Part 110 (1/2)

”Doubt that we'll hear a shot fired in anger,”

he said, forcing a smile. Thomas could see. Hammond, the fading professional, was seeking to rea.s.sure himself

”Promise me this,” he said, ”don't tell anyone how this ended. You know, arresting a wasted old man in his pajamas, pulling him out of bed at this hour of the morning.”

”It hasn't ended yet” Leslie reminded him.

d.a.m.ned amateurs, thought Hammond. Always rooting for excitement.

”Soon,” he offered.

”Why don't you two cover the back. I'll knock on the front door.”

It seemed logical, a routine procedure to make what was now a routine arrest. Thomas and Leslie walked quietly around the side of the house, noting that each shade was drawn. They then stood to the side of the back door, their backs to the ocean and the waves.

Thomas glanced upward. The sky was undecided: It didn't yet know whether to be blue or gray that day.

A minute pa.s.sed. Then another. Thomas felt like squirming within his clothes. He exchanged a glance with Leslie as if to ask, Hey? What's keeping Hammond? Has he knocked yet?

Thomas felt his hands wet within his gloves. He was conscious of the pistol in his coat pocket and he begged the fates that he'd not have to draw it, much less pull a trigger against a human being.

Both of them fixed their sights on the doork.n.o.b, waiting for the slightest movement of it to indicate a hand on the opposite side.

The force of the explosion was so intense that it rocked both Thomas and Leslie off their feet and onto the ground. Gla.s.s shattered somewhere in their presence and they could feel the shards and splinters flying to the hard ground around them.

They landed on their backs, stunned and severely jolted. They looked at each other as if in a daze. Then they realized. The explosion had been at the front door.

Where Hammond had been.

They staggered to their feet and ran. Leslie's hand had already wobbled to the pistol she carried. She'd released the safety catch, but it was meaningless now. The target had already fled, leaving only a trap for those who followed.

They rounded the house and saw Hammond, or what was left of him. It was immediately clear what had happened.

The career man, in his fatigue, had tired of knocking at the door and had tried the doork.n.o.b. Yes, the door had opened, but the -reception had been warmer than Hammond could have ever expected.

The front door had been b.o.o.by-trapped, the last vicious act by a man of malice and deception. Zenger had fled, knowing that it was now a matter of time before others came for him. He had left his calling card.

The body of Hammond was thrown pathetically fifty feet from the front door. It lay broken and bleeding, the clothes on the front torn away, the skin roasted and seared by the force of the explosion.

Mercifully, he lay face down, his arms and legs twisted into impossible contortions and splintered at the limbs.

For the first time, Leslie showed signs of breaking, repeating

”No, no, no,” over and over and pleading with no one in particular,

”It was meant for me, it was meant for me!”

Thomas looked at the appalling sight, Hammond dead without question, Leslie standing, holding the pistol at her side, seeing what the years had brought her to, and the picturesque old house now starting to burn.

A rage built within Thomas, overcoming his fear. He was gripped with a sense of the unfinished, of wanting to add finality to this case.