Blood Price

be dangerous, but Norman is a geek. I can take him out myself if you're not interested." When she started walking again, Vicki stepped in front of her.

    "Hold it right there, this is no time for amateur heroics."

    "Amateur heroics?" Coreen's voice rose an octave. "You're fired, Ms. Nelson!" Turning on one heel, she circumvented Vicki's block and stomped toward the building.

    Sighing, Vicki followed. She'd save actual physical restraint as a last resort. After all, she can't even get into the building.

    The inner door to the lobby was ajar and Coreen barged through it like Elliot Ness going after Capone. On her heels, Vicki reached out to stop her.

    "Coreen, I. . . ."

    "Freeze, both of you."

    The young man who emerged from behind the potted palm was unprepossessing in the extreme. Tall and thin, he carried himself as though parts of his body were on loan from someone else. A plastic pocket protector bulged with pens and his polyester pants stopped roughly two inches above his ankles.

    Coreen rolled her eyes and headed directly for him. "Norman, don't be such a. . . ."

    "Coreen," Vicki's hand on her shoulder rocked her to a halt. "Perhaps we'd better consider doing as Mr. Birdwell suggests."

    Grinning broadly, Norman raised the stolen AK-47.

    Vicki had no intention of betting anyone's life on the very visible magazine being empty, not when the police report had included missing ammunition.

    One of the building's four elevators was in the lobby, doors open. Norman motioned the two women into it.

    "I was looking out my window and I saw you in the parking lot," he told them. "I knew you were here to stop me."

    "Well, you're right ..." Coreen began but fell silent as Vicki's grip on her arm tightened.

    Vicki had very little doubt that she could get the gun away from Norman without anyone-except possibly Norman-getting hurt, but she sure as hell wasn't going to do it in an elevator with what appeared to be stainless steel walls. Forget the initial burst-the ricochets would rip all three of them to shreds. She kept her grip on Coreen's arm as they walked down the hallway to Norman's apartment, the barrel of the Russian assault rifle waving between them like some sort of crazed indicator switch.

    Don't let anyone open their door, she prayed. I can handle this if everyone just stays calm.
    As she couldn't count on neighbors not diving suddenly into the line of fire, she'd have to wait until they were actually in the apartment before making her move.

    Norman's place was unlocked. Vicki pushed Coreen in ahead of her. The moment he closes the door. . . . She heard the click, dropped Coreen's arm, spun around, and was pushed to one side as Coreen charged past her and threw herself at their captor.

    "Damnit!"

    She ducked a wildly swinging elbow and tried to shove Coreen down out of the line of fire.
    The dark, almost blue metal of the barrel scraped across her glasses. She caught one quick glimpse of Norman's fingers white around the pistol grip. Coreen clutched at her shoulder. She didn't see the steel reinforced butt arc around outside her limited periphery. It missed the thinner bone of her temple by a hair - smashing into her skull, slamming her up against the wall, plummeting her down into darkness.

    * * *
    Brows drawn down into a deep vee, Celluci fanned the phone messages stacked on his desk, checking who they were from. Two reporters, an uncle, Vicki, the dry cleaners, one of the reporters again . . . and again. Growling wordlessly, he crumpled them up and shoved them into his pocket. He didn't have time for this kind of crap.

    He'd spent the day combing the area where the latest victim and her dog had been found.
    He'd talked to the two kids who'd found the body and most of the people who lived in a four block radius. The site had held a number of half obliterated footprints that suggested the man they were looking for went barefoot, had three toes, and very long toenails. No one had seen anything although a drunk camped out farther down in the ravine had heard a sound like a sail luffing and had smelled rotten eggs. The police lab had just informed him that between the mastiff's teeth were particles identical to the bit of whatever-it-was that DeVerne Jones had been holding in his hand. And he was no closer to finding an answer.

    Or at least no closer to finding an answer he could deal with.

    More things in heaven and earth. . . .

    He slammed out of the squad room and stomped down the hall. The new