“Sounds good, Detective.”

The two men headed up the sidewalk, past a row of dying bushes and healthy succulents, another testament to the water problems suffered by the Golden State.

O’Neil waited near Prescott’s door, out of sight of the peephole and side window, which was curtained. Martinez, bulky and imposing, continued around the side of the complex to the rear.

O’Neil gave it three or four minutes, then knocked. “Stanley Prescott? Sheriff’s deputy. Please open the door.”

Once more.

He tried the door. It was unlocked. He glanced back at Dance. Held her eye for a moment. Then pushed inside.

No more than a minute later she heard two stunning gunshots, followed by one more.

Chapter 40

Antioch March was running.

Full out, a sprint. He realized he was still holding his Glock and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled his gym bag up higher on his shoulder and kept going.

Ski mask? he wondered. No, that would definitely draw attention. Glancing back, he noticed that no one was in pursuit. Wouldn’t last long. People would be calling in the incident all over the neighborhood. Tustin wasn’t the sort of place where gunshots would be ignored.

And he knew one person who definitely was calling for backup at this moment: the woman he’d spotted outside the apartment, Kathryn Dance. She was here! She hadn’t seen him as she sprinted fast to the front door of Prescott’s apartment, cell phone in hand. He might’ve gotten closer to her, tried for a shot. But she was, of course, armed and, he imagined, good with a gun.

Huntress…

And there were probably other deputies nearby. Maybe dozens. And, now, more on the way.

Running faster. Gasping.

For a moment he’d been mystified as to how they’d learned about pathetic Stanley Prescott. Then, of course: Just like him, they had an autobot scanning the Internet for any references to the Solitude Creek or Bay View incidents, blog posts or clips on YouTube or Vidster or the other services. She’d received the same sort of alert he had and had sped here too. He wondered if she’d driven. Maybe they’d driven in tandem down from Monterey.

Sucking air into his lungs. March was in good shape, yes, but he’d never run this fast in his life.

The Chevy was a block away.

Go, go. Move!

He was upset that he hadn’t had time to grab Prescott’s computer. But his only thoughts were of escape. It had been chaos in the apartment.

Two shots to forestall any pursuit. As the big man went down, clutching the wound, March began his sprint.

Now he saw the car. The Chevy.

Another look back. No one yet.

His feet slapping, the heavy gym bag bouncing on his back. There’d be bruises tomorrow.

If he lived till tomorrow.

His heart labored and the pain crept into his chest and jaw. I’m too young for a fucking heart attack. His mouth filled with saliva and he spat.

Finally he slowed and, chest heaving, walked casually to the stolen car. He gripped the door handle and pulled it open, looking around again. He fell into the driver’s seat and laid back against the headrest, catching his breath. A few people were nearby but no one apparently had seen the sprint. They didn’t look his way. The strollers and dog walkers and joggers continued what they were doing.