The Eighth Day

Chapter 6

Sam Harrington stomped down the alley with Jaffe in tow. As if a homicide and missing body weren't enough, now he had to deal with this shit. Sam had been suspicious when he'd first seen Jaffe at the medical center, but the kid was probably telling the truth that he'd read about the bomb threat online and decided to check things out himself. But the last thing Sam needed was some civilian trying to play gumshoe and mucking up his investigation in the process. He'd have to put the fear of God in Jaffe and make sure it didn't become a habit.

Behind him, Shawn Jaffe let out a primal shout.

The detective started to turn. Out of the corner of his eye, something large and white bore down on him. A van. Oh, holy Mary, mother of God. Its shadow swallowed him whole. It jumped the curb, tires squealing, and he had no time to react. He was going to die.

Then Shawn Jaffe leapt forward and slammed into him, propelling him off the sidewalk and into traffic. A horrific crunch followed, and he hit the street. The skin tore from his palms as he tried to catch himself, leaving bloody smears on the concrete. His head bounced off the ground, and his vision swam. A horn blared, tires squealed, and Sam's reflection stared at him from the chrome fender of a taxi stopped inches from his face. The metal twisted his features into a grotesque parody, the eyes lopsided, the nose bulbous, the mouth a swirl of lips.

The van smashed into the side of the medical center, its front end a crumpled ruin, the engine hissing and clacking. Tires chirped as it sped backward, and it bounced down the curb and into the street. The windshield's glare mirrored the skyline of the city, an inverted reflection of an alternate reality where bad things didn't happen to good people. The rear of the van slammed into the side of a passing SUV, then it shot forward, fishtailing as it sped away, but not before Sam got a look at the license plate.

He turned back to the sidewalk. Jaffe lay in a crumpled heap. Other bodies lay scattered about like discarded trinkets. Most struggled to their feet, a few sobbing, others staring with blank expressions. Jaffe remained motionless.

Sam rose and stumbled forward, a kaleidoscope of pain in his hands and his head. Already, a surge of spectators had begun to gather at the periphery. A few had even whipped out their smartphones hoping to score the next viral video hit. Sam shoved his way through them and fell to his knees beside Jaffe.

"Damn it," Sam said. He pressed his fists to his temples and closed his eyes. "Goddamn it."

"Are you all right?" Jaffe asked.

Sam opened his eyes and found Jaffe staring at him. Sam frowned and cocked his head. The man's suit was frayed and soiled, but there was no blood, not a mark on him.

"Detective, are you all right?" Jaffe asked again.

Sam frowned. "Me? I'm fine. What about you? Are you hurt?"

Jaffe started to sit up. "No, I—"

"Wait, don't move," Sam said. "You might have a spine or neck injury or something. I'm gonna get help. Stay here."

"Okay."

Sam took a deep breath, about to cry out for an ambulance, a doctor, anything, when a young brown-haired police officer forced his way through the crowd. He recognized him as Mason, the uniform from earlier outside the entrance to the medical center.

"Thank God," Sam said as he approached.

"I heard the call over my radio. What the hell happened?"

"Hit-and-run. I need you to call it in. White van, Dodge, maybe. License plate—ready to copy?"

Mason tapped the number Sam recited into his phone. "Which way did it go?"