CHAPTER101
KYLE ANDERSON REALIZEDhe was boxed in, and jumped right into attack mode. Instead of trying to outrun us, he grabbed Lizzie by her arm. He jerked her in close to him and stuck the point of the knife directly on her throat. A line of blood dripped down Lizzie’s neck.
Kyle said, “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Tell your partner to step around and join you.”
I could tell by his voice he wasn’t panicked. He may have been desperate, but he also had made certain calculations. He knew we wouldn’t risk the girl’s life. I motioned to Conklin. He’d already heard the threat and was easing around in a wide arc.
Now people in the immediate area realized there was trouble. A few screams started a cascade. I guessed the shooting at the Garden Spot last nighthadput people on edge. Suddenly, people were falling over one another to get out of our way.
Rich and I now stood directly in front of Kyle and Lizzie. We’d both drawn our pistols. We aimed them at the suspect. There was no way we were going to risk a shot past Lizzie’s head. I wonderedwhat Kyle wanted next. Whatever it was, chances were slim he’d get it.
Lizzie let out a strangled sob. It focused me.
I said as calmly as I could, “Put the knife down, Kyle. You don’t want to make things worse.”
I was expecting some sort of negotiation. Instead, Kyle shoved Lizzie directly toward us, then turned and sprinted into the crowd. Conklin took off running after him, but I lost sight of them both almost immediately.
I knelt down and said to Lizzie, “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Do you remember me, Lizzie?”
She shook her head again. I didn’t want to push too hard. But I couldn’t just leave her.
Just then a San Francisco Street Crisis Response worker burst through the crowd. She saw my jacket. “Do you need me to call for help?”
I glanced up and said quickly, “Yes. Stay with this girl and call for help.”
I was off and running in the same direction I’d last seen Conklin go. I turned down an alleyway and raced along. I could hear shouting from around the corner of the building. There, in the area in front of several back doors with plastic garbage bins lining the wall, I found the two men facing each other.
Kyle had already ditched his knife. “I’m unarmed.” He held his hands out wide. I came to a stop next to a garbage bin with old newspapers stacked on top of it. Now Kyle had Conklin in front of him and me to his right. I didn’t draw my pistol. One of us was going to have to handcuff this guy.
Kyle started to pant. It almost sounded like he was choking. Hesomehow squeaked out, “I need my inhaler.” He eased a hand into his left front pocket.
Conklin barked, “Take that hand out of your pocket slowly.”
Kyle did as he was told. When his left hand came up, he was holding some kind of inhaler in it. Now his breathing was really rough. He adjusted the inhaler in his hand. And looked at Conklin for some kind of permission to use it.
My partner glanced at me, and as he did, Kyle mashed the button of the inhaler. It sprayed an orange mist into Conklin’s face, and sent him stumbling backward.
Kyle turned to me with the inhaler still in his hand. Out of instinct, I reached down and grabbed a newspaper off the garbage bin. Just as he sprayed, I got the paper up and spread it in front of me. It worked like a shield. Perfectly.
Then I just ran forward with the paper in front of me. My whole body connected with Kyle’s. My momentum took both of us backward until he slammed into the brick wall of the building.
I felt his head snap as it hit the wall hard.
When I stepped back, ready to fight, Kyle just slumped to the ground. Unconscious.
CHAPTER102
ALMOST EXACTLY TWENTY-FOURhours after coming to this same hospital with Alain Creasy, I was back. This time I was sitting in the corner of a hospital room while a young intern examined Kyle Anderson.
It was well past visiting hours, too late to go see Alain. One of the floor nurses said he was sleeping anyway. I’d have to wait to tell him the progress we’d made.
Rich Conklin sat next to me on an adjustable padded stool with an advertisement for a medical supply company stenciled on it. A paramedic had helped flush the pepper spray from Conklin’s eyes and face, but he still had bloodshot eyes and a runny nose. He’d barely said a word since we’d arrived at the hospital.
I leaned over from my uncomfortable, non-padded stool and said, “How are you feeling now?”
