Decker rubbed his arms, remembering how he had held Chris, rocked him as he wept. A pitiful, broken kid, consumed with guilt. He made a mental note to call up Chris’s PD. The young man needed psychiatric counseling and his lawyer could request it. Decker hoped to God that the court would follow the recommendation. The last thing he needed was another body on his conscience.

26

“Think Cammy Boy will show?” Decker asked Marge over the radio.

“Who knows?” she answered. “But we’ve got nothing else to lose. Daddy doesn’t know where he is; Mommy doesn’t know where he is; Pode doesn’t know where he is; and Cameron doesn’t have any other friends.”

“If he doesn’t turn up,” said Decker, “maybe the papers we seized last night will tell us something.”

“Hope springs eternal.”

The bank had opened fifteen minutes ago. Decker readjusted his stance and scanned the twenty-story building. He was situated behind a pillar with a view of the back exit. Marge was watching the front. Behind him, across a large, paved courtyard was Century City Shopping Center. The outdoor mall was a conglomeration of department stores, trendy boutiques, and alfresco sandwich shops. Around noon, the walkways were often filled with popcorn, cookie, and candy vendors, flower stands, and espresso machines on push-carts. Decker’s ex-wife often shopped there with Cindy. Decker found the place overly cute.

He looked in front of him, then over his shoulder. People were mulling around, skittering about like moths on a lightbulb. Then what was he, he thought. A hawk? Was there a purpose to all of this? He looked at the sky. Damn it, he swore. If You’re out there, why don’t You ever show Your face. Make it all so much easier.

He was still angry at Rina. She had finally given herself over to him completely only to withdraw literally from his grasp. He ached inside and out and felt it was all her fault.

Aw, screw it! Maybe it wasn’t Rina at all. Just lack of sleep or a decent meal. Maybe it was age.

He saw Cameron and snapped himself out of his funk.

“Go in and take him, Pete,” said a voice on the radio.

Decker began his cautious approach, and when he was close enough, called out his name. Smithson turned around.

“He’s got a gun!” someone shouted into the wireless.

Decker hit the ground as Cameron let go with two shots and headed in the direction of the mall. Decker and a half dozen cops took off after him, dodging screaming shoppers.

Smithson stopped, took aim, fired again, and ducked into the Broadway, knocking down mannequins and upsetting racks of spring fashions. Bright-hued fabrics spilled onto the floor, dripping color like paint off an artist’s palette. Decker tripped over an anorexic dummy modeling a string bikini and red plastic sunglasses. The head split open, revealing a skull as empty as the expression frozen on its face. He regained his footing, heard the crack of a bullet whizzing past him, and fell back onto the floor. As soon as he saw Smithson take off, he got up and followed. His quarry sprinted up the escalator, pushing women behind him as he approached the second, then the third level.

Shrieks were accompanied by shattering glass. Smithson was in the China Department. The police approached slowly, avoiding the shards of broken crystal and china. An eerie calm hung in the air, the sound of shallow breathing.

Then a lead crystal ship’s decanter shot out of nowhere and smashed into a cop. The heavy mass of solid glass bounced off his face and blood poured out of his nose. Gouges etched his cheeks and face. He clutched at his eyes.

“Call an ambulance,” Decker shouted.

Another officer ministered to the wounded man as Decker rushed after Cameron, who had sped back down the escalator to the first floor, into Men’s Wear.

“He’s at the tie counter!” Decker shouted. “Dammit it, clear everyone out of there!”

“Freeze, fucker!” a policeman yelled.

Smithson grabbed the first person he could reach-an elderly gray-haired woman with thick glasses that made her eyes look bulging-and placed a gun to her temple.

“Step back or she’s dead,” he said between gasps of air. “You understand?”

“No one make a move,” the commanding officer yelled. “Everyone back off!”

The woman began to hyperventilate, and her eyes rolled backward.

“Just do what he says,” the commander ordered. “Just do what he says.”

“All right!” Cameron screamed. “You dogs have two minutes to clear out before I do something desperate.” He fired into the air. “I mean it!”

The commander was a man named Pearson, tall and thin, with a hard mouth, penetrating dark eyes, and a leathery face full of creases. He crept along the floor over to Decker.

“No time for SWAT. I’ve heard you’re a crack shot.” He handed him an FAL-Paratrooper. “Take him out.”

Decker took the rifle.

The man deserved to die.

It was up to him.

Arlington would be lost.

But the fucker deserved to die.

Suddenly Decker felt the enormity of playing judge, jury, and executioner. With a steady hand and a clear eye, he brought Smithson’s skull into sight. His index finger gripped the trigger and began to exert pressure while his hand drifted a fraction of an inch.

The blast.

Cameron Smithson stared at the gushing stump that had once been his right hand. Within moments he was down on the floor being read his rights while cops tried frantically to staunch the flow of blood. Decker wondered if he’d bleed to death. He looked at the hostage. She was splattered with blood, screaming hysterically, limbs jerking spastically. Marge gripped her shoulders and the woman slumped into her arms.

Getting up from the floor, Decker brushed off his knees.

“Everything all right?” he yelled.

“She’s okay,” Marge shouted back.

Pearson walked over and Decker handed him back the rifle. The commander was rigid with fury.

“Did you miss or was that on purpose, Sergeant?”

Decker didn’t answer. Pearson repeated the question.

“I aimed for his head, Commander,” Decker said.

Pearson stared at him. “You aimed for his head, but managed to blow off his hand?”

“I aimed for his head,” Decker repeated.

“You have a rep as an ace with a gun. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Pearson muttered. “You don’t know, huh?”

Decker was silent.

“Were you in ’Nam, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“How many gooks did you kill?”

“Point blank, three.”

“Three gooks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you blasted them, did you ask if they were good gooks or bad gooks?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you try to incapacitate them before you wasted them?”

“No, sir.”

“You just blew their fucking heads off, right?”

“Right.”

“And why was that?”

“Because if I didn’t kill them, they would have killed me.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” Pearson mocked. “Very good. You know, Decker, we fought a fucking war out there and we’re fighting a fucking war here. You didn’t incapacitate the enemy out there; you don’t do it here. If you don’t believe me, look up the procedure on how to handle a hostage situation.”

“I aimed for his head,” Decker reiterated.

“I bet you did.” Pearson poked Decker’s chest. “Your captain will hear about this. In the meantime, do some target practice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pearson walked away and Decker exhaled out loud. Marge came over to him.

“How’s the old lady?” Decker asked her.

“So far, so good. Tough gal. No signs of shock or heart attack. Paramedics will take good care of her.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you in deep shit?” she asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so. Hell, I shot him. My aim was just a little off.”

“Pete, if you’d have aimed for his head, he would have been ready for the meat wagon.”