She said, “You’re clever, Bryce Seagraves. Now there’s only one final matter before I go.”
As Jennifer grew closer to me, her left hand appeared, holding a tiny aluminum spray bottle that had to contain poison. I lunged forward, grabbed her left forearm with both hands, and twisted the bottle away from me as hard as I could. A cloud of aerosol spritzed into the air, but away from my face.
With the skill of a trained martial artist, she kicked my kneecap hard at a sharp angle. My leg buckled as a jolt of fiery pain shot from my heel to my hip. Nothing was going to make me to release her arm that held the bottle of cyanide that had killed Kostas last week and now might kill me.
The drawbridge shifted and lurched as the road panels began to descend. We both lost our balance for an instant as we wrangled on the sloped ramp above the river. Adrenalin surged through my chest and into my arms. With surprising strength, she contorted her arm for leverage and turned the bottle in her hand. A second spray of poison shot past my temple, but not into my mouth or nose. The strange smell of almonds lingered in the air.
Jennifer slammed her knee into my ribs, knocking the wind from my lungs and draining my core strength. I tightened my grip on her forearm, more out of blind panic than muscle. She stabbed the fingertips of her free hand toward my eyes. By lifting my elbow, I blocked the attack, but that allowed her to move the spray bottle closer to my face. I ducked before she could spray again and shoved her backwards with all my remaining might, still grasping her wrist.
The grinding, scraping sounds of the levers and counterweights deepened and slowed as the drawbridge returned halfway to horizontal. I could run up the moving road panel and jump to the other side, if the angle was low enough and my leg was not too injured. If the angle was too steep, I would slide back down. To run now, I would have to let go of her arm and give her a clean shot.
I said, “Jennifer, don’t do this. It’s not impossible. I can help you.”
She pulled hard to free her wrist from my grip, but I held fast. Perhaps I could have hefted her over the railing or into the rotating gears of the bridge, but I did not even try. Killing her meant that she would never answer to a court for the murder of Richard Kostas. I just clamped down firmly on her forearm and held her in place.
Jennifer ceased struggling and looked at me with confused, sympathetic eyes. For a split second, I thought she was mulling over her options and might even stop, so I could find some way out of this for both of us.
She started to speak, but no words crossed her lips. Gusts of wind off the bay rushed in my ears. Behind us, a deep clank of the road panels meant that the drawbridge was flat again.
With a strangely flirtatious smile across her face, she tossed the bottle from her left hand to her free right hand and aimed the nozzle directly toward my face.
“Stop right there!” Sheriff Tompkins shouted.
“Hands up! We’ve got you covered,” FBI Agent Wolanski said.
The tromping of their shoes grew louder as they crossed the bridge from the other side.
Tompkins extended her service pistol toward us and slid a round into the chamber with a metallic clink. “Back away from each other. Let’s see your hands.”
“Drop it. On your knees,” Wolanski snapped at Jennifer, making sure she could see the muzzle of his 9mm.
We both froze. I released her forearm. Gradually, cautiously, I stepped backwards. With my gaze fixed only on Jennifer, I expected her to pretend to surrender, but then assault them with some concealed lethal weapon. Perhaps she might have sprayed the poison in her own throat to avoid capture. I was wrong. Jennifer raised her hands, still holding the aluminum spray bottle, and turned to toward the FBI agent covering her. Defeat shown in her blue-green eyes.
“Knees,” said Wolanski, waving his gun. “Both of you. And drop that thing in your hand.”
We knelt on the entrance ramp of the drawbridge and wobbled briefly to maintain our balance on the slope. Jennifer slowly set the bottle down on its side. It rolled audibly down the ramp until it came to a stop on the gravel roadway by my car.
“Hands behind your heads. You too, Seagraves. Don’t move. Either of you,” Tompkins snapped as she slipped out of view behind me. Wolanski stepped behind Jennifer and unclipped handcuffs from his belt. He cuffed her, said she was under arrest, and went through each of her Miranda rights in flat, world-weary tones.
From behind, the sheriff cuffed me, which raised my hackles. She explained that it was for her safety and mine until they could sort this out. I remained quiet as she loosely fastened the metal bracelets around my wrists. My knees ached from the metal grating of the bridge beneath me, so I asked if I could stand up.
“No,” the sheriff said.
FBI Agent Wolanski nodded to her over my shoulder. Tompkins emerged from behind me and approached Jennifer, whom she frisked thoroughly. Finding nothing on her person, she led Jennifer to the rear seat of the squad car and locked her inside.
Over the murmuring breeze off the bay, Wolanski said to the sheriff, “I doubt she’ll do much talking, at least at first. We’ll start with him.”
After Wolanski lifted me up by the bicep, he frisked me for weapons and evidence, but found none. He told Tompkins that she could uncuff me. While the sheriff freed my hands, the FBI Agent put
