Public Enemies Page 7

“Well, we don’t have any,” the clerk told him. “Lots of film, no corned beef.”

  “Did you take over when the deli went out of business?” Aiden forged on.

  “Oh, sure. Right after the vet, the pizza parlor, the guitar shop, and Congressman Stevenson’s campaign headquarters.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the entrance. “What’s up with your friend?”

  Aiden turned to the door. His sister was jumping and waving, doing everything except sending up signal flares to attract his attention.

  Hastily, he apologized to the man and ran outside. “Is this how you keep a low profile?”

  She cut him off. “Didn’t Mrs. DeSouza call Oznot a strange little guy?” she whispered.

  “I think so. Why?”

  She dragged him around the corner onto Myerson Place, where they could see the side of the wood-shingled building. The jagged line of a fire escape decorated the rearmost windows. On the second floor, holding a watering can over a collection of potted plants on the iron landing, was one of the oddest-looking people Aiden had ever seen. His head was enormous. Yet on second glance Aiden realized that the head was normal-sized — it was the shoulders and upper body that were tiny, giving the young man the appearance of an alien. He was tending his plants with intense concentration, like a doctor performing microsurgery.

  “Can it be this easy?” Meg whispered.

  Over the past weeks, every centimeter of progress had come only at the expense of blood, sweat, and stomach lining. For the object of their search to be hanging out a window seemed awfully convenient.

  Yet it made sense. “Maybe the Oznot family still owns the building,” Aiden guessed. “They can’t kick him out if he’s the landlord.”

  The entrance to the apartments was a locked stairwell next to the photo place. The buzzers were unmarked, so Aiden tried the bell next to the number two. There was no actual reply, but they heard a soft click, followed by tinny breathing from the intercom speaker.

  Aiden cleared his throat. “Mr. Oznot?”

  The battered wooden door buzzed open.

  The stairs were ancient and dusty, creaking with every step.

  Meg shot her brother a dubious look. “This is great — we survived everything under the sun so we could walk right into the apartment of a maniac.”

  “Grandmothers don’t hang out with maniacs,” Aiden argued, as much to reassure himself as his sister.

  Oznot was in the doorway waiting for them. Backlit by the bright apartment in the dim hall, he resembled a stick figure — long, skinny arms and legs, rail-thin body supporting a substantial round head. He seemed genuinely thrilled to see them, although Aiden couldn’t imagine why. Maybe he just liked company. He probably didn’t get many visitors.

  “Hi, Mr. Oznot,” Aiden greeted. “Thanks for letting us in. I’m Gary Graham, and this is my friend Belinda.” In the past few weeks, the Falconers had assumed so many identities that fake names rolled easily off the tongue. “We were hoping to talk to you about the place where you used to work — HORUS Global.”

  In response, he got a bright smile, followed by a series of syllables that sounded like conversation but were really gibberish. Both Aiden and Meg could only stand and stare.

  A trifle frustrated, Oznot repeated his speech, sound for sound and tone for tone.

  Meg was dumbfounded. “Another language?”

  “I don’t think so,” Aiden replied in a low voice. “Mrs. De Souza said he just can’t communicate.”

  “Then what are we doing here?”

  “We’ll make it work,” Aiden insisted. “We’ve got no choice.” To Oznot, he said, “We’re interested in someone you used to work with. A man named Frank Lindenauer.”

  Oznot continued to talk in his strange meaningless way. His expression failed to reveal whether or not “Lindenauer” rang a bell with him. He might have been talking about the man who had framed their parents. But he just as likely might have been giving them his secret recipe for egg salad.

  In a lightning motion, Meg reached into Aiden’s pocket and pulled out the old photograph of “Uncle Frank” from that vacation long ago. She held it in front of their host, praying it would do the trick. “That’s him.”

  A torrent of babble poured from Oznot. There was no mistaking his message this time. He knew that face.

  In a flurry of excitement, he hurried them into his shabby but neat living room and all but shoved them down on the worn couch. From a side table, he pulled a large art pad and began flipping through dozens of pencil drawings.

