HAZARD IN THE HALLWAY, HAZARD ON THE stairs, acutely aware of what an easy target a big man made in a narrow space, threw himself nonetheless into the hot pursuit. When you took the job, you knew it wasn’t part of the deal that you could pick and choose the places where you would put your life on the line.
Besides, like most cops, he operated on the superstitious2 conviction that the greatest risk came with hesitation3, came in the moment when nerve was briefly4 lost. Survival depended on boldness seasoned with just enough fear to discourage outright5 recklessness.
Or so it was easy to believe until a bit of boldness got you killed.
In the movies, cops were always yelling “Halt! Police!” when they knew that the dirtbags running away from them weren’t going to obey, but also when a shout would reveal their presence before absolutely necessary and even before every bad guy on the game board realized that badges were in play.
Hazard Yancy, who had recently escaped being shot at while in an armchair, didn’t bellow6 either a command or a threat at the gunman who had killed Rolf Reynerd. He just plunged7 down the stairs after the guy.
By the time Hazard reached the midfloor landing, the shooter had [152] thundered to the bottom of the lower flight, losing his balance as he flew off the last step into the public foyer. He slipped on the Mexican-tile floor, windmilled his arms, but avoided a fall.
Running, the perp never looked back, suggesting that he was oblivious8 of being pursued.
As he gave chase, Hazard was in the guy’s head. Expecting Reynerd to be home alone, the rent-a-killer9 gink comes in to do a quick pop, he drops the sucker with a heart-buster, manages to avoid getting lit up in the process, breaks hard for the street, and now he’s already thinking about smoking some good bo with some long-legged fresh who’s waiting for him in his crib.
The shooter hit the front door, and at the same moment, Hazard landed in the foyer, but the shooter was making too much noise to hear doom11 closing from behind, and Hazard didn’t slip as his quarry12 had done, so he was gaining.
When Hazard reached the door, the shooter was already out in the night, down the exterior13 steps, maybe thinking about spending some of his hit money on fancy chrome laces for the wheels on his bucket, some on 24-carat flash to drape his lady.
Not much wind, cold rain, Hazard on the steps, shooter on the walk: The gap between them closed as inevitably14 as that between a speeding truck and a brick wall.
Then the car horn blared. One long bleat15, two short.
A signal. Prearranged.
In the street, not at the curb16, stood a dark Mercedes-Benz, headlights on, engine running, exhaust pluming17 from the tailpipe. The front passenger door stood open to welcome the shooter. This was a getaway bucket with style, maybe a G-ride, a gangster19 ride, stolen out of a driveway in Beverly Hills, and behind the wheel sat the shooter’s ace1 kool, his backup homey, ready to shave the tires bald in a pedal-jammed escape.
The one long bleat followed by two short must have signaled the rabbit that he had a wolf on his ass18, because he made a sudden break [153] to the left, off the sidewalk. He torqued himself around so hard that he should have stumbled, should have fallen, but didn’t, and instead brought up the piece with which he’d popped Reynerd.
Having lost the advantage of surprise, Hazard finally shouted “Police! Drop it!” just like in the movies, but of course the shooter had already earned life without possibility of parole, maybe even the death penalty, by chilling Reynerd, and he had nothing to lose. He would be no more likely to drop his weapon than he would be likely to drop his pants and bend over.
The piece looked big, not a trey-eight or a .357, but a four-five. Loaded with wicked ammo, a four-five would reliably bust10 bone and tenderize meat for the undertaker, but it required stability and calculation to compensate20 for the kick.
In a bad stance, from panic rather than poise21, the perp squeezed off a shot. His pull was actually more jerk than squeeze, and the round went so wild that Hazard stood at less risk of being drilled by this bullet than of being pulverized22 by an asteroid23.
The instant he saw the muzzle24 spit fire into the rain and heard the slug shatter a window in the apartment house behind him, however, Hazard was only partly driven by training, partly by duty, and mostly by blood. The shooter wouldn’t be sloppy25 twice. All the sensitivity instruction, all the earnest lectures in social policy and political consequences, all the police-commission directives to meet violence with patience, understanding, and measured response were impediments to survival when, in the quick, you had to kill or be killed.
The sound of bullet-battered glass was still ringing through the rain when Hazard got a two-hand grip on his gun, assumed the stance, and answered fire with fire. He placed two rounds with little concern for the stern judgment27 of the Los Angeles Times in matters of police deportment, but with every concern for the safety of Mother Yancy’s favorite baby boy.
The first shot took the killer down, and the second rapped him hammer-hard even as his knees were still buckling28.
[154] Reflexively, the perp fired the .45 not at Hazard, but into the grass in front of his own feet. The recoil29 broke his weakened grip, and the gun flew from his hand.
He met the ground with one knee, in the briefest genuflection30, then with two knees, then with his face.
Hazard kicked the dropped .45 away from the killer, into shrubs31 and shadows, and he ran toward the street, toward the Mercedes.
The driver gunned the engine an instant before he let up on the brakes. Shrieking32 tires spun33 off clouds of vaporized rain, and smoke that stank34 of burnt rubber.
Maybe Hazard was at risk of being shot by the driver, who could get a line on him through the open front passenger’s door, but that was a risk worth taking. An ace-kool wheelman specialized35 in flight, not fight, and although the guy would be packing heat for use in a cornered-rat situation, he wouldn’t likely draw down on anyone when he had an open street, gas in the tank, and ignition.
