The Harmony parking lot is located in the heart of Brattleboro. It is as hemmed in by downtown’s shoulder-to-shoulder nineteenth-century buildings as a large castle courtyard, complete with only three entrances—a narrow, arched, one-way tunnel from High Street, a two-way gap about a quarter block wide, leading out to Elliot Street, and a driveway next to it by the bank. Over the years, the lot had been planted with small trees, to soften its appearance, and targeted by town leaders and police against making it a magnet for teens and euphemistically labeled “young adults”—both considered troublemakers. The trees were coming along; the population control efforts remained iffier.
Sam, Lester, and Willy arrived there in two cars from the Putnam trailer in West Bratt, where small Richard had told his friend Sam where he thought his oldest brother might be. Lester entered the lot from the north—High Street—while Sam and Willy came in from the south, parking illegally by the lot’s outlet. In that way, they were positioned like cowboys, hoping to head off any skittish horses that might choose to bolt from the corral.
They were connected by radio, discreetly accessed by sleeve mikes and earbuds.
“You all set?” Sam asked Lester after they’d exited their car.
“Yup. Looking around as we speak,” came the answer.
“Willy—you want to split up or work this together?” Sam asked over her shoulder. Hearing no response, she checked, and found him already gone.
“Gotcha,” she muttered to herself. “Glad we talked.”
The lot wasn’t overly crowded—a couple of small groups in odd corners, unsurprisingly near the few stores facing inward that either catered to the kids or simply ignored them. But visibility was still a challenge, what with the trees and the hundred or so parked cars.
This explained another reason for the location’s popularity among the less-than-desirable—while automobiles had limited access to it, pedestrians could pass through like water through a colander. A dozen stores facing out had rear entrances servicing the parking lot. Intended to address fire codes or simple convenience, this porosity afforded drug dealers and others seeking discretion multiple ways of transecting the block without drawing attention.
That alone made Sammie nervous—that they hadn’t done enough preparation only worsened it. With Willy’s DNA match, Ryan was no longer a mere interview subject; he was a murder suspect. That meant that you delved into his background thoroughly, scrutinized his personal habits, found out the best place to isolate and grab him, and only then took action. It didn’t mean you wandered around a parking lot, hoping to get lucky.
But Willy was Willy, and Joe wasn’t around—again. That put Sam in the position of dancing with the devil she knew all too well, versus holding off until Joe surfaced, knowing that Willy would be in motion on his own in the meantime.
At least this way, she might be able to run interference.
“I got Maura Scully,” Lester said quietly over Sam’s earpiece.
“Where?”
“She just left the bakery, east side.”
Sam walked in that direction, soon spotting the young girl’s hank of long blond hair.
“You want to tag her first?” Les asked.
“Yeah,” she answered. “I want this nice and quiet.”
Sam saw Lester idly leaning against his car, beyond where Scully was chatting with two other girls. He was pretending to be having a cell-phone conversation.
Sam approached the trio casually. “Hi,” she said, addressing them all before looking directly at Scully. “Are you Maura?”
“Who’s asking?” Scully wanted to know.
Sam smiled and stuck her hand out. “Oh, right—duh. I’m Sam. I work with HCRS. I just wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions.”
Predictably, and as Sam had hoped, Maura rolled her eyes. “God, what is it with you people?”
“I know, I know. This is just so I can fill out some paperwork and not get fired. I am sorry. I know what a hassle we can be.”
Maura put on a show of being peeved, mostly for her companions, but conceded in the end. “Whatever.”
Sam hesitated. “It’s kind of confidential.”
“I can’t leave,” Maura told her. “I’m waiting for somebody.”
“No, no. We can just move across the way a little.” Sam glanced at the other two. “That’s okay, isn’t it? Just two minutes of privacy? I’ll be as fast as I can.”
The other girls looked uncomfortable being asked permission. “Sure,” one of them barely murmured.
But it was enough. Scully followed Sam across the parking lot’s traffic lane, until they were standing out of earshot.
“Where’s Ryan?” Sam asked, out of the blue but for the sake of the microphone. “I thought he’d be with you.”
“In the bakery,” Maura told her without thought. “What do you want?”
From the corner of her eye, Sam saw Lester leave his post and stroll toward the bakery’s far entrance, so that Ryan would be boxed in.
“I guess you heard that Becky had a meltdown last night,” Sam said, watching over the girl’s shoulder to check on any activity at the store.
“So? What’s that got to do with me?”
“Well, you live at the same address, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I was wondering what you could tell me about life in general there, specifically relating to Becky’s state of mind.”
Maura’s forehead wrinkled. “What?”
“How’s Becky been acting?”
“She’s a stuck-up bitch. I don’t have nothing to do with her.”
“Still, you must have some impressions.”
Sam saw Les enter the store. Almost immediately, she heard his surprised voice mutter, “Shit. Willy’s making his move.”
Sam stiffened, not listening to Maura anymore. So that’s where he went.
As if on cue, she heard Willy say, “Hey, shitbird. Drop the goods and show your hands.”
That was instantly followed by a loud bang and a crash, Willy letting out a grunt and Lester yelling, “Go, go, go. He’s a runner.”
The door behind Scully banged open to reveal Ryan Hatch, his eyes wide, stopping for a split second, looking around, and then preparing to sprint for the Elliot Street exit.
Sam shoved Maura out of the way, pulled her gun from her holster, and yelled, “Do not move. Police.”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. He pulled his own gun from under his T-shirt just as Maura regained her balance and threw herself against Sam.
Ryan’s gun cracked sharply once before he took off. Sam, grabbed by a bullet low in her right leg, spun around and fell as Maura began screaming.
Lester appeared outside first, and ran over to Sam. Willy flew out behind him, instinctively took in his partner’s grimace and the nature of her wound, and went after the fleeing Ryan.
The latter’s speed served him well, allowing him to cross the lot, straddle the motorcycle none of them had noticed, fire it up, and begin rolling, just as Willy came within two feet of laying his hand on the young man’s shirt.
Willy didn’t hesitate, even as the bike squealed away in a plume of burning rubber. He threw himself behind the wheel of his car, and—covert siren and lights ignited—followed the motorcycle out of the lot, turning right and heading west up Elliot, toward the fire department’s central station.
It was a short chase, even with the bike’s speed and agility. Willy, not radioing for help or pursuing Ryan from a safe distance, crushed the accelerator instead and sent the car off like a rocket. Pedestrians and traffic scattered before him, he bounced off the side of a car parked beside the dry cleaner’s, and just as Ryan had to slow down for a vehicle entering from the side, Willy simply ran him down at top speed, smashing him between his front bumper and the side of the obstructing car.
Ryan flew over the roof as if shot from a catapult and landed in a heap in the middle of the street, a pool of blood slowly spreading from under his head.
Willy swung out of his wrecked car, ignored the other driver, who was shaking his head in a daze, and walked around to where Ryan lay motionless.
He stared at the body for a moment, noticing the slightly moving chest, and said softly, “You’re it, asshole.”