  Meg was impressed. “This is your work?” The Falconers noted that the walls were hung with these black-and-white sketches, most of them portraits, all of them done with confident skill and remarkable attention to detail. As severe as his communication handicap may have been, Mr. Oznot was very much able to express himself through his art.

  At last, their host came to the page he had been searching for and held it up for their inspection. It was a head-and-shoulders image of a man with long hair, mustache, and beard.

  Frank Lindenauer.

  There was no question about it. This was the same person as the one in the photograph. It was a remarkable likeness, right down to the quality of the skin and the bristly thickness of the facial hair. In a way, the sketch was even more complete because it was a close-up. They could see furrows in the forehead, crinkles at the corners of the eyes, even a slightly chipped front tooth in the smiling mouth.

  “That’s him!” Aiden exclaimed. “We need to find him! Do you know where he lives?”

  From Oznot came the clearest message thus far — a helpless shrug.

  “He doesn’t know,” Meg translated.

  Aiden was grasping at straws. “Let’s look through the pictures. There are HORUS people in there. Maybe we’ll stumble on some kind of clue.” He began turning pages, peering anxiously into each well-drawn face.

  “It’s no use,” Meg said miserably. “We don’t know anybody from HORUS. How would we recognize —”

  The cry that erupted from both throats startled Oznot. The drawing was so unexpected and so terrifyingly lifelike that it was as if they had suddenly found the man himself in the living room.

  It was a portrait of Hairless Joe.

  The assassin’s eyes were murderous and burning, his face hardened by fury to the point where his mouth was barely a thin line.

  “You know him, too?” Meg demanded. “Who is he?”

  Oznot became animated, speaking quickly, gesturing with both hands. He was obviously trying to tell them something, but what? What did he know about Hairless Joe? How much could Oznot, who only swept up at HORUS, know about the evil organization’s secret assassin?

  For the next hour, Aiden and Meg stayed with the strange little man, poring over his hundreds of drawings, desperately searching for some way to communicate with him. The one thing they understood from Oznot was how hard he was trying to get through to them and share what he knew.

  “It’s useless,” Meg moaned. “He’s a sweet guy, but we’re never going to figure out what he’s trying to say — if he’s got anything to say at all. We can’t be sure of that, either.”

  Reluctantly, Aiden agreed. In all these weeks on the run, the heartbreak, heroics, Herculean efforts, and narrow escapes, this was the most difficult decision they’d been forced to make — to abandon their only clue, thank Mr. Oznot for his help, and walk out of the apartment with no place to go from there.

  They were halfway down the stairs when a series of yelps from Oznot stopped them in their tracks.

  “Is he calling us?” Meg asked.

  “It’s useless,” Aiden said despondently. “Even if he knows Frank Lindenauer’s home address, how’s he going to give it to us?”

  But useless or not, the man caught up with them. In a state of agitation, he took each one by the wrist and hauled them back up to the apartment. He was working hard to get his message across — jabbering excitedly and pointing out the window at the cars below.


  “It’s okay, Mr. Oznot.”

  And then a glimmer of sunlight reflected off something inside a gold Corvette parked across the street. Aiden narrowed his focus. It wasn’t metal or chrome or glass. It was skin — the smooth, shiny scalp of a completely bald head.

  The driver of the Corvette was Hairless Joe.

  A wheeze of terror confirmed that Meg had spotted him, too. They ducked down beneath the windowsill.

  “How could he find us here?” she rasped.

  “He’s probably been keeping an eye on the place,” Aiden replied. “Oznot’s the only HORUS employee who’s not either dead or in jail right now.”

  Oznot waved his sketchbook in their faces, open to the assassin’s portrait.

  “We know!” Aiden exclaimed impatiently. “Listen — is there another way out of here?”

  Their host instantly understood. He hurried them to the rear of the apartment to the bedroom window, which led to the fire escape. It was perfect. While Hairless Joe was watching the front door on Eighth Avenue, they would be climbing down onto Myerson Place, away from his view.

  Aiden swung a leg outside, careful not to step on the plants. He reached in and helped his sister onto the landing beside him.

