G. M. Ford - Fury

In the year when summer never came, the spring rains

The hunted develop an eye for detail. An inner lens for

Looked kinda like an older version of that karate

The pictures on her desk made the facts of her life

Corso sat in the red leather chair and watched the rain

Corner of Fifth and James. The Public Safety Building

The mayor stopped in mid-sentence when Dorothy

"No eat? the waitress asked.

Special Agent Edward Lewis pushed the earlybird edition

"Robert. That voice from downstairs. Sounded like a

She brought the morning paper. Dropped it on the seat

The eastern slope of the Cascades loomed like purple

He sat on the blacktop with one knee pulled tight to his

Dorothy Sheridan massaged her temples with her fingertips.

Corso listened as the wolf-pack sirens moved closer.

South Doris Street. A little in-grown toenail of a lane,

"You stink, she said sullenly.

Never heard her comin. Not till the crash of the door.

The cabs headlights punched narrow channels into the

Stop, Corso said.

Like Mad Fred said: The only thing the dead knew for

Hear the car door. Figure it be that fat Korean she work

Skinny little white guy. Weird eyes. Somewhere

Yuppies love brunch. Especially on weekends, when,

Dorothy Sheridan was keeping her mouth shut. She

Got no damn use for no preacher, Himes said to the

The vans engine shuddered slightly at each revolution.

His knuckles glowed white around the phone. Again,

It was like a small-town carnival. Bright ballpark

Corso dreamed of that cobbled street again. Of the soldiers

Why, she used to wonder, would survivors subject

Guess whats missing?

She put on the big-time pissy face when he say he doan

A husband and a daughterboth dead and gone. Alice

Maybe losing a friend to a monster permanently

Wald slipped onto the stool next to Corso. Ordered a

Butler Parking Garage. All the way down to the bottom,

At the Fairway buoy, less than fifty feet of water

Dorothy Sheridan straightened the red-white-and-blue

God only knows where he found an orange-plaid suit. Probably some retro consignment joint up on Broadway. Jacket two sizes too small, with the shoulders sticking up like epaulets. Trousers six inches too short, like he was expecting a flood or something. Big cuffsbrogansno socks.

His lawyer, Myron Mendenhal, on the other hand, was the very soul of sartorial elegance. Natty in a charcoal-gray three-piece. Pinky ring, with a diamond as big as the Ritz. A habitual cuff shooter who kept the Rolex double diamond tastefully in view at all times. After all, when one tilled the personal injury end of the legal field, it was merely good business to look as prosperous as possible.

Mendenhal had already stated his case. Two or three times, in fact. On behalf of his client, he was filing a lawsuit against both the city of Seattle and the state of Washington. Wrongful and malicious prosecution. Three million in compensatory damages. Ten million in punitive damages. Each. Individual civil actions to follow.

Only reason he was still talking was so his client wouldnt. Last time Bozod opened his trap, all hell had broken loose. A guy in the front row had lost his composure and tried to crawl over the table at them. Hed clawed halfway through the forest of microphones before the female cop grabbed him by the belt and jerked him to the floor. Took four officers to get him out of the room and ten minutes to get the electronics back in order. The echo of the mans anguished cries still ruffled the drapes, and a scent of spent hormones hovered in the air like gunsmoke. No doubt about it; Myron Mendenhal was prepared to run his mouth for as long as it took.

How do you compensate a man for three years of his life? he asked. Is there some dollar figure that can repair the heart of a man who has lived for years under the specter of his own imminent death? Who has lain upon the table of death? I think not. Can we

The client leaned toward the mikes. If it aint me or him, just gonna be somebody else, you know.

Excuse me? one of the reporters lining the wall said.

Mendenhal covered the nearest mikes with his arm and whispered something to his client. First, imploring. Then, insisting. The audience caught its collective breath when the client reached over and clamped his big hand over Mendenhals nose and mouth. With the bug-eyed lawyer still squirming behind his half-acre palm, the client curled his rubbery lips and scooted his chair closer to the alphabet-soup collection of microphones.

Said theres always gonna be somebody out there killin bitches. Bitches and mo bitches is gonna be dyin all over the damn place, till you-all up to your damn ass in dead bitches.

Seven separate cameras recorded the onset of what happened next. The man sitting front-row center slowly got to his feet. He ran both hands over his face, like he was wiping away spiderwebs. He turned his back on Mendenhal and his client. Leaned over and appeared to whisper in the ear of the woman seated in the chair beside him. By then, the half dozen rent-a-cops stationed around the hotel ballroom were all moving his way, but it was too late.

When the man straightened up, he was holding a WWII-vintage Colt forty-five automatic in both hands. With tears in his eyes, he looked out over the crowded ballroom and uttered a single syllable. And then he turned toward the front of the room, raised the gun, and began pulling the trigger.

Run the NBC tape and you can see the client take four direct hits in the chest. Each time the force rocks his chair up onto two legs, only to have his weight slam it back to earth. Slow it down and you can see the impact of the bullets as they tear through the garish fabric of his suit. Watch the second slug go high left, taking off part of the shoulder, painting the side of Myron Mendenhals face with a high-pressure spray of blood and bone. Stop it right after the third impact dents the suit; run a couple more frames. Then, right before your eyes, seems like all at once, the plaid fades to red and the client falls slowly from his chair with that odd, enigmatic smile still frozen on his lips.

By that time, the ballroom is in complete panic. When the man with the gun turns back toward the crowd, only the brass-balls NBC cameraman keeps it rolling. Everybody else hits the deck. The rest of the network footage looks like The Blair Witch Project .

People who were thereand God knows half the city claims to have been present at the timesay the air was instantly sucked from the room, leaving the lungs scratched and dry, in that awful silent moment when the guy put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Monday, September 17
10:07 A.M. Day 1 of 6

In the year when summer never came, the spring rains lasted through July and then into August and September, until finally, with the leaves still green on the trees, people bowed to the inevitable and abandoned their memories of the sun.

More out of habit than duty, Bill Post flicked his eyes toward the street. Just in time to see her dismount the number 30 bus and step awkwardly out into a gray, driving rain. He watched as she pulled the hood low on her head and sloshed her big brown shoes across the sidewalk toward the front doors. Once inside, she removed her green raincoat and shook it out over the black rubber runner. He couldnt remember ever seeing anyone go to that much trouble to keep water off the floor. Like somebody was going to make her clean it up or something.