Page 32 of Dodge

She straddled him.

No banter, of course. No final words.

Marlowe gripped his hair and tugged back to fully expose his throat. He tried to lift his arms; they weren’t responding.

Their eyes met and she lifted her right fist, which some reporter had described—ironically now—as her “killer weapon.”

Her arm had not yet descended when a voice from behind her barked, “No!”

Two gray-uniformed men lunged forward, gripped her arms with fierce pressure and pulled her off.

“Truck driver called in about gunfire somewhere around Trail Ridge.”

Sheriff Louie Braddock was standing with his arms crossed, dead center in the dusty pull-off in front of the dilapidated shack. Constant Marlowe wondered what the structure had been used for. If a residence, it would have been less than appealing even when fresh.

“He said he thought it was a rifle. You know, boom, not a snap. Isn’t season now, so we had to check it out. You know anything about a long gun around here?”

“Do not, Sheriff.”

He looked toward Paul Offenbach, cuffed and being looked after by some medics.

“So he didn’t leave town.”

“Appears I was wrong.”

The sheriff scoffed.

Marlowe glanced toward Route 22. Deputies had stopped traffic temporarily. At the intersection sat a florist’s van, black and dusty. Henrietta’s Florist. The dark-haired driver stared at the excitement, frowning.

“You’ll want him extradited down to Illinois, and I’d have to talk to our DA but I think she’ll agree to you folks having him first. We have him on attempted murder here and the weapons charge. You’ve got the full monty.”

“Thanks. I’m a friend of the DA in Vandalia. We’ll make sure he comes back here for the Lombardi trial.”

Braddock said, “If I know your state law, Agent Marlowe, he’ll get life in Illinois, and attempt here’ll buy him sixty years. That man is not seeing the outside of a cell ever.”

The Motorola on the sheriff’s hip clattered with a staticky transmission. Loud.

“Sheriff, you there?”

“Kelly, I’m still on Trail Ridge. Offenbach’ll be in for processing. Give it thirty, forty—”

“Sheriff. There’s a situation.”

The dispatcher’s voice sounded unsteady. Usually they were calmer than this. It takes a certain type of person to do 911 work.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s Tomas Wexler. He’s dead.”

The sheriff said nothing for a few seconds. “Okay. Why don’t you keep going here?”

“Shot. He was on Clement Road at a light. Looks like somebody pulled up and shot through his side window.”

“Just like Tony got shot,” Braddock said, half to himself.

“Six rounds. Small caliber. Looks like a twenty-five.”

“Where on Clement?”

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