“You can do it, Sherlock. Remember just last week in Ho-gan’s Alley when that guy pissed you off? Tried to handcuff you and haul you off as a hostage? You nearly killed him. You wound up having to apologize to him. That took more strength than this. Think mean. Think dead-meat thoughts. Kill the rope. Pull!”
She didn’t think of the guy in Hogan’s Alley; no, she thought of that monster, focused on a face she’d never seen, focused on the soul-deep misery he’d heaped upon her for seven years. She wasn’t even aware when she hauled herself up those final inches.
She hung there, breathing hard, clearing her mind of that horrible time. MacDougal was laughing beside her, not even out of breath. But he was all brute strength she’d told him many times; he’d been born in a gym, under a pile of free weights.
She’d done it.
Mr. Petterson, their instructor, was standing below them. He was at least two stories below them; she would have sworn to that. He yelled up, “Good going, you two. Come on down now. MacDougal, you could have made it a little faster, like half the time you took. You think you’re on vacation?”
MacDougal shouted down to Petterson since she didn’t have a breath in her lungs, “We’re coming, sir!” He said to her, grinning so wide she could see the gold filling in a molar, “You did good, Sherlock. You have gotten stronger. Thinking mean thoughts helped, too. Let’s get down and let two other mean dudes climb this sucker.”
She needed no encouragement. She loved going down. The
pain disappeared when her body knew it was almost over. She was down nearly as fast as MacDougal. Mr. Petterson waved a pencil at them, then scribbled something on his pad. He looked up and nodded. “That was it, Sherlock. You made it within the time limit. As for you, Mac, you were way too slow, but the sheet says you pass so you pass. Next!”
“Piece of cake,” MacDougal said, as he handed her a towel to wipe off her face. “Look at all that sweat on you.”
If she’d had the energy, she would have slugged him.
She was in Hogan’s Alley, the highest-crime-rate city in the United States. She knew just about every inch of every building in this town, certainly better than the actors who were paid eight dollars an hour to play bad guys, better than many of the bureau employees who were witnesses and robbers alike. Hogan’s Alley looked like a real town; it even had a mayor and a postmistress, but they didn’t live here. Nobody really lived here or really worked here. It was the FBI’s own American town, rife with criminals to be caught, situations to be resolved, preferably without killing anyone. Instructors didn’t like innocent bystanders to be shot.
Today she and three other trainees were going to catch a bank robber. She hoped. They were told to keep their eyes open, nothing else. It was a parade day in Hogan’s Alley. A festive occasion, and that made it all the more dangerous. There was a crowd of people, drinking sodas and eating hot dogs. It wasn’t going to be easy. Chances were that the guy was going to be one of the people trying to blend in with the crowd, trying to look as innocent as an everyday guy; she’d stake a claim on that. She would have given anything if they’d gotten just a brief glance at the robber, but they hadn’t. It was a critical situation, lots of innocent civilians milling about and a bank robber who would probably run out of the bank, a bank robber who was probably very dangerous.
She saw Buzz Alport, an all-night waiter at a truck stop off 1-95. He was whistling, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. No, Buzz wasn’t the bad guy today. She knew him too well. His face flushed scarlet when he played the bad guy. She tried to memorize every face, so she’d be able to spot the robber if he suddenly appeared. She slowly worked the crowd,
calm and unhurried, the way she’d been trained.