Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

here.”
    Moonlight turned and began to head toward them. Her face was very pale, the bones of her face almost visible through translucent skin. She looked as small and breakable as one of the antique teacups Jane collected.
    Amongst the cacophony shattering the night air on this normally peaceful, tree-lined street—people yelling, a woman screaming, glass breaking, sirens, police shouting, truncheons striking shields—Jane heard a roar of rage.
    The young man who’d been stirring up trouble ever since he arrived in town ran toward them. He pulled a small bottle out of his left pocket. The neck of the bottle was distorted as if something had been stuffed into it. The fingers of his other hand flicked, and a small flame illuminated the darkness. He pulled his arm back as if he were standing on the mound, ready to pitch the last inning in the final game of the World Series. He was looking directly at Dave Evans.
    Jane screamed a warning. Moonlight turned.
    Jane looked at Evans, still holding her by the arm. His eyes filled with fear, as he saw Harris coming toward him. He shoved Jane away from him, hard. She went down, hearing, as much as feeling, the arthritic bones in her arm snapping. She wanted to just curl up in a ball and stay there. But she forced herself to look up, and all she could see was Harris’ homemade bomb lighting up the night.

Chapter Twenty-nine
    Like almost every Canadian kid, from the daughters of business tycoons to the sons of immigrant laborers, Molly Smith had played soccer. She’d been fast on her feet, and was usually the goalkeeper. She sometimes thought the position had helped to prepare her for the life of a cop: ninety percent hanging around the goalposts watching the activity at the other end of the field, ten percent the center of the action.
    Harris’ attention was focused on Evans, standing over the fragile body of Jane Reynolds. When he saw Smith barreling toward him he tried to pivot, but his foot slipped and he stumbled. Smith struck Harris full on, her whole body colliding with his. He yelped and the object he’d been holding flew out of his hands. Glass broke and liquid spread across the pavement. The air filled with the smell of gasoline. It ignited with a whoosh and flame raced in a thin, deadly river across the street.
    Smith’s head spun; she stared at the pavement, inches from her face. Harris lay on the ground beside her, momentarily stunned.
    Feet and legs ran past. A woman screamed, the sound so fierce it might be heralding the end of the world. “No, no,” a man yelled.
    Smith was jerked roughly to her feet. Her body shook as if an earthquake was ripping through the Mid-Kootenays. Dave Evans gripped her upper arms. He shook again. “Damn it, Smith, you okay?”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Get that lady the hell out of here. I’ll handle him.”
    “Okay.” Evans released her. He pulled Jane Reynolds off the pavement, and, without a backward glance, carried her away from the disturbance. She sobbed into his shoulder.
    Harris struggled to get to his feet. Smith pushed him back down and dropped to her knees beside him. She slammed his face into the pavement, pulled her handcuffs off her belt, and wrenched his arms behind him. “You are so under arrest, asshole.”
    He let out a scream of pain. She stood up, dragging him with her. His nose was pushed to one side, and blood flowed like a red river out of it. His blue cap lay in the road.
    He kept screaming, “My arm, my arm, you’ve broken my arm.”
    “If you goddamned stop pulling on it, it might not hurt so much.”
    A camera was shoved into her face.
    She ignored it.
    “Good job, Molly. I’ll take him.” John Winters grabbed Harris’ other arm. The man screamed.
    “Thought it was your left broken,” Smith said. “Guess you got them mixed up.”
    ***
    Smith, Evans, Solway, and Chen pulled up chairs in the constables’ office. Tocek leaned against a wall. They held hot drinks in hands only just beginning to stop shaking.
    “Hope there isn’t any trouble in town tonight,” Solway said. “With no one on the beat.”
    “We’ve had enough trouble for one night,” Tocek said, giving Smith a soft smile. He was well over six feet, with the bulk to match. His black hair was shaved almost to his scalp, not much longer than the thick stubble across his chin. He had, Smith thought, nice eyes, as warm and brown as Sylvester’s. And a smile that he kept sending her way. Chen wore a gold band on the third