Splashing along the puddled pavement, Hazard reached his sedan. Before he could get around that parked vehicle, into the street, the spinning tires of the getaway car bit blacktop and bolted forward with a bark. Momentum36 slammed shut the passenger’s door.
He hadn’t gotten a look at the driver.
The figure behind the wheel had been little more than a shadow. Hunched37, distorted, somehow ... wrong.
To Hazard’s surprise, the ragged38 fingernails of superstition39 scratched at the inner hollows of his bones, where usually it lay buried, quiet, forgotten. But he didn’t know what had stirred his fear or why a sense of the uncanny suddenly possessed40 him.
As the Mercedes roared away, Hazard didn’t squeeze off a few shots at it, as a movie cop would have done. This was a peaceful residential41 neighborhood in which people watching reruns of Seinfeld and other people cleaning vegetables for dinner had every right not to expect to be shot dead over their TV remotes and their cutting boards by the stray rounds of a reckless detective.
[155] He ran after the car, however, because he couldn’t get a clear take on the license42 number. Exhaust vapors43, street spray, falling rain, and the gloom of day’s end conspired44 to shroud45 the rear plate.
He persisted, anyway, glad that he regularly used a treadmill46. Although the Mercedes soon pulled away from him, a couple street-lamps and a clearing crosswind revealed the plate number in pieces.
Most likely the car had been stolen. The driver would dump it. Nevertheless, having the number was better than not having it.
Giving up the chase, Hazard headed back to the front lawn at the apartment house. He hoped that he’d shot the shooter dead instead of merely wounding him.
Minutes from now, an Officer Involved Shooting team would be on the scene. Depending on the personal philosophies of team members, they would either vigorously build a defense47 of Hazard’s actions and strive to exonerate48 him without any genuine search for the truth, which was fine by him, or they would seek the tiniest of meaningless inconsistencies and screw him to a cross of bogus evidence, haul him into the court of public opinion, and encourage the media to build a fire at his feet and give him the Saint Joan treatment.
The third possibility was that the OIS team might arrive without preconceptions, might examine the facts analytically49, and might come to a dispassionate conclusion based on logic50 and reason, which would be jake with Hazard because he’d done nothing wrong.
Of course, he’d never heard of such a thing actually occurring, and he considered it far less likely than being eyewitness51 to eight flying reindeer52 and an elf-piloted sleigh three nights hence.
If the shooter was alive, he might assert that Hazard had killed Reynerd and then tried to frame him for it. Or that he’d been in the neighborhood, collecting donations to Toys for Tots, when he’d been caught in a cross fire, giving the real shooter a chance to escape.
Whatever he claimed, cop haters and aggressively brainless citizens would believe him.
More important, the shooter would find an attorney to file suit [156] against the city, eager to feed at the public trough. A settlement would be reached, regardless of the merits of the case, and Hazard would probably be sacrificed as part of the package. Politicians were no more protective of good law-enforcement officers than they were of the young interns53 whom they regularly abused and sometimes killed.
The shooter posed far less of a problem dead than alive.
Hazard could have moseyed back to the scene, giving the perp a chance to bleed out another critical pint54, but he ran.
The killer lay where he’d fallen, face planted in the wet grass. A snail55 had ascended56 the back of his neck.
People were at windows, looking down, expressions blank, like dead sentinels at the gates of Hell. Hazard expected to see Reynerd at one of the panes57, black-and-white, too glamorous58 for his time.
He turned the shooter faceup. Somebody’s son, somebody’s homey, in his early twenties, with a shaved head, wearing a tiny coke spoon for an earring59.
Hazard was glad to see the mouth stretched in a death rictus and the eyes full of eternity60, but at the same time he was sickened by the sense of relief that flooded through him.
Standing26 in the storm, swallowing a hard-to-repress sludge of half-digested mamoul that burned in his throat, he used his cell phone to call the division and report the situation.
After making the call, he could have gone inside to watch from the foyer, but he waited in the downpour.
City lights reflected in every storm-glazed surface, yet when night swallowed twilight61, darkness swelled62 in threatening coils, like a well-fed snake.
The rat-feet tap of palm-pelting rain suggested that legions of tree rodents63 scurried64 through the masses of arching fronds65 overhead.
Hazard saw two snails66 on the dead man’s face. He wanted to flick67 them off, but he hesitated to do so.
[157] Some onlookers68 at the windows would suspect him of tampering69 with evidence. Their sinister70 assumptions might charm the OIS team.
That scratching in his bones again. That sense of wrongness.
One dead upstairs, one dead here, sirens in the distance.
What the hell is going on? What the hell?
收听单词发音 |
1
ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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13
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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15
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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pluming
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| 用羽毛装饰（plume的现在分词形式） | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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gangster
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| n.匪徒，歹徒，暴徒 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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pulverized
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| adj.[医]雾化的，粉末状的v.将…弄碎( pulverize的过去式和过去分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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asteroid
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| n.小行星；海盘车(动物) | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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25
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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buckling
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| 扣住 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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genuflection
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| n. 曲膝, 屈服 | |
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31
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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32
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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40
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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45
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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46
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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47
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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49
analytically
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| adv.有分析地，解析地 | |
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50
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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51
eyewitness
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| n.目击者，见证人 | |
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52
reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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53
interns
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| n.住院实习医生( intern的名词复数 )v.拘留，关押( intern的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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56
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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58
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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59
earring
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| n.耳环，耳饰 | |
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60
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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61
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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62
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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rodents
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| n.啮齿目动物( rodent的名词复数 ) | |
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scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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66
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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67
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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68
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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69
tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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