The 9th Judgment

Her back was up against her VW Passat, one hand on the stroller's handlebars, mouth hanging open as she looked everywhere for help. The kiddo let out a scream, and Wilma reached into the stroller, and when she straightened up, Pete saw a.22 pointing at him.

He pulled his gun, but it snagged on his shirt. The muzzle was coming up when he heard the shot and felt the punch to his right shoulder. His gun jumped out of his hand and clattered to the concrete floor.

He yelled, "Stupid bitch!" and dove for the weapon. A slug pinged into the floor an inch from his nose. He rolled onto his back with his gun in his left hand.

"Don't move, Wilma," he said, taking aim. But his vision was blurring and lights swooped around him. He squeezed off a few rounds, but he didn't drop her. Wilma was firing again.

She kept firing.

Chapter 113

I WAS RUNNING up Sutter, Jacobi shouting into the cell phone at my ear, "It's not one of ours!"

"Say again."

"None of our people are involved. We got a nine one one call. Shots fired in the Sutter-Stockton Garage. Third floor."

I called ahead to Conklin over the shrill wail of sirens. We were yards from the garage and then we were inside, our feet striking metal treads as we bounded up the stairs with weapons drawn.

We cleared the doorway to the third floor, and I heard a baby screaming. I ran toward that sound. A woman in her twenties was frozen in place, standing only yards from a man lying spread-eagled, faceup on the floor. She was holding a gun.

I approached the woman slowly, leading with my badge, and said, "I'm Sergeant Boxer. It's okay now. Please hand me your gun."

"It's him, isn't it?" she said, still transfixed, her baby screaming behind her. "The coroner said to carry a gun, and I did it. It's him, isn't it? It's the killer, isn't it?"

I had to holster my weapon, shake the shooter's wrist, and pry up her fingers until I'd secured her.22. Yards away, Conklin kicked a gun out of the limp hand of the man on the floor.

I joined Conklin and put my fingers on the downed man's carotid artery.

"Rich, I've got a pulse."

Conklin called for an ambulance, and cruisers screamed up the ramp. I couldn't look away from Peter Gordon's face.

This was the monster who'd executed nine people, five of them children, a killer who'd tormented his family and held an entire city hostage.

His blood was pumping onto the concrete floor.

I didn't want to lose him. I wanted to see him in an orange jumpsuit, shackled to the defense table. I wanted to hear his fucked-up view of the world. I wanted him to pay with nine consecutive life sentences, one for each of the people he'd killed. I wanted him to pay.

I pressed my hand to the well of blood pumping from his femoral artery. I nearly jumped when Gordon opened sleepy eyes and turned them on me, saying, "Sweet... meat. I think... I'm shot."

I leaned so close to his face, I could almost feel a breeze as he opened and closed his eyes.

I said, "Why'd you kill them, you son of a bitch?"

He smiled and said, "Why not?" Then he exhaled a ragged breath and died.

Epilogue. 911 Chapter 114

IT WAS SEPTEMBER 25, and Joe and I were having friends over to toast one another and the good days ahead.

A ham was in the oven, baking under a peppery mango glaze. Martha was begging for a taste and got a Milk-Bone instead. I was wearing a kimono and an avocado mask as I peeled the potatoes and Joe sliced apples for the cobbler. The 49ers were playing the Cowboys, the cheers of the crowd coming over the TV, when Joe's cell phone rang.

I said to him, "Don't answer that, honey."

I wasn't joking, but he grinned at me and picked up the phone.

I hadn't had a call in weeks that hadn't sent me down a tunnel of horror, and frankly I was so strung out from my job, I couldn't take even a lightbulb burning out. Or a broken fingernail. Or even a dip in the temperature. I just couldn't take it anymore.

Joe brought the phone into the living room, and I rinsed the potatoes and put them on to boil. I was in the bathroom washing avocado off my face when Joe said my name. I shut off the water and patted my eyes with a fluffy towel, and when I turned, I saw Joe looking at me, gray-faced and grim.

"There's a plane full of people on the tarmac at Dulles International," he said. "There's a guy on board, used to be an informant of mine years back. He smuggled C-four in with his hand luggage. He's threatening to blow up the plane."

"Oh my God. And the Feds want you to advise them?"

"Not exactly. The guy with the C-four, Waleed Mohammad, wants to talk to me and only me."

Joe had been deputy director of Homeland Security when we met and had become a high-level security consultant when he moved here from DC-a consultant who worked from home.

"So you need to call the guy," I said. "Talk him down."

"I have to fly to Washington," Joe said, walking to me, enfolding me in his arms. "A car's picking me up. I have to go right now."

It felt like my heart stopped in its tracks.