Line of Sight [antikvár]

1I remember the night I first saw her.I turned up a dead-end street and skidded to a halt in front of a rusted guardrail. I radioed my position, swung the door, and stepped into the thick air. My strobes made the scene pulse. I was sweating.I had seen the man rising out of the ground, climbing from a sunken railroad right-of-way. I shouted at him. He wasn't about to halt. He took off sprinting, a skinny young man, black, quick.I took off sprinting.He cut across a vacant lot toward Our Lady of Sorrows. Broken glass turned the ground into a glittering dance floor where six-foot mullein weeds waltzed with giant thistles.A cop wears a Kevlar vest and carries a gun and a flashlight, a radio, handcuffs, notepad, keys, pepper spray, two fifteen-round ammo clips, and a blackjack. It's not an outfit for running a hundred-yard dash. I gave it a game effort. Track was my sport in high school. My muscles remembered.This dude was fast. As he crossed the street under a light his shadow gained on him and went by, stretching out long in front. I was losing ground.