The Lover's Children

Chapter 107 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 17

KLEMPNER

A knife at her throat, Hoodie’s got some old woman, her arms locked behind her. God knows how old

she is. Stringy grey hair’s not seen shampoo in recent times. Gibbering her terror, she spills tears from

yellowed eyes as he drags her backward with him.

I take a step after the pair. “What a hero. Going up in the world, aren’t you. Moving from unprotected

street woman to helpless pensioners. Is that your standard? Defenceless hookers and octogenarians?” Content is © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

He snarls, still inching backwards, all the while with the crone as his shield. Her heels scrape the

stinking carpet, trailing through the blood which splats from his hand.

I inch after him, then hold, as he wrenches behind her, and she screams. “I’ll break her fucking arm

clean off if you don't stop right there. Don't move. Stay there. Stay right there!”

Hoodie glances back and down at the stairs, directly behind him, then at me. Spinning his hostage, he

flings her hard at the wall, her head cracking against the plaster as she crumples. Then he plunges

downward, leaping down steps three at a time, pivoting on the rickety newel post from one flight to the

next.

And I plunge after him, yelling back behind me. “Call the police!”

Rattie whines after me. “Who’s gonna pay for my repairs?”

I'm already pelting after the clattering footsteps stampeding down below me, but I’m still shouting

upwards. “Don't touch that room. Call the fucking police!” He yells back some reply…

But my attempts to talk to the moronic landlord have cost me precious seconds. I’m flying downward

but Hoodie’s a flight ahead of me. On the ground floor, the front door slams closed in my face, then the

damn thing jams as I try to open it again.

Hissing frustration as I wrench it open, I charge out into sweltering heat, just in time to hear a stream of

cursing and swearing…

I grin to myself…

Taken a look at his tires?

… and then, the clatter of retreating footsteps. Running footsteps.

Briefly, I don’t see him, but the sound of his flight is loud against the stifled silence of the street and as I

follow the sound…

There he is…

… and I pelt after him.

He flees…

And I follow…

At the run, I tap into my phone. “Michael?”

“Klempner? Where are you?”

“In hot pursuit. I’m certain now he’s the Surgeon. Tell Stanton…

“He’s here. Gimme a sec…” His voice muffles then, “Will, Klempner’s after him. He’s sure it’s your

killer…”

Then, Stanton’s boom in the background. “Get those photos circulated… Every spare officer on the

street!”

Michael again, “They’re on it now. Larry, where…?”

But his voice cuts off, I think his phone snatched away. “Klempner? Stanton here… What…?”

Panting as I speak, “You need to get to the girl’s apartment. I cut the bastard. His blood is on the wall

and carpet. You might have trouble with the landlord. Don’t let him clean up. Get forensics on it.”

My breath is short, my lungs labouring against the over-heated air… “And get an ambulance there.

Some old woman got caught in the crossfire.”

“Crossfire? She’s been shot?”

“Figure of speech. But she’s hurt… Got to go…” I gulp and swallow… “Can’t talk and run at the same

time.”

“Klempner, where are you? I’ll send a car to come find you.”

“Right now, on the road from the apartment towards the City centre. In the general direction of the Blue

Sapphire Club. Get your patrols out. And Commissioner, make sure they know it’s not me they’re

arresting.”

His words snap short. “Will do.”

*****

A quiet street, in the sun-blistered heat of the afternoon. Between commuting hours. Before children

come home from school. And the sky, a molten blast of blue. Even the birdsong has stilled.

Nothing moves.

Except me…

And my quarry…

The thrill of the chase. It's a cliché. But clichés become clichés because they have something to tell us.

There is something pure about the chase. Something unsullied and perfect. No clever out-thinking and

manoeuvring. Just the simple pursuit of the quarry. And as I pursue my fleeing target, the silence howls

around me.

The air is suffocating. The sun roars down on the streets, and the streets throw it back, stripping the

moisture from my throat yet, perversely, setting perspiration streaking down my forehead and cheeks.

But ahead of me, Hoodie’s feeling it too, sagging as he runs.

And the heat is nothing. My blood’s up, thumping behind my ears, an accelerating drumbeat. Eyes

stinging, I swipe away the trickle of sweat then, still running, tug my tie loose, unfasten my top shirt

button. My shirt, slick with moisture, sticks between my shoulders and under my arms. Abruptly, my

jacket is too tight, too confining. I’d like to rip it off, but then my knife and gun holsters would be visible

to every eye and every camera I passed.

Swiping my face with a sleeve, I keep running, staying hard on Hoodie’s trail before he has chance to

lose himself. Here, in the silence of the backstreets, I can track him. But ahead of us lies the City

centre. If he makes it there, even with the police alerted, he could lose himself in the crowds.

