The Vanished Man

disappointed that the girl wasn’t there.
    Please, she prayed, looking again toward the doorway for Kadesky.
    Nothing.
    Wishing she could tap a hickory magic wand on the battered metal railing in front of her, point it at the doorway and materialize the producer.
    Please, she thought again, aiming the imaginary wand toward the doorway. Please . . .
    Nothing for a moment. Then several figures entered. None of them was Kadesky, though. They were just three women dressed in medieval costumes and wearing masks whose forlorn expressions were belied by the buoyant spring in the step of actors about to begin their evening’s performance.
    •   •   •
    Roland Bell was standing in one of the canyons of downtown Manhattan: Centre Street between the grimy, towering Criminal Courts building, crowned by the Bridge of Sighs, and the nondescript office building across the street from it.
    Still no sign of Charles Grady’s Volvo.
    The lighthouse rotation once again. Where, where, where?
    A honk nearby, in the direction of the entrance to the bridge. A shout.
    Bell turned and jogged a few steps toward the sounds, wondering: Misdirection?
    But, no, it was just a traffic dispute.
    He turned back, toward the entrance to the Criminal Courts building, and found himself looking right at Charles Grady, who was strolling casually up the street, a block away. The prosecutor was walking with his head down, lost in his thoughts. The detective sprinted toward the man, calling, “Charles! Get down! Weir’s escaped!”
    Grady paused, frowning.
    “Down!” Bell called breathlessly.
    The alarmed man crouched on the sidewalk, between two parked cars. “What happened?” he shouted. “My family!”
    “I’ve got people with them,” the detective said. Then, to the pedestrians: “Everybody! Police action here! Clear the street!”
    People scattered instantly.
    “My family!” Grady called desperately. “You’re sure?”
    “They’re fine.”
    “But Weir—”
    “Faked the shooting in detention. He’s out and’s somewhere around here. I’ve got an armored van on its way.”
    Turning again, squinting, surveying the scenery.
    Roland Bell finally reached Grady and stood overhim, his back to the dark windows of the government office building across the street.
    “Just stay right where you are, Charles,” Bell said. “We’ll get out of this fine.” And pulled his handy-talkie off his belt.
    •   •   •
    What was this ?
    Hobbs Wentworth watched his target below him—the prosecutor—cowering on the sidewalk behind a man in a sportscoat, a cop obviously.
    The crosshairs of Hobbs’s ’scope poked around the officer’s back, searching unsuccessfully for an unprotected shot at Grady.
    The prosecutor was low, the cop standing. It seemed to Hobbs that if he shot through the cop’s lower back he’d probably hit Grady in the upper chest, since he was crouching. But the risk was that the shot would be deflected and Grady’d only be wounded and fall to safety behind a car.
    Well, he had to do something pretty soon. The cop was talking on his radio. There’d be a hundred more of ’em here in a minute. Come on, sharp operator, he said to himself. Whatcha gonna do?
    Below him the cop was still looking around, covering Grady, who squatted like a bitch retriever peeing.
    All right. What he’d do was shoot the cop in the upper leg, the thigh. That way, most likely, the cop would fall backward, exposing the prosecutor. The Colt was semiauto so he could fire five shots in two seconds. Not perfect but it was the best Hobbs could think of.
    He’d give the cop a moment or two longer to step aside or sway out of the way.
    Both eyes open as the right one stared through the ’scope, painting the back of the detective with the crosshairs and thinking that when he got back to Canton Falls he’d make up a Bible story about this. Jesus would play his role and would be armed with a kick-ass compound bow, about to ambush a bunch of Roman soldiers, who’d been torturing Christians. Julius Caesar would be hiding behind one soldier and thinking he was safe but Jesus would shoot through the soldier and kill the son-of-a-bitch.
    Good story. The kids’d love it.
    The cop was still huddled over the prosecutor.
    Well, that’s it, Hobbs thought, clicking off the safety of the big Colt. No time left. Burn in brimstone, Christ-killing Romans.
    He centered the crosshairs on the back of the cop’s leg and began to apply slow pressure on