Phantom Prey

and turned, still bent over the bag, saw her, recognized her, saw her hand moving, knew what was happening, had no chance for his gun or for anything, trapped by the door of the car and he reached onto the front seat and caught the vest and yanked it up and the gun went off and the blow hit him in the heart and he went down . . .
    One bright flash and one horrifying bang and he was down beside the car and Alyssa was screaming, “Go, go,” and she turned and ran before the counterman in the gas station could see her, and she was in the car and she swung in a U-turn. . . .
    Lucas sat up, alive, breathing, holding his chest. The blow hadn’t actually been heavy enough to knock him down, but he’d gone down anyway, because somehow, that’s what you did when you were shot, and it took him a few seconds to realize that there was no blood and he staggered to his feet, the vest in his hand, realized he’d managed to smother the muzzle of the gun with the vest, and he looked toward the street and saw Alyssa’s big green Benz swing in a U-turn and then he was in the Porsche and the counterman was running toward him, and he cranked the car and the anger clawed at his throat and they were out of there, a hundred feet behind her and he was gonna eat her fuckin’ lunch. . . .
    She saw him stand up, realized that she’d missed, and she screamed at herself, “Jesus, Jesus,” and then she stopped thinking altogether and thought about getting home, getting somewhere safe, and she stood on the gas pedal and was through the light, swinging past skidding cars, left onto 35E, headed south, and a moment later she saw the blue lights of the Porsche behind her and Fairy rose out of her chest and took the car and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. . . .
    Lucas was on the phone, screaming at St. Paul: “Headed south on 35E, she’s headed straight back into town, going past Pennsylvania, coming up on 94 . . .”
    The dispatcher said, “We’ve got a car coming up. Aw, he says you’re in front of him, he can see you,” and Lucas flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror and saw the lights, but they were falling back.
    And the dispatcher said, “We’ve got another car coming east on I-94. Where do you want him, where do you want him?”
    “I don’t know yet, I don’t know. . . .”
    They were traveling at a hundred and ten miles an hour through sixty-mile-an-hour traffic, through a big snarly intersection downtown, and Lucas saw flashing lights ahead to the right, then Alyssa’s taillights flared and she cut left and Lucas shouted, “Headed east on 94 . . .” then he saw the curb coming up and went left and shouted, “Wait, wait, she’s headed toward the Lafayette, she’s coming up on the bridge, she’s turning onto the bridge.”
    She crossed the Mississippi, speed climbing again, then, with more cop lights coming toward her, dropped off the exit onto the riverside Plato Avenue, and around the corner to the right, Lucas shouting into the phone all the time, bringing in more patrol cars.
    Plato was an industrial street: not much traffic, and no homes. Lucas was on her bumper now, or nearly so, pushing her. If he pushed her hard enough, in the big car, she’d lose it, and instead of killing somebody else in another car, she’d take it into a phone pole or a fence or a concrete abutment.
    She slashed a cross street without slowing, running the red light, and Lucas was forced to stand on his brakes, to avoid a pickup, and then he was across and behind her, dodging left, and up the river bluff, higher, higher, and there were more lights up ahead, flashers, and he saw her dodge right, slide through the intersection, bump over a sidewalk, cut a piece of lawn and then back on the street, Smith Avenue, onto the High Bridge, Lucas fifty yards behind her . . . and he saw her taillights come up.
    At the bottom of the bridge, a few hundred yards away, a St. Paul cruiser pulled up, flashers going, and then, behind it, another. They backed into a blocking V and the cops got out, and then another cop turned onto the bridge. . . .
    Fairy stopped the car on the bridge, looked back over her shoulder. She felt . . . exhilarated. All the boring stuff was over. The race through town had been the coolest thing she’d done forever. . . .
    Davenport was back there. Another cop turned onto the bridge behind the Porsche. Then Davenport got out of the car and was calling something to her, but she couldn’t hear it.
    She was still on the