Chapter 34–Wednesday, 8:36PM

The decision to leave Harry and S behind to process the rookie’s apartment did not sit well with Herb as he drove down Buffalo Jones at 75mph. He needed guns. Numbers. The evidence could wait. But Capote had insisted and in the interest of time, the chief had relented.

Herb glanced in his rearview mirror. Capote’s tan sedan was there. It screamed VBI, but that couldn’t be helped. Herb just hoped the folks at Sleazy Pawn weren’t watching for them when they pulled up.

Two blocks from the shop, Herb’s radio squawked. “Another call, sir.” It was Ted. “This one’s to Sleazy Pawn.”

Herb floored the accelerator. He covered the final block and half in under 20 seconds and screeched to a halt in front of the barred doors. Light spilled onto the sidewalk from within. Herb leapt from the car, gun drawn, just as Capote and Truman pulled up. They were out and running toward the door when the first shot rang out.

Herb dropped to the ground and rolled. He’d felt the bullet pass through his leaves. He came up at the door and, ripping it open, dove for cover as another slug shattered the front glass. Running on instincts now, Herb sprinted to the counter and dropped behind it.

Two more shots were fired outside. Then there was silence. Herb had no way of checking in with Truman or Capote. He’d left his radio and cell phone in the car. Even if he’d had them they’d have been useless. In a nighttime fire fight, every officer worth his weight in celery salt knew to shut down communications. Darkness and silence were your friends. A ringing phone or squawking radio could only divulge your location.

Herb calmed himself. He lay quietly, listening. That’s when he heard voices coming from the back of the store. Unnatural voices. They were distorted. Crackly. A scanner! Herb knew in that moment his radio silence had been wise. He tuned his ear to the radio traffic.

“They’re robots,” a excited voice was saying. “Robotic celery.”

Another voice responded. “Come again?”

“You heard me,” the first voice replied. Herb could tell it was Jones’ now. “Robots. All four of them. Look to be powered by some kind of solar cell.”

At that moment, something caught Herb’s eye. He pushed a stack of papers slowly aside and there, behind the counter of Sleazy Pawn was the original VBI photo of the stalkers. Blurry as all get out. Robots! he thought.

“You find something interesting back there?” Herb froze. The voice had come from the other side of the counter.

“Woodstalk? That you?” Herb asked.

“No, sir,” the voice came back. “Woodstalk’s gone. The name’s CelMate.”

Silence. Herb listened. The scanner came to life again. Woodstalk’s voice was clear and urgent. “Shots fired. Sleazy Pawn on Buffalo Jones. Officers down. Possibly the chief. All available units respond. All units.”

Herb knew what was about to happen. He sensed more than saw the gun coming over the counter. He rolled hard right as fire spewed from the muzzle. The sound was deafening in the tight space.

“I told you to quit stalk...” two shots rang out and Herb heard one thud. Then another.

“You can come out, sir.” Truman!

Herb eased himself out from under the counter and slowly rose. He spotted Capote first. “You guys took long enough,” he said.

“Sorry,” Capote said sheepishly. “It took as awhile to pick the lock on the back door. A tricky booger.”

Herb glanced at the floor where Truman was kneeling next to a scallion. Herb recognized him at once. The pawn shop’s owner. “They’re both dead,” Truman said rising to his feet. The leek lay ten feet from his boss, slumped against an old stereo with a V8-Track player.

“Where to now?” Herb asked. “We’ve got to stop Woodstalk. He’s sent everyone here. He’s got something planned elsewhere.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Capote answered, “but I’ll bet I can find out in a second.” The zucchini turned and ran to the back of the building. Truman looked at Herb and shrugged. A second later the VBI agent returned, a laptop under his arm.

He placed it on the counter top. “VP 6902 eBook. Brand new.” He opened it and the screen sprung to life. “PhotoChop 7.8,” he mumbled looking at the icons. “Scrambler. CamJammer.” Looking at Truman he said, “That explains the fuzziness of the tape from the 1 Stop.” He turned back to the screen. “VegPerfect.” He double clicked and the program started. “Recent documents,” Capote muttered to himself. Another click. “Open.”

Herb who was looking over Capote’s shoulder gasped as a list of names filled the screen. The same list he’d scribbled out on his yellow pad. The chopper’s victims. Herb scanned them saying each name out loud. “Wayne. Oliver. Oscar. Damon. String.” He stopped. Grief threatened to undo him, but anger overrode it. There was one more name on the list.

“Ted!” he shouted. “We’ve got to get to the station now!”

Capote slammed the notebook shut and ran for the door. Herb and Truman followed close on his heels.