  “Thanks, Mr. Oznot,” she whispered. She turned to Aiden. “Do you think he’s in any danger? Remember, Hairless Joe killed Mrs. DeSouza’s mother because she knew things about HORUS.”

  “If Hairless Joe was worried about Oznot, he would have done something about it months ago,” Aiden replied. “Oznot could never be a threat, because how could he testify in court? No one would understand him.”

  He yanked on the lever to lower the ladder to street level. With a screech and crash that sounded like an aircraft carrier ramming an iceberg, the ancient wrought-iron extension dropped into place. Frozen with shock and fear, the Falconers stood rooted to the fire escape. Surely that much noise would attract not just Hairless Joe but also every cop in Denver.

  They waited, eyes riveted on the corner, ready to dive back into the apartment the instant their dangerous enemy came running into view.

  Aiden counted to ten. Then twenty.

  Nothing.

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  They climbed down the ladder and jumped to the sidewalk.

  Hairless Joe was less than fifty yards away. I can’t see him, Aiden thought, but he’s there, deadly and waiting.

  With the assassin staking out the corner of Eighth and Myerson, the Falconers walked in the opposite direction to Seventh, circling back to the narrow alley where the Harley was parked. To complete the loop, they had to traverse twenty yards of Eighth Avenue, in full view of the Corvette.

  Hairless Joe’s attention was on Oznot’s apartment, but —

  If we can see him, he can see us.

  Aiden forced his eyes down to the sidewalk and rounded the corner to the alley.

  They sprinted for the Harley.

  “Think he spotted us?” Meg panted, all but hurling herself onto the saddle.

  Aiden took his place in front of her. “I’m not hanging around to find out!”

  The bike roared to life, and they sped up the alley. Aiden rolled the throttle with one hand while shrugging into his helmet aided by the other. In a matter of seconds, they’d be on Eighth Avenue — a risky moment, sure. But then the Harley’s big engine could rocket them far away from the man who wanted them dead.

  Suddenly, a sleek shape squealed nimbly around the corner.

  It was the gold Corvette — coming right at them!

  Aiden felt his sister’s shudder over the vibration of the motorcycle. They could see Hairless Joe’s cold, determined features through the windshield. This time he was planning to use the car as his murder weapon. He was going to run them down.

  Aiden veered left, hugging the wall in an attempt to sneak the bike past their less maneuverable attacker. Hairless Joe swerved directly into their path. Aiden tried the other side, getting so close that the bricks whizzed by barely an inch from the Harley’s handlebar. The Corvette followed. Its passenger mirror struck a doorway and snapped off, but the assassin did not slow.

  They were trapped — trapped in a dead-end alley.

  How can I get past this guy?

  Then he saw it — a sack of garbage that had toppled into the lane. It was ten feet from the car’s front bumper.

  “Hang on!” Aiden twisted the accelerator, and the bike leaped forward in a burst of raw power. They reached the trash bag a split second before Hairless Joe got there. The Harley’s front wheel struck it and lurched onto the Corvette’s hood. In a howl of torque, the motorcycle climbed the car like a ramp. The tire ricocheted off the windshield, cracking it.

  Aiden looked down to see Hairless Joe behind the wheel, staring at them in utter disbelief. The image passed below, and they were airborne, sailing up and over the Corvette. Frantically, Aiden yanked back on the handlebars to avoid nose-diving into solid concrete. The Harley came down on its rear wheel, an impact they felt in their molars. They bounced twice before the front of the bike found the earth again. The tire bit into the pavement, and the machine rocketed out of the alley and wheeled onto Eighth Avenue.

  Aiden checked his mirror. The Corvette’s white reverse lights were on.

  Meg was bug-eyed. “If I ever call you boring again,” she shouted in his ear, “just remind me about today!”

  He poured on the gas, weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic. “It’s not over yet! He’s coming after us!”

  Horns sounded and angry shouts rang out as the Corvette backed into the middle of Eighth Avenue. In a cloud of burning rubber, it took off in hot pursuit.

