Page 42 of Bulletproof Jack: Hunting Lee Child's Jack Reacher

Kim left him blocking her path when a gap opened briefly to one side. She slipped through. The gap closed rapidly behind her as she thrust forward, making slow progress.

Finally, she reached Westwood’s cold, wet body. She knelt to check for a carotid pulse to confirm.

He was dead.

He’d been dead when he dropped to the pavement. By this time, he’d been lying there long enough to get cold as stone.

A flash of movement caught her periphery. One of the yellow ponchos. Awkwardly out of place.

She glanced toward the yellow flicker just in time. A tall, thin man placed his foot on the short retaining wall, gripped the wrought iron railing with one hand and vaulted over the top.

In a quick moment, he landed solidly on the greenspace outside the fence, prepared to run. When he hit the wet ground on the other side, he slipped and lost his balance.

He slid along the hill toward the river, flailing his arms to stay upright. The yellow plastic hood held snug by the falls’ constant shower.

Using both long arms and legs, he managed to stop his descent and scrambled up to a level spot on the wet earth. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see his weapon.

He paused for breath before he began to run southward, outside the safety barrier, along the rough natural edge of the pedestrian walkway.

His feet slipped every time he hit a muddy patch of ground, but he stayed upright and kept going.

Kim scanned the area ahead, beside, and behind him. His options were limited. The crowds and the terrain operated as a barrier to escape.

He was headed toward the Rainbow Bridge. There was an open walkway up from the river to the street at that point.

If he reached the exit before Kim could stop him, he’d be gone.

Was he Westwood’s killer? Maybe not. But he was the only man risking life and limb to run away from the murder scene.

Flight was an indicator of guilt, in Kim’s experience.

If he had another excuse, he could tell her when she caught him.

Quickly, Kim patted Westwood down and grabbed his wallet and two phones before she stood up. She grabbed an arm nearby and shook the spectator to attention. He frowned and glared at her.

“What?” he demanded in a short, sharp snap of impatience. “Find another place to watch the show, lady.”

Kim pointed to Westwood’s body. “He’s been shot. Call the police.”

“Call them yourself,” he replied without looking, still annoyed.

What a jerk. Kim had no time to argue. She gave him a sharp elbow jab to the bicep, hard enough to hurt.

Which pissed him off.

He drew back to return the punch, but she moved out of reach before he could lay her out cold.

“Call the police! Just do it!” she yelled to be heard over the cacophony as she shoved her way to the railing.

She didn’t bother to yell at the fleeing man on the other side of the retaining wall. Waste of breath. He wouldn’t have stopped running even if he could hear her yelling over the deafening noise.

Kim grabbed the cold, wet, slippery railing with her free hand. The barrier was almost as tall as she was.

She stepped up onto the retaining wall, threw her right leg over the wrought iron railing, and stepped onto the retaining wall on the other side. Still holding the railing, she lowered her feet to the muddy earth.

When she felt steady enough, she released the railing and headed across the rocky outcropping as rapidly as she could move.

She kept one eye on the running man and the other seeking secure footing. The rain-slicked and uneven surface made speed impossible in the darkness.

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