The Twelfth Card

stopped firing but she could hear his footsteps getting closer. He was twenty feet away, she guessed. Then ten. She was sure that at any minute she’d see his face, followed by the muzzle of his weapon. Then she’d die . . .
    Thud.
    Thud.
    Rising on an elbow, she could see the killer, close, kicking at another basement-apartment door, which was slowly starting to give way. His face was eerily calm—like that of The Hanged Man in the tarot card he’d intended to leave beside Geneva Settle’s body. He must’ve believed he’d hit Sachs because he ignored where she’d fallen and was concentrating on breaking through the doorway—the only escaperoute left. He looked behind him once or twice, toward the far end of the block, where the uniformed officers were making their way toward him—though slowly since he’d turn and fire at them occasionally.
    He too would have to be out of ammo pretty soon, she figured. He probably—
    Boyd ejected the clip from his pistol and slipped a new one in. Reloaded.
    Okay, well . . .
    She could stay where she was, safe, and hope that other officers would get here before he escaped.
    But Sachs thought of the brunette lying bloody in the bungalow—maybe dead by now. She thought of the electrocuted officer, the librarian killed yesterday. She thought of the young rookie Pulaski, his face battered and bloody. And mostly she thought of poor young Geneva Settle, who’d be at risk every minute Boyd was free and walking the streets. Clutching the empty gun, she came to a decision.
    *   *   *
    Thompson Boyd delivered another powerful kick into the basement door. It was starting to give way. He’d get inside, he’d—
    “Don’t move, Boyd. Drop the weapon.”
    Blinking his stinging eyes in surprise, Thompson turned his head. He lowered his foot, which was poised for another kick.
    Well, now, what’s this?
    Keeping his gun low, he turned his head slowly and looked toward her. Yes, like he’d thought, it was the woman from the crime scene at the museum library yesterday morning. Walking back and forth, back and forth, like the sidewinder. Red hair, whitejumpsuit. The one he’d enjoyed watching, admiring her. There was a lot to admire, he reflected. And a good shot, too.
    He was surprised that she was alive. He thought for sure he’d hit her in the last barrage.
    “Boyd, I will shoot. Drop your gun, lie down on the sidewalk.”
    He thought a few more kicks at this door should break it in. Then into the alley behind the place. Or maybe the people who lived here had a car. He could take the keys and shoot whoever was inside, wound them, draw off more of the police. Escape.
    But, of course, there was one question that had to be answered first: Did she have any ammunition left?
    “You hearing me, Boyd?”
    “So it’s you.” Squinted his stinging eyes. Hadn’t used any Murine lately. “Thought it might be.”
    She frowned. She didn’t know what he meant. Maybe she was wondering if he’d seen her before, wondering how he knew her.
    Boyd was careful not to move. He had to figure this out. Shoot her or not? But if he made the slightest motion toward her and she did have rounds left she’d fire. He knew that without a doubt. Nothing squeamish about this woman.
    They’ll kill you in a kiss . . . .
    He debated. Her gun was a six-round Smith & Wesson .38 special. She’d fired five times. Thompson Boyd always counted shots (he knew he himself had eight left in his present clip, and one more fourteen-round clip in his pocket).
    Had she reloaded? If not, did she have one more round left?
    There are police officers who keep an empty chamber under the hammer on revolvers on the rarechance that accidentally dropping it will cause the gun to fire. But she didn’t seem to be that sort of person. She knew weapons too well. She’d never drop one accidentally. Besides, if she was doing tactical work, she’d want every round possible. No, she wasn’t an empty-cylinder kind of cop.
    “Boyd, I’m not telling you again!”
    On the other hand, he was thinking, this gun wasn’t hers. Yesterday at the museum she’d worn an automatic on her hip, a Glock. She still had a Glock holster on her belt now. Was the Smittie a backup piece? In the old days, when all cops had six-shooters, they sometimes carried another gun in an ankle holster. But these days, with automatics holding at least a dozen rounds and two extra clips on the belt, they usually didn’t bother with a second