The Vanished Man

then Sachs saw a slow-moving mass of yellow ease behind the Mazda.
    A school bus from Zion Prophetic Tabernacle Church, filled with children, pulled away from the curb into traffic, the driver unaware of what was happening. It stopped at an angle between the Mazda and the garbage truck.
    No . . .
    Even a direct hit might not stop the slug, which could careen into the bus after it passed through its target.
    Finger off the trigger, muzzle safely in the air, Sachs looked through the windshield of the Mazda. She could see the faint motion of the Conjurer’s head as he glanced up and to his right, locating the bus in the rearview mirror.
    He then looked back toward her and she had the impression that he smiled, deducing that she couldn’t fire now.
    The raw squeal of the Mazda’s front tires filled the street as he floored the pedal and headed toward Sachs at twenty, forty, fifty miles an hour. He bore straight down on the policewoman and her Camaro, which was a far brighter yellow than the Bible school bus, whose presence had cast its blessing of holy protection over the Conjurer.

Chapter Twenty
    As the Mazda headed straight at her, Sachs ran to the sidewalk to try for a cross-fire shot.
    Lifting the Glock, she aimed at the dark form that was the Conjurer’s head, leading him by three or four feet. But beyond him were dozens of store windows and apartments and people crouching on the sidewalk. There was simply no way to fire even a single round safely.
    Her chorus didn’t care.
    “Yo, bitch, lessee you waste that motherfuck.”
    “Whatcho waitin’ fo’?”
    She lowered the gun, shoulders slumped as she watched the Mazda streak straight for the Camaro.
    Oh, not the car. . . . No!
    Thinking of when her father had bought her the ’69 muscle car, a junker, and how together they’d rebuilt much of the engine and suspension, added a new transmission, and stripped it, to goose the horsepower skyward. This vehicle and a love of policing were his essential legacies to his daughter.
    Thirty feet from the Camaro the Conjurer turned the wheel hard to the left, toward where Sachs crouched. She leaped aside and he turned the otherway, back toward the Chevy. The Mazda skidded, cutting diagonally toward the sidewalk. At a glancing angle it slammed into the passenger door and right front fender of the Camaro, spinning it in a circle over two lanes onto the far sidewalk, where the four kids finally showed some energy and scattered.
    Sachs dove out of the way and landed on her knees on the concrete, gasping at the pain in her arthritic joints. The Camaro came to rest a few feet from her, its rear end off the ground, jacked up by the battered orange metal trash basket it had rolled over.
    The Mazda went over the far sidewalk then back into the street and turned right, heading north. Sachs climbed to her feet but didn’t even bother to lift her gun in the direction of the beige car; there was no safe shot. A glance at the Camaro. The side was a mess, the front end too, but the torn fender wasn’t binding on the tires. Yeah, she could probably catch him. She jumped in and fired up the engine. First gear. A roar. The tach shot up to 5000 and she popped the clutch.
    But she didn’t move an inch. What was the problem? Was the drive train cracked?
    She glanced out the window and saw that the rear wheels—the drive wheels—were jacked up off the ground, thanks to the trash basket. She sighed in frustration, slammed the steering wheel with her palm. Damn! She saw the Mazda, three blocks away. The Conjurer wasn’t escaping that fast; the collision had taken a toll on his car too. There was still a chance to catch him.
    But not in a car up on goddamn blocks.
    She’d have to—
    The Camaro began to rock back and forth.
    She looked in the rearview mirror and saw that three of the gangbangers had shed their combat jackets and were straining as they tried to shove the car off its perch. The fourth, bigger than the others, the leader of this crew, walked slowly up to the window. He leaned down, a gold tooth shining bright in the middle of his dark face. “Yo.”
    Sachs nodded and held his eye.
    He looked back at his friends. “Yo, niggers, push the fuckin’ car! You makin’ like you jerkin’ off with it.”
    “Fuck you,” came the winded reply.
    He leaned down again. “Yo, lady, we gonna get you down. Whatcha gonna shoot that motherfuck with?”
    “A Glock. Forty caliber.”
    He glanced at her holster. “Sweet. Be the