Page 87 of Manner of Death
“Hey, it’s me again. I’ve got Dr. Boyce’s cell number. Can you try to ping his location and see if he’s near here?” Pause. “Okay, here’s the number.” Bashir showed him the screen, and Sawyer read the number out to Nan. After they’d hung up, he blew out a breath. “We should move toward the garage. If he makes a move, that’ll be our best chance of escaping. Assuming he hasn’t barricaded the door or something.”
“Christ,” Bashir whispered. “Being a criminal sounds exhausting. Way too many logistics to consider.”
Sawyer laughed as they started up the hall. “Most get around it by being stupid, lazy, or both.”
“Isn’t that how they get caught?”
“It’s exactly how most of them get caught.”
Bashir chuckled, but then muttered, “Too bad Boyce is too smart to slip up like that.”
“Not necessarily.” Sawyer halted at the end of the hall and scanned the living room. “Stupid and lazy are only two of the reasons criminals fuck up. Panicked or pissed off are two of the other big ones. And I don’t know about you, but I think Dr. DoEvil is at least one of those things right now.”
Bashir couldn’t argue with that. He knew Boyce well enough to believe he was thoroughly pissed off, and it was possible—if they were lucky—he was also panicking.
One of the smaller windows in Bashir’s living room had a decent view of the driveway and the garage door, but it was impossible to get a good look without making themselves visible through the other windows.
Bashir had an idea, though. He handed the gun off to Sawyer, then crawled across the floor to the window. He turned on his phone’s camera, poked it up above the sill, and snapped a photo of the driveway. Then he returned to where Sawyer was waiting in the arch between the living room and dining room.
The photo wouldn’t win any photography awards, but it showed them what they needed to see: a clear driveway and an unobstructed garage door.
“What do you think?” Bashir asked. “Take the car and bolt?”
Sawyer chewed his lip. “I… My instincts say yes. It’s our best bet to get out of here. But if he’s waiting outside, then…”
Bashir chafed his arms. “So we either stick our necks out, or we stay in here and hope he doesn’t try to burn the place down with us in it.”
“Basically, yeah.”
“Well, fuck. My vote is for the car, then.” He’d autopsied enough people who’d died in housefires that there was no way in hell he was staying inside a potential deathtrap. “Let’s get—”
Glass shattered.
It was somewhere else in the house—maybe even in the basement—but Bashir and Sawyer both dropped as if a window in the living room had blown out.
“Car!” Sawyer herded Bashir toward the garage. “You have the keys?”
A bolt of panic made Bashir stumble. Then he doubled back, snatched his keys off the ring in the kitchen, and rejoined Sawyer. “Now I have the keys.”
Sawyer nodded sharply, and they continued toward the garage.
Once they’d slipped through the door, Bashir locked it behind them, but before he could hit the garage door opener, Sawyer stopped him. “Get the engine running first. I’ll keep an eye out for Boyce.”
Bashir hesitated. “Maybe you should be the one to drive. Then I can…” He held up the pistol.
Sawyer nodded, and Bashir handed over his keys. He wasn’t thrilled about Sawyer driving under the influence of painkillers, but right now, that seemed like the least of their concerns. Once they were away from the house, they could switch.
Right then, Sawyer’s text tone chirped. He glanced at the screen and laughed humorlessly before shoving it back into his pocket. “Boyce’s phone pinged as being near this location. Nooo shit.”
“Thanks for the info,” Bashir muttered.
“Right? All right. Let’s do this.”
Bashir gave Sawyer a head start while he hung back to listen in case any noise came from inside the house. Not that he could hear much over his own pounding heart. Sawyer at least had training for scenarios like this. Becoming a forensic pathologist didn’t include courses on escaping hostile forces inside one’s own home, though he was starting to think maybe that should be at least offered as an elective.
Sawyer carefully moved between Bashir’s car and workbench. He peered down as he walked, and Bashir realized he was checking the tires.
Jesus. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that Boyce might slash the tires or something. What else could he have done? Cut the brake lines? Put sugar in the gas tank?