Shame the Devil Read Online Free Page A

finish that cop.”
    “You hear them sirens? The two of us ain’t gonna make it if we stay. And I ain’t leavin’ you here, you know that.”
    “He killed my brother,” said Frank.
    “Then we’ll just have to come back at a better time,” said Otis. “Do him the same way.”
    Jonas’s unmarked blocked the road. A patrol car skidded into the Wisconsin Avenue turnoff, rolled up 39th, and came to a stop
     behind the unmarked. The driver radioed for backup while his uniformed partner crawled out of the car.
    Frank and Otis moved quickly to the Ford. Frank picked up Richard and threw him across the backseat of the Ford. He tossed
     the duffel bag on top of Richard, ignoring the uniform’s shouted commands, and got under the wheel. Otis was already on the
     passenger side of the bench.
    Frank yanked down on the tree and fishtailed coming out of the space. Sirens wailed from several directions. They heard the
     pop of gunshots behind them, and neither ducked his head.
    Otis wiped sweat from his forehead, glanced at the speedometer: fifty, sixty… okay, shit, it would be all right. Frank always
     did know how to handle a ride.
    “Gonna be a trick to get us out of here,” said Otis. He holstered the .45.
    Frank saw a flash of cop car moving toward them on the street called Windom to his right.
    “Punch this motherfucker,” said Otis.
    Frank pinned the accelerator. The car lifted, and both of them were pushed back against the seat. The Ford blew through the
     four-way and caught air coming over a rise.
    “Watch it,” said Otis, as something small ran backward into the street ahead. “Hey, Frank, man, slow down.…”
    Something was wrong. There were ambulance or police sirens all over now, and Lisa Karras knew something was wrong. She broke
     into a run.
    “Jimmy!” she yelled, frantic because he was still going toward the intersection of 39th and he was too many steps ahead and
     it was too hot. “Jimmy!”
    He turned and ran backward. She saw his crooked smile and the flush of his cheeks as he tripped back off the curb. She saw
     surprise on his face, but only for a moment. A blur of white car lifted him and pinwheeled him over its roof. He was hinged
     at an awful angle as he tumbled over the car.
    That is not my little Jimmy,
thought Lisa Karras.
    That’s just a broken doll.
    Frank Farrow gave the cracked windshield a spray of fluid and hit the wipers. Blood swept away and gathered at the edges in
     two pink vertical lines.
    Roman Otis turned his head, looked through the rear glass. A woman was in the street, her hands tight in her hair. Her mouth
     was frozen open, and she was standing over a small crumpled thing.
    Frank gave it a hard right onto Nebraska Avenue, downshifted the automatic to low coming out of the skid, and then brought
     it back up to drive. He passed a Jetta on the right and crossed the double line passing a ragtop Saab.
    “There’s Connecticut Avenue,” said Otis. “I remember it from the map.”
    “I see it.”
    “You ain’t gonna make that yellow, partner.”
    “I know.”
    Frank shot the red; a car three-sixtied as they went through the intersection and down a steep grade, Frank’s hand hard on
     the horn. Vehicles ahead pulled over to the right lane.
    Otis breathed out slowly, checked the backseat, looked across the bench.
    “Look — about your brother.”
    “Forget it.”
    “Your brother did good, man. Remember it. He kept that cop busy and he did
good.
”
    Frank was expressionless.
    “Frank.”
    “I said forget it. Where’s the switch?”
    “Tennyson at Oregon. About a mile up ahead.”
    Otis closed his eyes. Frank’s brother was dead, stretched out under a bag of money. Otis and Frank had just killed five —
     four whites and a black — including a kid. Maybe even killed a black cop, too. Be hard to find a jury of any racial mix that
     wouldn’t give the two of them that last long walk. And here was Frank, colder than the legs on Teddy Pendergrass, barely