Page 83 of Close Up

The low rumble of a powerful engine sounded in the distance.

“Hear that car?” Nick said. “My associates are about to arrive.”

“Now what are you talking about?”

“That car is bringing the people who were waiting for you at the pier, just in case my calculations were wrong. You were right about one thing. I did set up a trap to catch you tonight—two of them. The first one, the trap with the highest probability of working, was this one. I was almost certain you would find a way to stop me before I got to the pier. But if for some reason you didn’t fall into this trap, my friends would have caught you in the second one.”

“You crazy son of a bitch.”

The Poet exploded from behind the shelter of the Packard. He ran for his car, firing again and again in rapid succession.

Nick counted off the shots. Four, five, six.

The Poet yanked open the door of the vehicle. Nick broke from the cover of the rock pile and lunged across the road.

The Poet whirled around and pulled the trigger.

Shit,Nick thought.Miscounted.

The bullet caught him in the upper right shoulder but momentum and grim determination propelled him forward.

He collided with the Poet, slamming him hard against the side of the car.

The Poet grunted, dropped the empty gun, and yanked a long, slender object out from under his jacket. Nick wrapped both hands around the Poet’s arm and twisted sharply.

The Poet screamed. The ice pick fell from his nerveless fingers.

The approaching car braked sharply. The headlights speared Nick and the Poet. Luther emerged from behind the wheel. Another man climbed out of the passenger’s seat. He had a gun in his hand.

“Brandon, Burning Cove Police,” he growled. “Nobody moves.”

Nick stepped back, sucking in air. The Poet slumped against the fender of the car, cradling his wrist and moaning softly.

“Brandon, this is Sundridge, the private investigator who set this up tonight,” Luther said.

Brandon grunted. “Cut this a little close, didn’t you?”

“I could come up with only an estimate on the timing,” Nick said. He realized that his upper shoulder was on fire. The pain grew steadily. “Damn.”

Luther aimed the flashlight at him. “What the hell? You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed,” Nick said.

Brandon pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and moved forward to take charge of the Poet.

“You’re under arrest,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

The Poet screamed, howling his fury and despair into the teeth of the storm. He flung himself forward with such speed and ferocity that Brandon, caught off guard, instinctively stepped out of the way.

As the Poet rushed past him in a mindless effort to escape, Brandon brought up his pistol and took aim.

“No, don’t kill him,” Nick said. “We need him alive.”

“Nick’s right,” Luther said. “Don’t worry, he won’t get far on foot, not in this storm. The roads are blocked in both directions.”

The Poet was silhouetted briefly in the glare of Luther’s headlights. Nick registered the trajectory and broke into a run.

“Stop him,” he shouted.

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