“I guess so.”
“Well, then, Happy Birthday.”
And then, thank God, I hear my mother’s voice in the background. “Vin, there’s a police car pulling into the drive.”
I lean my head back, my heart punching my sternum. “A police car?” I ask in my very best impression of light concern. “What’s that about?”
“I’m not sure. Um. Thanks for calling, son.”
“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” I say, but he hangs up.
I fight this crazy urge to weep for the pain they’re about to experience. But I’m holding onto a feeble, impossible hope that this time, things won’t end quite so badly.
Across the street, a bicyclist has pulled up, parked and has gone into the shop. It’s still early, a little past 6 a.m.
Over an hour before the blast.
I want coffee. And I want to get eyes on the shop.
I get out and cross the street. Glass windows, a planter out front that overflows with geraniums. A sandwich board with specials sits just outside the door, calling people inside with freshly made butterscotch scones. My stomach is a monster.
The place is small, homey. Groupings of wicker chairs circle low round coffee tables, two slipcovered sofas facing each other, a blackboard with the menu chalked on it, the ceiling high and open to the pipes. Freshly roasted java seasons the air. I would have liked this place.
It’s possible Ramses left a package here last night, so I look around. Three thermoses of coffee, their names hanging in tags are lined up along the bar, but I see nothing out of place. A middle-aged blonde, her hair tied back with a handkerchief and wearing a tie-dyed apron fills a glass case. Her name tag reads Katia.
I spot the scones. And a couple of old-fashioned donuts. And fresh pumpkin bread.
Yeah, I would have found a writing niche here. Maybe I will, someday.
“Can I help you?”
I study the board and decide on today’s special, a macchiato. I order it with extra espresso.
The runner sits in the corner, reading a newspaper. He glances at me, and I notice he has blonde hair cut short, military style, and a tattoo peeks out of his shirt, on his upper arm. He looks away from me and stares into the paper.
The bicyclist is seated at the counter on a high top, talking to the barista. He has his dreadlocks pulled back into thick blonde chunks and is trying to bargain for a free donut.
Katia makes my coffee and I debate sitting inside or out, then decide to head back to the Camaro. If Ramses sees me it’s possible he won’t drop his bomb. Which, of course, saves lives, but also means that I’ll be fresh out of historical leads. I realize I’m cheating, but like I said, I don’t care.
I slide back into the Camaro, take a sip and nearly spill my macchiato down my shirt when knuckles rap on my passenger side window.
Burke.
I reach over and unlock the door and he folds himself inside.
“No luck with Ramses?”
He shakes his head, eying my coffee. “What are we doing here?”
“I have a hunch.”
“Perfect.” He closes his eyes, as if in pain.
I take another sip.
The street is coming alive. Another bicycler, and a car parks in front of the florist. A bus pulls up, coughs and eases to the curb at the end of the street. The neon light in the cafe flickers on and the sign is turned over.
Burke sighs, rubbing his finger and thumb into his eyes. “I need some coffee—Rem…There he is.”
I would have spotted him, given another second. He’s gotten off the bus and stands at the stop, waiting to cross the road. Ramses is a handsome, unassuming bomber, wearing a gray T-shirt, a pair of jeans, tennis shoes. Brown hair, a hint of a beard, just a guy stopping in for coffee.
Burke reaches for the door handle.
“Wait. Let’s see if he’s carrying anything.”
He is. A satchel over his shoulder. It bumps against his leg as he looks both ways, then treks across the street.
I set my coffee down. “Let’s get him.”
Burke is already out of the car, and I admit to a silent huzzah that he believes me. Because why else would Ramses be here?
I follow Burke out and we scuttle across the street, not wanting to alert Ramses before we can get close enough to grab him.
But also not wanting whatever is in that satchel to go boom.
Ramses is just about to reach the door when Burke calls his name.
There’s a moment, a hiccup, when Ramses turns on instinct, when he sees Burke, then me, advancing on him.
He hesitates. I can almost read his mind.
It’s over.
Or, he could die a martyr for his cause.
In a second he’s swung the door open and disappears inside. I take off in a sprint, a plan forming. “Burke! Evacuate the coffee shop. I’m going around the back!”
I angle toward the alley, shooting past the door, but in a blinding second of terrible luck, it slams open.
I plow into the bicycler, and we sprawl together hard on the pavement.
“Hey!” he growls.
I glare at him and untangle myself, hoofing it around back.
I hear Burke, now inside the shop, yelling. Please, God, don’t let Ramses pull a trigger.
I’ll come in from behind and trap him.
I find the back door propped open. I sneak inside, picking my way past shelves of supplies—cups, napkins, sweeteners, bags of Good Earth coffee.
When I emerge, it’s behind the counter and I spot Burke standing in front of Ramses, hands up, talking in low tones.
Ramses has—you’ve got to be kidding me—a gun. He’s got Katia by the arm and holds his weapon against her head.
Burke is staying back, but I know he sees me.
And I smile.
Because I know exactly what to do, and I’m hoping, praying even, that Burke knows it too.
An imperceptible nod.
I move behind Ramses.
It happens in synchronicity, almost like a dance. But that’s how we are, Burke and I. Partners. Brothers. We’ve always been able to read each other’s minds.
He