He flings a look back over his shoulder. With the lead he has on me, I can’t make out his expression,

but his body language says it all. The sag evaporates and his pace picks up.

Some sound penetrates: a rising wail. A siren, a police car, coming in from behind. But as I look

forward again, Hoodie has vanished.

Where the fuck…?

Sprinting ahead, a narrow alleyway opens to my left. As I skid in and along, down at my feet lies a

discarded grey hoodie.

*****

The alley runs between two blocks of apartments, left and right, making a crossroads with a shabby

back-lane, the demesne of garbage cans and feral cats. Skidding to a halt, I swing right…

Then left…

… scanning for my target…

A garbage bin, knocked to the ground, lies open. A squabble of sparrows cluster around half a loaf of

mouldy bread, then scatter as a couple of pigeons bully in, claiming the prize…

Of my prize, no sign…

Ahead of me my alley continues, between more blocks of apartments, back-to-back with those I just left

behind.

Hell for leather, I race on, before, only a minute later, spilling out onto a main highway.

And Hoodie has vanished.

Damn!

Shading my eyes against the glare, I scan across and around.

The highway is an arterial road into the city centre. Three lanes of traffic both ways, divided by a

barriered central reservation. Beyond the highway, the Old City, gradually being demolished and rebuilt

by Haswell, a wasteland of brick and mud and bulldozers. To the right, out and to the mountains. To the

left, into the beating heart of the City.

And Hoodie, with or without his hood, can’t possibly have gotten across the highway in the spare

minute he had.

?

The trash can…

Who knocked it over?

Fuck!

Making a speedy one-eighty, I loop back, rounding the corner into the lane just in time to see Hoodie

disappearing into the distance.

Head pounding, lungs labouring, I set off after him.

*****

My main comfort is, while I might not feel great in the heat, Hoodie must feel worse. If I fail at this, I

suffer a little embarrassment. If he fails, the best he can hope for is the rest of his life in a cage.

It’s a comforting thought.

Reducing my pace to a jog, I concentrate on watching and listening, simply following the lane, eyeing

the assorted passages and ginnels I pass, but see nothing of my target. Eventually, I emerge back into

the city-centre.

Late afternoon, in a sky stabbed by skyscrapers, office and apartment blocks are mere silhouettes

against a backdrop seared from blue to white. Heat shimmers up from the sidewalk, striking through

the soles of my shoes. The torrid air blasts my face, even with the slight breeze caused by my jogging.

Despite this, the City is in full swing: all the daily commotion of stores, bars and restaurants, banks and

businesses. The roads are crowded with cars, couriers and delivery trucks. The sidewalks with

salesmen and shoppers, businessmen and clients, hustlers, bums and beggars.

Haswell loves this place. I see his expression, almost of reverence, as he gazes out from his high office

window with the panorama he has been instrumental in building. The City is his Love, his raison-d'etre.

Dropping my pace, I trot along, craning left and right and ahead for my quarry. A police car shrieks past

me, back the way I came, flashing blue. An ambulance too, mee-mawing the other way. Pausing at a

kiosk, I stab a finger at a bottle of water, glug it down, then buy another, unscrewing the top to drink as I

walk.

Where is he?

His face is so forgettable, so undistinguished, that I have trouble bringing it to mind. Minus the grey

hoodie, what am I following?

He could be staring right at me.

He could be staring right at me.

What would I do? In his position?

Pressing back into a slit of a shadow, mere inches wide from the overhead sun, I sip my water mouthful

by mouthful, watching.

Another police car screams by. Then more appear, parking up, officers decanting out into the crowd,

spreading out in different directions.

Stanton’s raised the alarm?

Not so easy for him to run now…

Will they make an announcement?

My answer comes quickly.

Ahead of me, the crowd parts, just one of those random things that happens when the masses move

together, but an avenue opens, and my line of sight is clear.

There…

Staring into the window of an electrical goods store…

Even side-on, his expression of horror is clear. A fist pushed to his mouth, Hoodie, minus hood, steps

back, recoiling from whatever he’s seeing…

There’s some sort of dressing on his arm, but it looks improvised and…

… is that blood soaking through?

… and without conscious effort, I’m running again.

He looks left, then right… and he sees me. Eye flinging wide, the gutless shit spins and bolts.

As I pass the store, I have a bare moment to pick up what he was looking at: on a displayed TV, his

face with headlines in bold:

Patrick Harkness…

Wanted to assist the police with their enquiries…

Do not approach this man…

… and I’m gone.

*****