There was no more than three feet between them. Too far—and not far enough.
“Don’t move,” McEnroe whispered. “I’ll blow your head off if you even twitch.”
Jason said nothing. There were no coherent thoughts in his brain to speak. He had already done the unthinkable by dropping his weapon.
McEnroe began to walk backward, still leveling his pistol at Jason. Jason stayed motionless, hands at his sides. McEnroe should have made him lock his hands behind his head. Like this, he could tackle McEnroe, wrestle him for the gun.
He didn’t move.
McEnroe turned and sprinted for the trees.
Jason bent and scooped up his Glock. He could take McEnroe out right now. An easy shot. A clean shot. Bam. Right between the shoulders.
You can’t think about what it feels like to get shot.
He raised his weapon. Opened his mouth to shout a warning. The words didn’t come.
