Free Finishing School by Max Allan Collins Page A

and back. Her Glock was in her hand, safety off, arm extended down along her leg keeping the pistol partially hidden.
    Though the sun shone brightly, a biting wind had started ripping through from the north as she made her way into the teeth of it, walking carefully up the alley behind a two-story clapboard house on Twelfth Street NW, mere blocks from two parks and both Bemidji’s middle and high schools.
    As another shiver spread through her, Prentiss considered that the cold she felt might be neither fear nor wind, but the sheer creepiness of a known sexual predator having settled down here in Homespun, U.S.A., in the midst of such fertile pickings.
    She settled in at the corner of the house’s garage. Around her, the neighborhood was made up of similar houses, some in need of paint as much as Kwitcher’s, most in better shape. The garages lined the alley like teeth on either side, a molar missing here and there where a door stood open.
    Out front, Morgan and Garue would be preparing to mount the front porch steps, operating on the assumption Prentiss had the back covered, which she did. From her position behind the detached garage, using it for cover as she peeked around the corner, she could easily see the back door and most of the backyard.
    In her earpiece, Morgan said, ‘‘We’re approaching the front door and knocking.’’
    Though she knew Morgan respected her as an agent, he would, occasionally, shift into the stereo-typical male protective mode. That was why the two men had sent her to the back. She didn’t resent this, exactly, realizing Morgan had far more experience going through doors; but this wasn’t her first time on the street—she’d spent years as a field agent before joining the BAU.
    Mildly preoccupied with that thought, she was startled, just a little, when the back door swung out like a slapping hand and a skinny man, probably about her size, dashed out into the backyard, face masked with fear.
    â€˜â€˜Rabbit on the run,’’ Morgan’s voice said in the earpiece.
    No shit .
    â€˜â€˜Got him,’’ Prentiss said into the cuff mike, and as that hand went down, the one holding the gun came up, and she stepped around the corner of the garage right into the path of their rabbit.
    â€˜â€˜Freeze, FBI!’’ she said, her pistol’s front sight locked on the man’s chest.
    He was either deaf or stupid, and just kept coming, arms pumping as he sprinted toward her, determination replacing fear on his face, though the eyes were wild. No weapon was apparent and she wasn’t about to kill him for panicking and running. . . .
    The rabbit must have sensed that because instead of veering off, he plowed right into her, knocking her backward, the air whooshing out of her as she hit the earth, the gun tumbling from her hand in a lazy arc. But the suspect got tangled with her, and toppled onto her, a second impact that sent a star-burst through her brain.
    Prentiss fought through the pain and disorientation as she and the suspect both tried to scramble to their feet and away from each other’s grasp. They were both wobbly and she launched a spinning kick that missed her target, the suspect’s face, but landed squarely in his upper chest, knocking him back onto his ass again. By the time he started to rise, she had retrieved her pistol and held it inches from his frightened face.
    â€˜â€˜I think you ruined my pants,’’ she said, her voice flat, but an eyebrow arched. ‘‘So I’m in no mood . . .’’
    Rubbing his chest, the suspect slumped back to the ground.
    â€˜â€˜On your stomach—spread-eagle.’’
    He hesitated.
    â€˜â€˜What did I say about my mood?’’ she asked, her voice much sharper now.
    He complied.
    Morgan and Garue came tearing around either side of the house, each with his gun drawn. Then they slowed, seeing the tableau with Prentiss in