recording didn’t begin to describe the feeling of actually being outdoors. Not that Jimmy seemed to notice. He was ahead of her, walking faster even as she slowed her pace.
“Jimmy, honey, c’mon. We’ve got all day. The ice cream store’s not going anywhere.”
He turned around and jogged backward, pointing to his mother with that evil, beautiful smile of his that couldn’t help but break her down.
“I’m not biting for that,” said Lisa. “I’m telling you, sweetheart, I can’t go any faster than this.”
Jimmy turned frontward and broke into a run. She called out to him weakly, but by now he was out of earshot, charging down Alton, halfway to 39th. Fireworks sounded from far away.
“Where you goin’, man?”
“I’m going to finish that cop.”
“You hear them sirens? The two of us ain’t gonna make it if we stay. And I ain’t leavin’ you here, you know that.”
“He killed my brother,” said Frank.
“Then we’ll just have to come back at a better time,” said Otis. “Do him the same way.”
Jonas’s unmarked blocked the road. A patrol car skidded into the Wisconsin Avenue turnoff, rolled up 39th, and came to a stop behind the unmarked. The driver radioed for backup while his uniformed partner crawled out of the car.
Frank and Otis moved quickly to the Ford. Frank picked up Richard and threw him across the backseat of the Ford. He tossed the duffel bag on top of Richard, ignoring the uniform’s shouted commands, and got under the wheel. Otis was already on the passenger side of the bench.
Frank yanked down on the tree and fishtailed coming out of the space. Sirens wailed from several directions. They heard the pop of gunshots behind them, and neither ducked his head.
Otis wiped sweat from his forehead, glanced at the speedometer: fifty, sixty… okay, shit, it would be all right. Frank always did know how to handle a ride.
“Gonna be a trick to get us out of here,” said Otis. He holstered the. 45.
Frank saw a flash of cop car moving toward them on the street called Windom to his right.
“Punch this motherfucker,” said Otis.
Frank pinned the accelerator. The car lifted, and both of them were pushed back against the seat. The Ford blew through the four-way and caught air coming over a rise.
“Watch it,” said Otis, as something small ran backward into the street ahead. “Hey, Frank, man, slow down…”
Something was wrong. There were ambulance or police sirens all over now, and Lisa Karras knew something was wrong. She broke into a run.
“Jimmy!” she yelled, frantic because he was still going toward the intersection of 39th and he was too many steps ahead and it was too hot. “Jimmy!”
He turned and ran backward. She saw his crooked smile and the flush of his cheeks as he tripped back off the curb. She saw surprise on his face, but only for a moment. A blur of white car lifted him and pinwheeled him over its roof. He was hinged at an awful angle as he tumbled over the car.
That is not my little Jimmy, thought Lisa Karras.
That’s just a broken doll.
Frank Farrow gave the cracked windshield a spray of fluid and hit the wipers. Blood swept away and gathered at the edges in two pink vertical lines.
Roman Otis turned his head, looked through the rear glass. A woman was in the street, her hands tight in her hair. Her mouth was frozen open, and she was standing over a small crumpled thing.
Frank gave it a hard right onto Nebraska Avenue, downshifted the automatic to low coming out of the skid, and then brought it back up to drive. He passed a Jetta on the right and crossed the double line passing a ragtop Saab.
“There’s Connecticut Avenue,” said Otis. “I remember it from the map.”
“I see it.”
“You ain’t gonna make that yellow, partner.”
“I know.”
Frank shot the red; a car three-sixtied as they went through the intersection and down a steep grade, Frank’s hand hard on the horn. Vehicles ahead pulled over to the right lane.
Otis breathed out slowly, checked the backseat, looked across the bench.
“Look – about your brother.”
“Forget it.”
“Your brother did good, man. Remember it. He kept that cop busy and he did good. ”
Frank was expressionless.
“Frank.”
“I said forget it. Where’s the switch?”
“Tennyson at Oregon. About a mile up ahead.”
Otis closed his eyes. Frank’s brother was dead, stretched out under a bag of money. Otis and Frank had just killed five – four whites and a black – including a kid. Maybe even killed a black cop, too. Be hard to find a jury of any racial mix that wouldn’t give the two of them that last long walk. And here was Frank, colder than the legs on Teddy Pendergrass, barely breaking a sweat.
Well, no one would ever accuse Frank of being too human. One thing was certain, though: There wasn’t anyone else you’d want to be riding with when the death house was calling your name.
TWO
Frank Farrow parked behind an LTD on a residential street named Tennyson, near Oregon Avenue at the edge of Rock Creek Park. To their right a long stand of trees bordered a huge old folks’ home, and across the street to their left stood a row of identical split-level houses.
Farrow got out of the Ford, eye-scoping the houses on his left as he went quickly to the LTD and found its key under the driver’s-side mat. He popped the LTD’s trunk, went back to the Ford, and leaned into the open window.
“I’ll get Richard and put him in the trunk. Clean the interior out and follow with the bag. Dump your guns in the trunk, too, and we’ll split.”
“Any curtain action from those houses?”
“None that I could see. Come on.”
They drove through the park, cruised by upper-class houses with Jags and Mercedes parked in their driveways, and passed over the Maryland line into Silver Spring. Otis found HUR, the station he had discovered in his motel room, on the dial.
“You are,” sang Otis, “my starship; come take me out tonight…”
Farrow took East West Highway across Georgia Avenue and made a sharp left down a street of cinder-block garages set beside the railroad tracks. They parked in front of an unmarked bay between Rossi Automotive and a place called Hanagan’s Auto Body. Farrow gave the horn two sharp blasts; the bay door rose, and Frank drove the LTD through.
The garage was cool, clean, and dimly lit. A Hispanic in a blue workshirt with the name “Manuel” stitched above the breast pocket dropped a hose to the smooth concrete and walked over to the LTD. Another Spanish, Jaime, rubbed his hands on a ruby shop rag and eyed the men inside the car.
“Where’s our gear?” said Farrow to Manuel.
“In the offi.”
“You said ‘offi,’” said Otis. “But you meant ‘office,’ right?”
Manuel nodded and smiled thinly, careful to mask any displeasure at the remark. He had straight black hair and slanted eyes, making him look like a brown-skinned Asian. The other one, Jaime, had bony, unmemorable features, except for a line of tattooed teardrops dripping from his right eye.
