Kratz.
I slammed on the brakes, slewing the Lincoln across the roadand dropping rear wheels into the ditch, threw my door open, untangled theseatbelt, all this like in slow-motion with that truck rolling down on me. Ihauled myself out and jumped clear just as his bumper speared the grill of theLincoln and metal screamed and one wheel of the truck rode right up on thehood, crushing steel, smashing glass, sparks flying, grinding the car along thegravel drive, the truck tipping on its side, and I thought “sparks” and “propane”and saw the gray cloud of mist pouring from low on the truck where Kratz hadopened a valve or something, liquid propane expanding into gas and turning theevening air to fog.
I scrambled up the bank and did my best swan-dive imitationover the stone fence and rolled and tucked my head under my arms and theevening air turned bright yellow behind me, sparks hitting that mix of propaneand oxygen with a huge deep thump and I didn’t even hear the blast. Ridge toldme that it shook his house, broke windows, I found out later that people heardit in the town five miles away. Me, I was shielding against the rocks andshreds of metal that flew past my ears.
Anyway, the fireball mostly bloomed upward, deflected by thatsunken road and the fieldstone walls that lined it, and Mr. Wars-R-Us Ridgelost about a quarter acre of trees to the blast and fire. The tank didn’tactually blow, just the leaking vapors — relief valves vented the boilingpropane in a jet about a hundred feet high, roared and whined like a 747 takingoff, just burning as it hit air, no more explosions. Unless you count thediesel tanks on the truck, and the tank on my slagged Lincoln, and a couple ofgallons of well-aged Tennessee whiskey, and all the tires blowing up one afteranother.
I spared a moment’s prayer for the truck driver’s soul, damnedsure Kratz hadn’t bothered to let the poor bastard run when he had, and then drew my SIG and headedback up that hill. Maybe the sicko had hung around to gloat.
No such luck. I got to the turnout, found that buzzingset-your-teeth-on-edge signature again, much fresher than at the warehouse andJohn Doe’s corpse, followed it out to the road, and had the track break offjust like before. The surface was hard gravel, no chance of any serious tiretracks, but I could see traces where he’d parked his getaway and left itwaiting.
Which implied an accomplice. I hunkered down on a rock andspent some time with bad memories. Kratz had usually worked alone. This setup,it meant driving somewhere, hijacking the truck, bringing the truck here. He’dneed another driver to bring the carhere, maybe stay with the car waiting in case a cop came along with a ticketbook in hand, wouldn’t want records of date and time and license plate.
Even so, the getaway would have been stolen. Kratz knew thedrill.
But he had usually worked alone.
I was still chewing on that when the fire trucks howled up andturned down the driveway and then backed out again damned fast when they foundthe “situation.”
A fire like that, you let it burn itself out. They deployedhoses into the woods, kept wetting down the trees and underbrush and grass sothe flames couldn’t spread, but the truck? My Lincoln? The truck driver? Nochance.
And then the cops showed up.
VI
Okay, I expectedtrouble. I’d waited until the fire crew organized their chaos and settled in tocontain the mess down in the hollow. Then I picked out one of the boss men wholooked like he had a free breath or two to spare, assistant chief by thereflective lettering on his safety-yellow headgear and turnout jacket, andtried to explain what the hell had happened. All this in fading autumn twilightwith the stench of burning junkyard filling the air, the rumble of heavydiesels from the fire trucks, the crackle of radios and amplified voices, andthe taste of Al Kratz polluting my throat.
So I got Mr. Assistant Chief off to one side and told himthere wasn’t anybody in my car, that there probablywas a body in the truck, that I’d seen a man climb down from the driver’s sideof the cab and leave the truck at the top of the hill, brakes off, maybe ingear. That he should call in the state police Professional Regulation squad.That a wizard had tried to kill me and failed by dumb luck, that I was a wizardmyself. I told him that Kratz might still be hanging around to enjoy the show,although I doubted it.
At which point, Mr. Assistant Chief had edged away from me,fear and loathing and all that tripe on his face. He’d kept a wary eye on me ashe pulled a microphone out of his car, talked to it, and then pointed me to arock along the roadside where I’d be out of the way.
Hey, I’m used to people who don’t like wizards. I’ve told youthat. So like I said, I was expecting trouble.
I didn’t expect bluelights to come flashing out of the twilight, no siren for a warning, cruiserscreeching to a halt and spraying gravel, pinning me down with high-beamoscillating headlights and twin spotlights throwing everything else intoblackness. I heard car doors open, felt behind them in the darkness for theenergy of people, and found two men — scared men with pistols drawn, crouchingbehind those doors.
“STAND UP AND PUT YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD.” The amplifiedvoice echoed over the other noises of the fire scene, the cop radio switched toPA mode.
Two scared men holding guns — I did
