Last Ditch Read Free Page B

crossing guard, and
we'd be
right back where we started. Rebecca and I talked it over and decided
that we
weren't going to let anybody bring our lives to a grinding halt. The
way we
figured it, if we stopped our lives, the judge won. The way I figured
it if I
let scumbags like the judge run me around, I might as well find a new
line of
work. Like selling Amway maybe.
    I
settled for
the loan of a Kevlar vest and took what I considered to be prudent
steps to
protect us. We had a first-class alarm system installed in the house.
Rebecca
and I now locked our cars in the garage every night, instead of leaving
them
strewn about the driveway. She was car-pooling to work with Judy Benet.
I made
it a point to meet new clients in busy public places in broad daylight.
We
consoled ourselves by telling each other that these precautions were
appropriate for the late nineties and what's more, long overdue.
Neither of us
believed it for a minute, but for some reason, neither of us was
willing to
abandon the illusion, either. Go figure.
    While
I
normally only carried a weapon when it seemed likely I might need one,
these
days I didn't go to the John without considering the question of how
many
rounds I was carrying. The judge's trial began in a couple of weeks. I
figured
that once I testified, the threat was over. At least I hoped so.
Despite our
best efforts, the strain was wearing us down. Without consciously
willing it
so, lately, more often than not we found ourselves staying at home,
watching
the boob tube in darkened rooms. I spent the nights lying awake
listening to
Rebecca toss and turn and trying to remember what programs we'd watched.
     
    My
sleep
patterns had been a mess ever since Frankie's little visit. I'd taken
to dawn
runs around Greenlake as a way to work off some of the stress. I hated
running,
but what the hell, I was up.
    It's
a little
under three miles around the lake. When I was a kid, I'd run around and
around
until I lost interest. Back then, it was more of a swamp than a lake.
These
days, they pump it full of reservoir water to keep it pretty, and if I
manage
to jog around it once without pulling a muscle or projectile vomiting
it makes
my whole day.
    I
always start
and end at the south end of the lake by the Mussert Shell House. It's a
dark
little glen with an attached parking lot and the only part of the lake
that
doesn't directly front a city street. I figured if I started and ended
there, I
could make all the noise I wanted and not bother anybody. After all,
wouldn't
want the sound of my puking and wheezing to keep anybody up. It never
occurred
to me that it was also an excellent choice for a kill zone.
    I
was walking
in circles out at the end of a twenty-foot floating dock that juts out
into the
lake, trying to catch my breath and spitting into the water, when he
walked by
on the path, giving me a curt nod of the head before disappearing
behind the
Shell House.
    He
should have
gone shopping at Eddie Bauer first. Or maybe REI. Gotten himself a nice
earth-tone Gor-Tex shell, some chinos, a pair of waterproof
wafflestompers and
a FREE TIBET button. If he'd blended in better, he and his partner
would have
ended up back in Vegas with the hookers, and I, in all probability,
would have
ended up dead. As it was, he stuck out like a barnacle in a béarnaise
sauce.
    About
forty
years old and twenty pounds overweight, he'd greased his hair into an
old-fashioned pompadour with a sharp part on my side. Bob's Big Boy.
Not only
was he wearing the last leisure suit in America, but the poster boy for
polyester was also carrying a four-foot floral arrangement wrapped in
newspaper. Flowers for his girlfriend. Long-stemmed. Real long. At
five-fifteen
on a Tuesday morning. Every hair on my body suddenly stood on end.
    The
fact that
they were here at this time of the morning meant they'd been casing me
for a
couple of days and knew my habits. The fact that I hadn't spotted them
meant I
was getting old and sloppy.
    I
reached
behind me