The Drop

up to the driver.
    “You got a guy on there who’s going to try to take out another.”
    Bosch had no sooner said it than he heard sounds of a commotion erupt from the back of the bus, followed by shouts of encouragement.
    “ Do it! Do it! Kill that motherfucker! ”
    Both deputies turned back to look but froze.
    “Let me on!” Bosch yelled.
    The driver finally yelled, “ Go! Go! Get in there! ”
    He slapped his hand down on a red button that unlocked the cage door leading to the rear of the bus. The deputy with the shotgun went through and Bosch ran up the steps into the bus to follow.
    “Get backup!” he yelled as he passed the driver and followed the other deputy into the back.
    Almost immediately the deputy went down as he was tripped somehow by a prisoner able to extend his shackled feet into the aisle. Bosch didn’t stop. He jumped over the deputy’s back and moved farther toward the rear of the bus. The attention of every prisoner on the bus was directed to the rear right side, where Bosch saw Clayton Pell standing and leaning over the seat in front of him. He had wrapped a chain around Chilton Hardy’s neck and was strangling him from behind. Hardy’s face was purple and his eyes bugged. He could do nothing to defend himself because his wrists were shackled at his waist.
    “Pell!” Bosch yelled. “Let him go!”
    His shout was lost in the chorus of men shouting for Pell to do the opposite. Bosch took two more steps and launched his body into Pell, knocking him back from Hardy but not away. Bosch realized that Pell was cuffed to the chain that was around Hardy’s neck. It was the chain that was supposed to be around Pell’s waist.
    Bosch moved his hands toward the chain, shouting at Pell to let it go. The deputy soon recovered but couldn’t take his hands off the shotgun to help. Chu moved past him and tried to grab the chain pulled tightly against Hardy’s throat.
    “No, pull his hand,” Bosch yelled.
    Chu worked one of Pell’s hands while Bosch worked the other and they soon overpowered the smaller man. Bosch pulled the chain off Hardy’s neck and he collapsed forward, his face hitting the back of the seat in front of him before his body fell into the aisle at Chu’s feet.
    “Let him die!” Pell yelled. “Let that fucker die!”
    Bosch shoved Pell back into his seat and then leaned his whole weight on top of him.
    “You stupid fool, Clayton,” Bosch said. “You’ll go back in for this.”
    “I don’t care. I got nothing outside, anyway.”
    His body shuddered and he seemed to give up strength. He started moaning and crying, repeating, “I want him dead, I want him dead.”
    Bosch turned to look into the aisle. Chu and the deputy were tending to Hardy. He was either unconscious or dead and the deputy was checking his neck for a pulse. Chu had his head down and his ear turned toward Hardy’s mouth.
    “We need paramedics,” the deputy yelled to the driver. “Fast! I’m not finding a pulse.”
    “On the way,” the driver yelled back.
    The report regarding the lack of a pulse brought cheering and renewed energy from the other prisoners on the bus. They shook their chains and stomped their feet on the floor. It was unclear to Bosch whether they knew who Hardy was or if it was simply blood lust that had them calling for murder.
    Through it all Bosch heard coughing and looked down to see Hardy coming to. His face was still a deep shade of red and his eyes were glassy. But they focused for a moment on Bosch until the deputy’s shoulder moved between them.
    “Okay, we got him back,” the deputy reported. “He’s breathing.”
    This report was greeted with a chorus of boos from the men on the bus. Pell let out a high-pitched keening sound. His whole body shook beneath Bosch. The sound seemed to sum up a lifetime of anguish and despair.

42

    T hat night, Bosch stood on the back deck, looking down at the ribbon of lights on the freeway. He was still wearing his best suit, though the left shoulder had been scuffed with dirt during the struggle with Pell on the bus. He wanted a drink but wasn’t drinking. He’d left the sliding door open so he could hear the music. He’d gone back to the music he always went to in the solemn moments. Frank Morgan on the tenor sax. Nothing better to sculpt the mood.
    He had canceled his date with Hannah Stone. The events of the day eliminated any desire to celebrate, any desire to even talk.
    Chilton Hardy had survived the attack on the