There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(69)

Hawks turns right on 18th Street, driving away from Corona Heights Park.

In the moment that his head is turned watching for cross traffic, I slip my bound wrists under my legs, bringing them around in front of me. Hawks glances at the rear-view mirror. I sit still, pretending that I haven’t moved at all.

I wait, the seconds whipping past, the car traveling several agonizing blocks in the wrong direction.

Then Hawks turns onto Sanchez and speeds up. He’s distracted, changing lanes to merge into traffic.

Leaning back against the seat, I lift my feet and drive both heels into the metal mesh as hard as I can. I kick it once, twice, as Hawks shouts and swerves the wheel, scrabbling for his gun. My heels breaking through on the third kick, knocking Hawks in the jaw and shoulder, sending the car careening the opposite direction.

Hawks pulls his gun free, but now there’s no mesh between us. I drop my wrists over his head and pull the chain back against his throat, yanking it so tight that he has to let go of the wheel entirely, and the gun too, both hands grabbing for the chain as he strangles.

The cruiser barrels into the cars lined up along the street, hitting the bed of a Tacoma and flipping over. Hawks and I are both unbuckled. We’re flung up out of our seats, still grappling and twisting in the air, landing in a crumpled heap on the inside roof of the car.

I keep throttling him with all my strength as he claws and punches backward. He hits me in the eye and the ear, but I hang on doggedly, choking him until I feel him losing strength. His blows weaken. Finally he slumps forward, both of us covered in broken glass, bleeding from a dozen cuts.

I ease the pressure off his throat.

There’s no covering this up—I just assaulted a police officer. I’m in deep shit. I don’t need Hawks dead on top of everything else. I steal the keys off his belt, unlock the cuffs, then leave him there with a livid chain mark across his throat and his pulse still beating.

I crawl out the shattered windshield of the cruiser.

A half dozen people have already gathered around, pulling out their phones, calling the police and an ambulance.

They stare at me as I slither out of the cop car, cut to ribbons by the glass, blood pattering down on the cement from the side of my face, my knees, and my hands.

“Are you okay?” a girl asks me.

A bald man in glasses takes a step back, understanding what it means that I was in the back of the cop car when it crashed.

“You better wait here for the ambulance …” he says, hesitantly.

I’m not waiting for shit.

Ignoring the bystanders, I turn and start running back in the direction of the park.

I’m not returning exactly the way we came—I’m cutting through cross-streets, sprinting down sidewalks and through alleyways, taking the most direct route to Mara.

I’m running faster and harder than I’ve ever run in my life. My shoes pound the pavement, my chest flames like a furnace stuffed full of coal. My head throbs where it slammed against the car door as the cruiser flipped over. I can’t pay attention to any of that—all I can do is sprint and sprint until I taste blood in my throat.

I’ve been delayed too long.

Mara might already be dead.





19





Mara





The wind hits me like a slap as I run down the steps of the theater.

For once, it actually feels like Christmas Eve.

The air is so cold that my breath comes out in silvery plumes, and my sweat freezes on my skin in an instant. Thick clouds blanket the night sky, blocking out every star.

I’m hurrying up Castro Street, trying to find the right pace where I can stay ahead of Shaw without losing him.

I have to look distraught, which isn’t hard to do. Fighting with Cole was awful. I know we were both playing a part, but it made me feel like shit hearing him speak to me that way, seeing the ugly look on his face. I hated putting Sonia in the middle. I’ll have to apologize to her for that—assuming I’m still alive come morning.

Alone in the dark, this plan seems like madness.

I know Cole is close behind me. In fact, he should be running ahead by now, taking the direct route so he can beat me to the park. I fight the urge to glance back over my shoulder, to check if Shaw is following as well.

I turn left on 16th, slowing my pace just a little. Behaving as if I stormed off in a rage, but I’m cooling down now.

It’s almost midnight. I’ve never seen the streets so empty. I pass several houses with parties in full swing: Christmas lights strung up in the windows, music thudding and people laughing. The sound of merriment from a distance always makes me feel lonely.

No one’s out on the sidewalk with me. Barely any cars drive past. Everybody already got where they’re going.

I’ve almost reached Corona Heights Park.

As I cross Flint Street, I feel the unmistakable sensation of eyes on my back. Every sound becomes painfully acute: the rattle of dry leaves blowing up the street, and the scrape of my boots mounting the curb.

Shaw is behind me. I fucking know it.

I know it because I feel it.

My flesh prickles, the sparkling gown scraping across my skin. The air goes still, the pressure dropping.

I’ve reached the park entrance.

I pause for a moment, at the head of the winding pathway leading into the trees.

If Shaw is watching me, I want him to think I passed this way by chance. And that I’ve only just thought of Cole’s sculpture up on the flat top of the park, almost completed.