  An ordinary car would have been no match for the Harley. But the gold roadster was hardly a pushover, built for speed with a four-hundred-horsepower engine. It was being driven by a stone-cold killer who probably had dozens of high-speed chases under his belt. Aiden was unlicensed and underage. Three days ago, he had never so much as sat on a motorcycle, much less driven one.

  It would take a miracle to beat this guy, he thought grimly.

  The Harley slalomed down Eighth Avenue, running lights.

  “Faster!” Meg shouted. “He’s gaining on us!”

  A glance in the mirror confirmed that the Corvette was half a block behind and closing the gap.

  Aiden leaned on the handlebars and wheeled the chopper around a sharp corner. The sports car skidded into the intersection but made the turn.

  On this less crowded street, it was a drag race. The Falconers watched in horror as Hairless Joe drew even with them. Aiden could see the implacable expression on the face of their pursuer. It was more terrifying than malice or fury. It was pure ruthless efficiency, devoid of emotion.

  The car inched sideways toward the Harley, crowding the bike off the roadway. The motorcycle’s tires gained purchase on the gravel shoulder, spraying stones in all directions. Aiden’s eyes mapped the course ahead. The shoulder continued for a few hundred yards and then disappeared into —

  “A bridge!” Meg exclaimed.

  Aiden had a horrifying vision of Edith Wilkinson’s final moments — plunging into the South Platte River, run off a bridge by a bald man. He knew, deep in his marrow, that he and his sister would not leave that overpass alive.

  Meg seemed to sense that something was about to happen. She put a death grip around her brother’s midsection and tensed for action.

  The span was twenty yards away. Then ten. Aiden waited until the last possible second and wrenched the bike off the road. They jounced down a steep embankment in a mini-avalanche of rocks and clumps of dirt. Plowing through tall weeds and underbrush at the edge of the road below, they climbed onto the pavement and took off.

  “Nice one, bro!” Meg cheered.

  Aiden let up on the throttle a little, slowing to the speed of traffic. Now that they’d lost Hairless Joe, it was time to blend in with the other vehicles.

  The road took them farther from downtown, into a green, leafy suburb. As t
hey crested a hill, the Harley’s engine coughed once, and the machine lurched.

  “What’s that?” Meg shouted in alarm.

  Aiden checked the fuel gauge. “We’ve got to stop for gas!”

  “What — now?”

  He scanned both sides of the road ahead for a service station. What he saw instead made his blood run cold. There, waiting at a light, was the gold Corvette.

  “How’d he find us?” Aiden exclaimed aloud.

  “Maybe he lives here,” Meg suggested. “Knows the roads.”

  Suddenly, the sports car mounted the sidewalk, peeled around an SUV, and shot right out in front of them.

  Frantically, Aiden leaned left so hard he thought the Harley would wipe out flat. He slid by the Corvette, missing the taillight by a hair. With a blast of its horn, a small Saturn, wheels locked, slammed into the Corvette, crumpling the trunk. Hairless Joe didn’t even acknowledge the accident. He gunned the engine in pursuit of the speeding motorcycle.

  Feeling the motorcycle buck again, Aiden swallowed a rising panic. Chased by a killer, running out of gas — how could it be worse?

  The answer came in the form of a wailing siren.

  A black-and-white police cruiser pulled out and joined the chase.

  Meg stared over her shoulder in disbelief at the train of vehicles behind them — first the Corvette, then the police car.

  The only bright spot was that the cop might keep Hairless Joe from murdering them.

  But we’d be caught!

  Meg couldn’t see her brother’s face; the tense muscles at the base of his neck told the story.

  Up ahead, the light turned red, stopping a cluster of vehicles in front of them. Holding their breath and tucking in their elbows and knees, Aiden and Meg made themselves skinny and shot through the narrow opening between two sedans. They flashed directly into the path of an oncoming Denver city bus. With a roar, Aiden yanked the throttle and they hurtled past, a split second ahead of disaster.

  Before the horrified eyes of onlookers, the gold Corvette drove up on the sidewalk, sending a wire mesh garbage can flying. Pedestrians dived for their lives as Hairless Joe sailed over the curb and followed the Harley right through the intersection.