The 9th Judgment

"He asked for me, Joe. He demanded that I come to the door. He planned for me to detonate that bomb. Why me? Payback because he didn't get the money?"

"I think so. He's putting your face on his power struggle with the city-"

The doctor came in, and Joe stepped outside. Dr. Dweck asked me to follow his finger with my eyes. He hammered my knees and made me flex my wings. He told me that I had a gorgeous palm-sized contusion on my shoulder and that the cuts on my hands would heal just fine.

He listened to my breathing and my heart, both of which sped up as I thought about how Peter Gordon could be anywhere by now, with or without that little boy-and no one knew where in the hell he was.

Chapter 98

I LEANED BACK in the passenger seat as Joe drove us home. Jacobi had told me to take a few days off and to call in on Monday to see if he was letting me work next week.

Joe said, "You're taking the sleeping cure, you hear me, Blondie? Once you're home, you're under house arrest."

"Okay."

"Stop arguing with me."

I laughed and turned my head so I could look at his strong profile in silhouette against the cobalt-blue dusk. I let centrifugal force hold me against the car door when Joe made the turn onto Arguello and I watched the steeples of St. John's go by. I must've closed my eyes, because I woke hearing Joe telling me that we were home.

He helped me onto the sidewalk outside our building and steadied me as I got my balance.

Joe was asking, "What do you feel like having for dinner?" when I saw what had to be an illusion. Across the street was a blue Honda wagon with a crumpled right fender.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the car.

I didn't wait for Joe to answer. I knew that car. Even from twenty feet away, I could see writing on the windshield. Fear shot through me as if Pete Gordon had lit a fuse under the soles of my shoes.

How did he know where I lived?

Why had he driven his car to my door?

I ran out into the Lake Street traffic, dodging cars blowing past me. I reached the Honda, cupped my hands to the glass, and peered inside. I saw the little boy lying on his side across the backseat. Even in the low light, the round dark spot on Steven Gordon's temple was a vivid red.

The psycho had shot his little boy.

He'd shot him-even though we'd done everything he asked us to do! I screamed, "No!" and wrenched the door open. The dome light flashed on, and I seized the child by the shoulder. The little boy's eyes opened, and he jerked away from me, screaming.

He was alive. I gibbered, "Stevie, are you okay, are you okay? Everything's going to be all right."

"I want my mom-my."

I used my thumb to wipe away the lipstick from the side of Steven's head, a mark so obscene, I couldn't bear to look at it. I took the child out of the car and swung him onto my hip, holding him tight. "Okay, little guy. Your mommy will be here soon."

Joe was leaning into the front seat. He fastened his eyes on the letters written on the windshield.

"What is it? What does it say?" I asked him.

"Aw shit, Linds. This guy is crazy."

"Tell me."

"It says, 'Now I want five million. Don't screw it up again.' "

He was going to kill more people if he didn't get the money. He'd done it before. I swayed on my feet, and Joe put his arms around me and the boy in my arms.

"He's desperate," Joe said. "He's a terrorist. Don't let him get to you, Linds. It's all bull."

I wanted Joe to be right, but the last time the city hadn't come through with the ransom money, Gordon had killed three more people.

"Don't screw it up again" wasn't a taunt. It was a threat, a loaded gun pointed at the people of San Francisco. And because I seemed to have become Gordon's connection to the rest of the world, that threat was also pointed at me.

Joe put his arm around me and led me back to his car, settling me into the backseat with Steven. He slid behind the wheel and locked the doors. I patted the boy's back as Joe got Dick Benbow on the line. I thought about Stevie Gordon's father, a homicidal maniac with nothing to lose.

Where the hell was he?

I didn't think I could sleep until he was dead.

Part Four. MONSTER

Chapter 99

JACOBI HAD PUT a meaty hand on each of my shoulders and looked into my eyes. "Peter Gordon is the FBI's problem, Boxer. You did everything you could do. The little boy is safe. Now, take a few days off. Take as much time as you need."

I knew Jacobi was right. I needed a rest, physically and emotionally. I'd gotten so bad that I jumped when the drip coffeemaker hissed.

On Sunday, Joe and I reached Monster Park halfway through the first quarter. The 49ers were trailing the St. Louis Rams, but I didn't care. I was with Joe. It was a great day to be sitting along the fifty-yard line. And, yeah, we were carrying guns and wearing Kevlar under our jackets.

A guard had to bump a couple of squatters from our pricey FBI-comped seats, but I forgot about that little skirmish as the screen pass unfolded below.