dangerous sometimes than smart people, and—
It was time to get rid of him. I led him around downtown Salt Lake City, back up to Temple Square and down past the Salt Palace with its spinning windmills. I finally got a good lead on him when I took a hot pass through the long parking lot behind the Little America Hotel and then zipped through a light just as it turned red. He hesitated and I kept going, slipping through an alley that fortunately was not blocked. As I swerved around yet one more construction barrier, the car jumped on a bit of uneven pavement and banged my aching thumb hard on the steering wheel, but it had been worth it. I didn’t care if that man had been foe or friend, I was one fox who could not stand the breath of dogs.
Once free of my doppelganger, I had no stomach left for dinner. The events of the day had finally overwhelmed me, leaving me for once lacking in appetite and tense to the point of physical pain. I resolved to go back to George Dishey’s house, gather up my belongings, and move to a motel—a nice, obscure concrete-block special with ugly carpets and a policy of forgetting faces.
It was now fully dark, and the streetlights competed with the heavy foliage of the mature trees that studded the residential lots of the neighborhood where George Dishey had lived, and read about dead reptiles, and apparently annoyed most people with whom he came in contact.
I couldn’t find a parking space in front of the house, so I pulled up to the curb around the corner and backtracked along the sidewalk and up the walkway toward the front door. I was in such a rush to get my gear and leave that house that I had the key in the lock and the door halfway open before I noticed that I was not alone.
6
SOMEBODY WAS IN GEORGE DISHEY’S HOUSE, SOMEBODY who didn’t care what he tore or broke or shattered as he careened noisily through the far rooms. I didn’t see him. I saw only the living room, a quick camera-shutter glimpse; saw books dumped out onto the floor, illuminated only by the dancing reflected light of the intruder’s flashlight and the glowing blank screen of the computer. It hummed eerily, struck stupid by its lack of a hard drive.
I jerked backward, slamming the door in my hurry to get away. I raced across the lawn, hell-bent for the shortest route to my car. He didn’t see me, I told myself. Get to the car. Get to—
The deafening crack of a rifle shot concussed the air, followed instantaneously by the sounds of falling glass and a car accelerating toward the house. I lurched forward, stumbled, got my footing again, gathered speed, and flew forward and down as a great weight crashed against my back. Another shot rang out, this one closer, and I saw the car that had been following me whiz by. I struggled but could not move. A warm, firm body pressed me into the earth, clutching me, now rolling, tumbling me into the low bushes that crouched beneath the front windows of the house. I gasped, coughed, spat earth
out of my mouth, tried to drag myself out from under the weight above me.
“It’s me!” a voice whispered harshly next to my ear. “Ray. Hold still!”
“Officer—”
“Yes! Keep your voice down. The shot came from the car, but there’s someone else in the house!”
The frantic pulse of blood rushing through my ears was matched by the heartbeat that cannoned against my back. Officer Raymond’s strong hands clasped my arms, and his heaving breath flooded my cheek. He had me pinned, facedown. As I tried to shift to take the pressure off my chin, he pressed me even harder, wrapping one leg around mine so I could not struggle.
A door slammed at the back of the house. The sound of someone running faded into the gathering night.
Officer Raymond loosed one hand and unclipped the microphone that had begun to dig into my back. “Raymond reporting gunfire, Fourth North at H. Suspect in tan Chevy sedan, Utah license F as in Frank two seven seven two one, heading east on Fourth.
It was time to get rid of him. I led him around downtown Salt Lake City, back up to Temple Square and down past the Salt Palace with its spinning windmills. I finally got a good lead on him when I took a hot pass through the long parking lot behind the Little America Hotel and then zipped through a light just as it turned red. He hesitated and I kept going, slipping through an alley that fortunately was not blocked. As I swerved around yet one more construction barrier, the car jumped on a bit of uneven pavement and banged my aching thumb hard on the steering wheel, but it had been worth it. I didn’t care if that man had been foe or friend, I was one fox who could not stand the breath of dogs.
Once free of my doppelganger, I had no stomach left for dinner. The events of the day had finally overwhelmed me, leaving me for once lacking in appetite and tense to the point of physical pain. I resolved to go back to George Dishey’s house, gather up my belongings, and move to a motel—a nice, obscure concrete-block special with ugly carpets and a policy of forgetting faces.
It was now fully dark, and the streetlights competed with the heavy foliage of the mature trees that studded the residential lots of the neighborhood where George Dishey had lived, and read about dead reptiles, and apparently annoyed most people with whom he came in contact.
I couldn’t find a parking space in front of the house, so I pulled up to the curb around the corner and backtracked along the sidewalk and up the walkway toward the front door. I was in such a rush to get my gear and leave that house that I had the key in the lock and the door halfway open before I noticed that I was not alone.
6
SOMEBODY WAS IN GEORGE DISHEY’S HOUSE, SOMEBODY who didn’t care what he tore or broke or shattered as he careened noisily through the far rooms. I didn’t see him. I saw only the living room, a quick camera-shutter glimpse; saw books dumped out onto the floor, illuminated only by the dancing reflected light of the intruder’s flashlight and the glowing blank screen of the computer. It hummed eerily, struck stupid by its lack of a hard drive.
I jerked backward, slamming the door in my hurry to get away. I raced across the lawn, hell-bent for the shortest route to my car. He didn’t see me, I told myself. Get to the car. Get to—
The deafening crack of a rifle shot concussed the air, followed instantaneously by the sounds of falling glass and a car accelerating toward the house. I lurched forward, stumbled, got my footing again, gathered speed, and flew forward and down as a great weight crashed against my back. Another shot rang out, this one closer, and I saw the car that had been following me whiz by. I struggled but could not move. A warm, firm body pressed me into the earth, clutching me, now rolling, tumbling me into the low bushes that crouched beneath the front windows of the house. I gasped, coughed, spat earth
out of my mouth, tried to drag myself out from under the weight above me.
“It’s me!” a voice whispered harshly next to my ear. “Ray. Hold still!”
“Officer—”
“Yes! Keep your voice down. The shot came from the car, but there’s someone else in the house!”
The frantic pulse of blood rushing through my ears was matched by the heartbeat that cannoned against my back. Officer Raymond’s strong hands clasped my arms, and his heaving breath flooded my cheek. He had me pinned, facedown. As I tried to shift to take the pressure off my chin, he pressed me even harder, wrapping one leg around mine so I could not struggle.
A door slammed at the back of the house. The sound of someone running faded into the gathering night.
Officer Raymond loosed one hand and unclipped the microphone that had begun to dig into my back. “Raymond reporting gunfire, Fourth North at H. Suspect in tan Chevy sedan, Utah license F as in Frank two seven seven two one, heading east on Fourth.
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