The Baxter Trust

address and the cab took off.
    The light at the corner was red. The cab stopped.
    “Run the light.”
    The cabbie, an old wizened man, half turned in the seat and gave him a look.
    “It’s an emergency. Run the light.”
    The cabbie grinned and shook his head. “Buddy, I got a license.”
    “Run the fucking light.”
    “Relax, buddy.”
    Steve jerked open the door of the cab and hopped out. While the driver was turned looking after him, Steve jerked open the driver’s door. He grabbed the startled man by the shoulders and hurled him out of the cab.
    Steve hopped in the cab, slammed the door and took off, running the red light.
    The light at the next corner was red. He ran that too, almost colliding with a delivery truck. He shot on up the street.
    By the next corner the lights were green. He floored it, weaving in and out of cars, streaking up the street.
    Two blocks and the lights changed. And there was a jam at the intersection. No way to get through. He was going too fast to stop. He looked around desperately. Saw it. A break between the parked cars. He spun the wheel, fishtailed slightly then skidded between the cars and up onto the sidewalk. The cab sped down the sidewalk toward the intersection, half a block away. He kept his hand on the horn, scattering the pedestrians, who dove for safety.
    Two cops, one fat, one thin, were having coffee and doughnuts at a diner on the block. They heard the horn and looked up to see a cab flash by the window.
    “Holy shit!” the fat cop said.
    They got up and rushed out to their car.
    Steve heard their siren about five blocks later. He didn’t care. It was actually helpful in clearing the traffic out of his way.
    He hit Houston Street and realized he’d gone too far. He hung a right, sped over to Allen, hung another right and headed back downtown.
    The siren was getting closer as he hung a left off Allen and pulled up in front of the building. He left the cab standing in the middle of the street with the motor running. He hopped out and tore into the building.
    The downstairs door was standing open. A break. He plunged up the stairs.
    On the second-floor landing he heard a gunshot. It came from above. He didn’t stop. He turned the corner, ran up the stairs.
    The door to Teddy Baxter’s apartment was open. Steve plunged through.
    The apartment was empty. He stood there looking around.
    A gust of wind moved the curtains by the opened window. Just as Steve spotted it, there came the sound of more gunshots from above.
    He ran to the window and looked out. A fire escape. He climbed out onto it. Below him, in the street, the police car screeched to a stop behind the cab.
    More shots from above. Steve looked up. The fire escape led to the roof.
    He heard a voice call, “Hey!” He looked down and saw the cops looking up at him. He turned and climbed up the fire escape.
    The fire escape’s steps ended at the fourth floor, but there was a ladder to the roof. He climbed the ladder and peered over the edge of the roof.
    Maxwell Baxter was about ten feet from him. He was holding a gun. He was slumped down against a chimney near the edge of the roof. He was bleeding from a bullet wound in the chest. He was shielding himself behind the chimney, and aiming the gun at the stairwell, some twenty feet away.
    Steve swung himself up onto the roof.
    Teddy Baxter, who had been hiding behind the stairwell, poked his head out and aimed a shot at Steve. Steve hit the roof, and the bullet went over his head.
    Max fired. The bullet caught Teddy Baxter right between the eyes. He slumped to the rooftop, gushing blood.
    Steve jumped up and ran to Teddy. He was clearly dying. Steve ran back to Max.
    The effort of firing that last shot had done a lot to sap Max’s remaining strength. He was slumped down on the roof, only the chimney keeping his head and shoulders up.
    “Take it easy,” Steve said. “The police are right behind me.”
    “Teddy?” Max gasped.
    “He’s dead.”
    “Thank god.”
    “He killed your sister, didn’t he?” Steve said.
    Max actually turned his head slightly to look at him. “How did you know?”
    “The same way you did. He was supposed to have been in New York the day she was killed. But Phillip was in Vermont, and Teddy always took Phillip everywhere. He tampered with the brakes of the car, didn’t he?”
    “He must have. I would have suspected him then, if he hadn’t had such a good alibi. He was supposed to be in New York. He was arrested there the