The SWAT leader pushed the fan several times before it swung out and down on its hinges. He put his head out. On the screen Bob saw the deserted yard with trucks and loading bays closed up for the night. Two uniformed officers came running into the yard with walkie-talkies crackling and guns drawn.
“Gomez must be a tough guy,” said O’Rourke, turning his head downward so that his audience could see it was a drop of at least twenty-five feet to the pavement. “Either he knows how to fall properly or he’s out there somewhere dragging a broken leg behind him.”
—
I walked quickly through the downtown streets, between the deserted office buildings, past the empty alleyways where it wasn’t safe after dark. But I wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. They were the ones who should have been afraid. My racing pulse told me only that I was alive, I felt things, and for the first time in a long time. This was dangerous, enjoyably dangerous. The only thing that worried me was that I’d made it a little more exciting than necessary. As though something in me wanted to give them the chance to stop me. Is that what I wanted? Of course not. I had given myself a task. Or had I? Was I even really the one who had given me the task? What I did know was that it had to be completed, that I mustn’t give in to the temptation of peace, of at last being able to sleep in the same bed as you, my beloved, of holding our children. Nor could I let myself be distracted by moral queasiness and shortsightedness. The sum total of suffering for all innocents would be so much greater if I failed to complete the task than the suffering it would cause a handful of innocent people. I had to steel myself. Only two days to go now.
A family came walking toward me along the sidewalk. Talking and laughing, they sounded happy, maybe they’d been to the movies, or eaten out at a restaurant. Maybe they thought nothing bad could happen to them because they did everything right; they worked hard, helped out in the community, helped those who carried a heavier burden than themselves.
“Hola,” I called out as I passed them. But got no response, just looks of mild surprise, as though they couldn’t work out if it was some kind of joke.
I swallowed. Had to keep my concentration up. Couldn’t relax. Even a slight mistake could tip the whole thing over. But, afterward, let it all fall down.
29
Feeling Minnesota, October 2016
Kay entered the almost empty sports bar, saw the mustard-yellow coat and slipped onto the barstool next to him.
“Sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“For letting them run you off like that.”
“Not your fault. SWAT makes the rules when they’re leading the operation.”
“I could have protested, but it wasn’t the time or the place.”
“Agreed. Don’t think about it. You made sure they listened to me about the fan.”
“They should have listened to you and gone in immediately.”
Bob took a sip of his whiskey and nodded in the direction of the newscast on the screen behind the bar. “Rick there has just explained to the viewers that the MPD managed to lose themurder suspect Tomás Gomez while they had him surrounded in a public restroom.”
Kay groaned. “Guess I need a drink too.”
Bob signaled to the bartender. “A Johnnie Walker for the lady.”
The bartender repeated his trick of grabbing the bottle without looking.
“Not bad, eh?” said Bob.
“He must’ve practiced,” said Kay and waited impatiently for the glass in front of her to be filled.
“Apropos,” said Bob. “I’ve been thinking about what O’Rourke said about how it almost seems as though Gomez has had some kind of training.”
“What about it?” said Kay.
“Gomez is strong and supple. He got up into that shaft where O’Rourke needed two guys to help him up. And so quietly that no one else noticed anything. Before he dropped down into the yard he must have been hanging by his fingertips, pulled himself up again and used his head to snap the fan back into place. Not something you or I could have managed. And not O’Rourke either, even though he’s in good shape.”
“Well, some people are just stronger than others,” said Kay. She emptied her drink, nodded to the bartender and pointed at the glass.
“I think Gomez has planned this whole thing very carefully. He’s been working out with precisely this end in mind. And just the same way both murders were carefully planned, this last little game of his was planned too.”
“You think so?”
“Don’t you see? That it’s just a little bit too much of a coincidence he ends up in a restroom where the ventilation shaft leads out into an empty backyard. That the fan is just high enough up on the wall for it not to be welded in place as a precaution againstsomebody breaking in, but low enough to make it possible to drop down from, provided you have training in how to fall, like a paratrooper. Maybe he had the foresight to place something on the ground to break his fall, some kind of mat or something.”
