The Blue Nowhere

from taking down hackers at a public terminal in the mall or serving warrants in houses where the biggest dangers were the plates of putrid food sitting stacked next to a teenager’s machine.
    Closer, closer . . .
    Twenty feet farther on, their paths would converge. Soon Anderson would have no more cover and he’d have to make his move.
    For an instant his courage broke and he stopped. He thought of his wife and daughter. And how alien he felt here, how completely out of his depth he was. He thought: Just follow the killer back to his car, get the license plate and follow as best you can.
    But then Anderson thought of the deaths this man had caused and the deaths that he’d cause again if not stopped. This might be the only chance to capture him.
    He started forward again along the path that would intersect with the killer’s.
    Ten feet.
    Eight . . .
    A deep breath.
    Watch the hand in the pocket, he reminded himself.
    A bird flew close—a gull—and the killer turned to look at it, startled. He laughed.
    And that was when Anderson burst from the bushes, shoving the pistol toward the killer, shouting, “Freeze! Police! Hands out of your pockets!”
    The man spun around to face the detective, muttering, “Shit.” He hesitated for a moment.
    Anderson brought the gun even with the killer’s chest. “Now! Move slow!”
    The hands appeared. Anderson stared at the fingers. They were clutching something! What?
    The detective tensed. But then he got a clear look. The man held a rabbit’s foot. A lucky key chain.
    “Drop it.”
    He did and then lifted his hands in the resigned, familiar way of someone who’s been through an arrest before. Anderson struggled to keep from looking too relieved as he glanced again at the rabbit’s foot; he didn’t want the killer to think he was new to this.
    “Lie down on the ground and keep your arms spread.”
    “Jesus,” the man spat out. “Jesus. How the fuck did you find me?”
    “Do it,” Anderson shouted in a quaking voice.
    The killer lay down on the ground, half on the grass and half on the sidewalk. Anderson was kneeling over him, shoving his gun into the man’s neck as he put the cuffs on, an awkward feat that took several tries. He then frisked the killer and relieved him of the Ka-bar knife and cell phone and wallet. He had been carrying a small pistol, it turned out, but that had been in the pocket of his jacket. The weapons, wallet, phone and rabbit’s foot went into a pile on the grass nearby. Anderson stepped back, his hands shaking from the adrenaline.
    “Where the fuck d’you come from?” the man muttered.
    Anderson didn’t respond but just stared at his prisoner as the shock of what he’d done was replaced with euphoria. What a story he’d have to tell! His wife would love it. He wanted to tell his little daughter but that would have to wait a few years. Oh, and Stan, his neighbors, who—
    Then Anderson realized that he’d forgotten the Miranda warning. He didn’t want to blow an arrest like this by making a technical mistake. He found the card in his wallet and read the words stiffly.
    The killer muttered that he understood his rights.
    “Officer, you okay?” a man’s voice called. “You need any help?”
    Anderson glanced behind him. It was the businessman he’d seen under the awning. His dark suit, expensive-looking, was dampened by the rain. “I’ve got a cell phone. You need to use it?”
    “No, no, that’s okay, everything’s under control.” Anderson turned back to his prisoner. He holstered his weapon and pulled out his own cell phone to report in. He hit redial but for some reason the call wouldn’t go through. He glanced at the screen and the phone reported, NO SIGNAL.
    That was odd. Why—
    And in an instant—an instant of pure horror—he realized that no street cop in the world would’ve let an unidentified civilian get behind him during an arrest. As he groped for his pistol and started to turn, the businessman grabbed his shoulder and the detective felt an explosion of pain in his back.
    Anderson cried out and dropped to his knees. The man stabbed him again with a Ka-bar knife.
    “No, please, no. . . .”
    The man lifted away Anderson’s gun and kicked him forward onto the wet sidewalk.
    He then walked over to the young man Anderson had just handcuffed. He rolled him over on his side and looked down.
    “Man, I’m fucking glad you’re here,” the cuffed man said. “This guy comes out of nowhere and I