Casting Bones Read Online Free PDF Page B

south. Q bolted after him, Detroit Crockett High School linebacker style, his feet beating the pavement, then the grass. He agreed with Strand. Archer wanted this guy, this petty thief with an axe to grind. Archer, Strand, Sullivan and the entire department needed to make this case go away.

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    F eeling the holster tight against his chest, he took short, powerful strides, covering ground as if there was a goalpost just ahead. Sparse grass turned to bare earth as he caught a glimpse of the tall black man running a straight path two houses up. Kid had done some time and maybe he was gym tough from the prison. Maybe, but prison was strength training. Pull-ups on upper-level bunk beds, lifting heavy pots of water in the kitchen, and working on push-ups and sit-ups. Not much attention was given to endurance. There was no track, no long-distance course. Nowhere to run.
    Archer was gaining, his breathing coming a little harder now. He had no idea where Strand was. Probably calling for backup. The gangly kid threw a quick glance over his shoulder and Archer could tell he was gasping for air. The detective started stretching his stride. Back in the groove. The rasping sound of the runner’s breath told Archer it wouldn’t be long. Gliding over the ground, Q closed in as the black runner veered right, heading for the street.
Cut the angle, take twenty feet off the chase and hit him just as he reaches the sidewalk.
    He closed the gap, ten feet, five feet, and leaped in the air, tackling the kid mid-thigh as their bodies crashed to the ground.
    Pulling his weapon from the holster, he jumped to his feet, staring down at the suspect crumpled on the dirt, his chest heaving.
    â€˜You work too hard at it, Q.’
    He spun around and there was a smiling Strand, standing by the car door, gun drawn.
    â€˜Got your back, partner,’ he said smugly.
    Archer was taking deep breaths, as his eyes looked back to the man sprawled on the ground.
    â€˜Next time,’ he said breathlessly, ‘you do the running. Then I get to cover your back.’
    Strand shrugged his shoulders. ‘Deal.’
    â€˜I ain’t no killer, man.’ Antoine Duvay glared across the bare table. A bandage covered the two-inch gash on his forehead above the right eye from where he’d hit a stone as he landed.
    â€˜But you are a thief. You got into some fights while you were doing time. Your record doesn’t exactly sparkle, Antoine.’ Strand stood and walked behind the young man. ‘We talked to some of your coworkers, and they say you’re a bitter guy. Pissed at the system, pissed at the judge that put you away. We don’t expect you to be happy, but when you get bitter and—’
    â€˜Yeah? You gonna haul in every nigger that’s bitter? They got white boys up there, bitter too. I don’t see them down here.’
    â€˜They didn’t take off running when the cops showed up.’
    Duvay took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing. Archer thought he saw some fear showing through the tough exterior.
    â€˜Why did you run, Antoine?’
    â€˜That’s what you’ve got, man? I run so I must be the killer? I been here before, motherfucker. Shit. You can manufacture whatever you want, but you got nothing. Cracker makin’ shit up about me.’ He folded his hands defiantly on the gray metal tabletop and looked at the wall in silence.
    The door opened and a uniform walked in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He handed Archer a piece of paper and exited.
    â€˜Here’s that coffee, Antoine. Station-house brand. The best we can do.’
    The suspect ignored it, staring straight ahead.
    Archer examined the blank piece of paper, holding it in his right hand. He glanced at Strand and nodded.
    â€˜We’ve got a witness, Antoine.’
    The young man squinted, turning and now looking puzzled. ‘You got shit. You know it and I know it.’
    â€˜We’ve got someone.’
    He was quiet for a