Page 53 of Girl, Reformed

Macklin was moving before his brain couldcatch up, throwing the cruiser into park and bailing out like his ass was onfire. He slipped into the alleyway, one hand on the butt of his gun, the otherfishing the flashlight off his belt. The beam cut through the dark, bouncingoff dumpsters and fire escapes, empty bottles and condom wrappers.

Macklin forced himself to breathe, to takeit slow and steady. Last thing he wanted was to go barreling in all Rambo-likeand wind up giving the crazy a hostage. Or worse, a shield.

So he crept, one foot in front of theother, every sense cranked up to eleven. The stink of piss and decay hung thickin the air, undercut by something else.

He rounded the corner onto SnickersvilleSquare, and that's when he saw it.

His heart plunged into his stomach like alead weight into quicksand.

The fountain, dry as a bone and chokedwith dead leaves.

And there, in the center, handcuffed tothe crumbling stone spires of the fountain like a slab of meat on a hook, was abody.

A man's body, dressed in threads thatmighta been respectable if they weren't stained with piss, puke, and otherfluids Macklin didn't wanna think too hard about. The stiff's wrists wereshackled to the ornate curves of the fountain's upper basin, arms wrenchedbehind him at an angle that made Macklin's shoulders ache just looking at it.

Macklin's gorge rose, his dinner of coffeeand stale donuts making a break for freedom. He clamped his jaw shut, breathinghard through his nose.

A soft scuff behind him, the crunch ofdead leaves under a careless foot. Macklin whirled, hand flying to his holster.And found himself staring into the face of a nightmare.

White mask, smooth as a cue ball, blackholes for eyes. And the mouth - Christ, the mouth. Curved in a grotesque frown,like some kinda twisted parody of a sad clown.

It was him. The one they were all lookingfor, the freak with a hard-on for stocks and strangulation. And he was juststanding there, bold as brass, not twenty feet away.

Time dilated, seconds stretching liketaffy. Macklin's gun cleared leather, his voice ripping out of him in a hoarsebellow. ‘Police! Freeze!’

The figure bolted like a deer on openingday, vaulting over the fountain's edge and hauling ass across the square.Macklin gave chase, blood roaring in his ears, the acrid stench of the vicesvoided bowels fading behind him as he ran.

‘Stop! Police!’ he hollered, the wordsripped away by the wind of his passage. But the figure didn't stop, didn't evenslow. Just ducked and wove through the shadows like a ghost in a funhouse,always just out of reach.

Macklin pounded after him, lungs burning,thighs screaming. He was a donut-eatin' desk jockey, not some track star, buthe'd be damned if he'd let this freak get away. Not when he was so close hecould smell the crazy on him.

They careened down narrow alleys, vaultedtrash cans and dumpsters, the killer always just a hairsbreadth ahead.Macklin's vision tunneled, the world narrowing to that bone-white mask bobbingand weaving in the dark.

The freak was fast, but Macklin was fueledby righteous fury and too much caffeine. He closed the gap, fingers stretchedto snag the bastard's flapping coattails. Almost, almost.

Then the alley opened up and the mask wasgone, swallowed by the shadows between the buildings like it'd never been.

Macklin stumbled to a halt, chest heaving,frantic gaze raking the gloom.

Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

He was alone, nothing but the sound of hisown labored breathing and the far-off blare of traffic for company.

A four-letter word erupted out of him in araw bellow, all his impotent rage and sickened frustration poured into one soursyllable

With a shaking hand, Macklin fumbled forhis radio. Keyed it with a thumb that felt like a sledgehammer.

‘Dispatch, this is Unit 42. I need backupat Snickersville Square, now. And get me a bus while you're at it. We gotanother one.’

Backup usually took five minutes. Might aswell be five years, for all the good it would do. The damage was done. Macklinhad blown it. If the cosmos had any mercy left, maybe he could crawl into abottle and pray the whole thing was just some cheap-whiskey nightmare.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Ella's head nodded, eyelids fluttering asshe teetered on the knife's edge between waking and dreams. Files and photosblurred together, names and faces melting like crayons left out in the sun. Shecould feel herself slipping, the squawk of the bullpen fading to mutedunderwater gurgles.

Just five minutes...

The thought swam up from her subconscious,sweet and seductive as a siren's song. What was the harm? Couple winks, clearout the cobwebs, come back swinging. The temptation wrapped its sticky fingersround her brain and dragged her under, down into the depths of REM and regret.

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