Mind Prey

the cops, like tiny action figures, standing along the overpass railing.
    “Goddamn. Goddamn.” He was caught, stuck. He reached under the seat, got his .45. The gun was not comforting: it was a big, cold lump in his hand. If he had to use it, he was dead.
    He put the gun between his thighs, backed the van up until he was out of sight of the overpass, turned it off, started to get out—but the overhead light flickered and he quickly pulled the door closed. Shit. How to do this? He finally reached back, scratched the dome off the overhead light, and twisted out the bulb. Then he got out, put the gun in his pocket, and slipped down to the end of the line of boxes.
    There were sirens everywhere, like nothing he’d ever heard before, not even when he was starting fires, all those years ago. The sirens didn’t seem especially close, but they came from every possible direction.
    “Fucked,” he said, half out loud. “I’m fucked.” And he kicked one of the containers. “Fucked.”
    He ran his hands through his hair. Had to get out. He ran back to the van, stopped for a second, then ran farther down the line of containers. The container boxes were stacked two by two, end to end, in two long rows, with the track between them. In places, a container had been pulled. In a few, both containers had been pulled—like the hole he’d driven through.
    In those spots, he could see out, either across the tracks, or into the neighborhood on the other side of the elevators. He found one of the double breaks and walked carefully down it, trailing his hand along the edge of the container, feeling the clumped weeds underfoot. The neighborhood on the other side of the elevator was coming awake. Lights were on all up and down the street, and he heard a man shouting. The reflections of red flashing lights bounced off the side windows of the houses. Cops all over the place.
    Damnit, damnit.
    They had him, or they would have him. The van, anyway.
    He walked back toward it, and it occurred to him that if he backed it into one of the spaces left where a single container had been pulled, then nobody could see it unless they walked down the center track and looked into each space. If a cop simply looked down the track, the track would appear to be empty.
    That might give him some time.
    Mail hurried down to the van, backed it up fifty feet, then maneuvered it into a single container space. He doubted that he’d see it again. He’d have to abandon the Roses name along with the van, and probably all his computers.
    What about fingerprints? If they found the Roses name, that would be fine—but if they found his fingerprints, he’d never have any peace.
    He stripped off his jacket, shirt, and T-shirt, put the shirt and jacket back on, and used the T-shirt to wipe everything he might have touched in the van. His mind was working furiously: get the door handles, the wheel, of course, the ash tray, the seats, the glove compartment, the dashboard…get rid of all the paper crap on the floor.
    But then he thought: the computers. Damn. Everything at the self-storage would have his prints. If they found the van, they’d find the storage place, and get his prints there.
    He continued wiping, working the problem in his mind. He finished inside, got out, pushed the door shut with his elbow, and started wiping outside. The goddamn computers.
    He did the outside handles, plates, took a swipe at the wipers. He never messed with the engine, had never lifted the hood in his life, so that wasn’t a problem.
    And he thought: Fire.
    If he could get back to the store, there could be a fire. A fire would do it. Ten gallons of gas, a little oil, and the computers would burn like kindling.
    Even so, he couldn’t take any chances. He might not get everything—they might find a print, or two. So he’d have to get lost for a while, and that meant he’d have to settle Andi Manette and the girl. He could dump them in the cistern; that’d only take a second. He felt a small, dark tug at the thought—but he’d known it was coming.
    Okay. Done. He took a last swipe at the door handles, stuffed the T-shirt in his jacket pocket, and walked through the dark shadows of the containers to an opening that looked across the tracks.
    With the dark jacket and the jeans, he was almost invisible in the rail yard. He started walking through the dark, one hand in front of him for balance, his feet picking the way over the rough ground. Behind him, back toward the