Baker was running almost blind. Thirty feet into the atrium's perimeter, he had to stop behind a planter and wipe away the
tears that flooded his eyes. His head was pounding.
“why, baker? why are you doing this?
I’
m better at it, baker,
I’
ll help you.”
“Will you help Sonnenberg?”
“yes, baker, ill crush the men who hurt him. ill crush the
men who want to hurt tanner burke and tina. go back, baker,
and well wait for them in the dark.”
“That's what I thought.”
Baker wiped his eyes once more. The pulpit was still
twenty yards away. Closer, at half that distance, sat Roger Hershey, his arms around Melanie Laver, both bodies fully in the open.
“Roger,” Baker called.
Hershey did not react. Melanie's eyes opened at the
sound of Baker's voice.
“Melanie?” Baker whispered. “Can you move? Can you
get back inside those doors?”
She shook her head, a sad smile on lips drained of color.
”I was going to have a bookshop, Jared.” She reached to pat
Roger Hershey on his arm but pulled her hand back when
she saw the wet blood on her fingers. “That would have been
something, wouldn't it?”
“It still can happen, Melanie,” he said, not believing it.
“What's wrong with Roger?”
“One killing too many.” She tilted her
head and
kissed him lightly. “He's just too sweet a man, Jared. You're both
sweet men.”
“Yeah.” Baker crawled toward her and up the steps of the
Greek Revival facade. He pulled open one of the double doors. There was a whistling sound, an insect sound, as a
feathered dart thunked against the other. Baker grabbed Her
shey, who held fast to Melanie Laver, and dragged him in
side. Once there, he drew his hand back to slap Hershey
sharply across the face but he couldn't. Instead he shook
him. Roger blinked up at him.
“Pick a room, Roger,” Baker told him. “Can you get her to a bed?”
Hershey nodded slowly. “I'll be back,
Melanie,'' Baker promised.
“Get away from here, Jared. Don't let them take you.”
“They won't shoot me, Melanie. I heard them.”
“Shooting's better than what they'll do with you, Jared.
They'll take you apart piece by piece. Get away, Jared. Take
Tina, Jared, and get away.”
“Like she is? What's wrong with her, Melanie?” Melanie didn't answer. Perhaps she couldn't. “I'll be back,” Baker said again.
Baker opened the door a crack. A shadow moved off to his left. Biaggi. Baker heard him. And he heard Burleson, the other one, moving low along the glass wall in the direction
of the pulpit. He saw Stanley there, still standing, moving, trying pathetically to climb the pulpit's side. Baker couldn't
watch. He dropped his eyes and they fell upon Roger Her
shey's rifle. Baker flung himself through the door and dove
for it.
“Freeze, mister,” Burleson's voice called. Baker swung
the rifle and fired blindly at the voice. Something stung his
shoulder. Baker tore the dart loose and ran to the narrow,
winding steps of the pulpit.
Sonnenberg was lying there, eyes closed, his black Tor
tora hat crushed beneath him. Blood from a dozen wounds
covered his face and chest. Baker's stomach fell. With his rifle covering the steps he'd taken, Baker felt blindly for a pulse at Sonnenberg's neck. “Come on, Sonnenberg,” he
muttered, seeing Tina's half-wild face in his mind, “come
on.”
A hand closed over his wrist. “You do choose the poorest
times to chat, Jared.”
“Hold it.” Harrigan stopped near the far entrance of the
Hall of Armor, just past the mounted knight and charger at
its center. He'd heard a sound. A scraping of feet on bare
marble. “The three guys,” he whispered to Tanner, easing
Tina to her feet between them. “Sounds like they're mov
ing in.”
The scuffing sounds were vague and he could not gauge their distance. Maybe far off. Maybe plenty of time to reach
the period rooms. On the other hand, his leg was having
enough trouble carrying his own weight without Tina's hun
dred pounds on top of it. Bet with the smart money, Harri
gan. The smart money figures your handicap and gives three
to one they'll nail you if you go gimping together in these
halls.
“Can you keep the kid quiet?” he asked Tanner.
”I guess. Why?”
Harrigan hobbled to the armored horse and lifted a scar
let parade skirt that reached almost to its fetlocks. “Get
under here.” He reached back for Tina to abort any discus
sion and eased her under the fabric. “Just stay quiet,” he told
Tanner, who followed. “Stay there all night if you have to,
no matter what you hear.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked doubtfully.
“Cut the odds a little, maybe.”
Harrigan backed away from the mounted knight, flicking
on his penlight once to see that no hands or feet were too ap
parent. They'd be safe, he thought. The eye of anyone com
ing in would go up, startled by the lance, and then go past it
once the guy relaxed. He kicked off his brogans and hid
them on top of a display case before making his way into the
darkest part of the corridor. They'd fan out, he knew. They'd
have checked the same map and have seen at least three
ways into the Garden Court. Harrigan chose the most direct
route, the one he'd taken through the first Egyptian rooms.
Chuck Graves, the man Burleson stationed at the door Harrigan had forced, also picked that route. Peterson would
take the Hall of Armor. The van's driver, Gorby, was as
signed a passage through European Decorative Arts.
Graves picked his way slowly but not cautiously, his
mind on the place with the glass wall and on blocking es
cape. With the barrels of pistols held in either hand he
probed the first dark nooks he passed, but there were too many. Move. Keep moving. They're ahead of you, not here.
He reached a long, narrow hall where the lesser tombs of
middle kingdom gentry were arranged among island cases
that showed the minor treasures with which they were
buried. Chuck Graves paused at one case, his eye attracted
by a gleam inside. He wanted to ignore it. But a part of his
mind wondered what would shine with hardly any light.
Gold, maybe. Like the King Tut stuff. The opportunity
tugged at him. Graves laid his dart pistol on the case, then
fished for a Bic lighter and struck it.
“You want to die, kid?”
Graves went rigid, more surprised than fearful. He
judged the voice to be ten feet behind him. His first instinct
was to release the butane lever and roll to one side while the
night-blinded gunman fired at nothing. But he also knew
that the voice was probably Connor Harrigan's. He wouldn't
be fooled. Harrigan would use one muzzle flash to spot him
and the second to kill him. But maybe Harrigan didn't want
the noise. Stay cool. Remember your training, he told him
self. Remember Harrigan can't see the gun in your other
hand. Talk to him. Get him thinking. Let him know that even
if he makes the street he can't get out of the city. Tell him
Duncan Peck's still willing to deal if he takes this last
chance to come home.
“Harrigan?” He kept his voice even. ”I think we better
talk, Harrigan.”
“Bullshit!” Harrigan's breath was suddenly at his ear. The
heavy Walker Colt came down behind it.
Sonnenberg would be hurting, Baker decided, but his
wounds did not look serious. Chips of stone, perhaps a bul
let fragment or two from Biaggi's second burst. But they ap
peared serious and Sonnenberg knew it. A quick inspection,
he gambled, and they might let him lie harmlessly while
they rushed in pursuit of fleeter game. Which might surprise
them nastily if they ran into Mrs. Kreskie in one of these
dark hallways. To say nothing of friend Abel.
“You're not using him,” Sonnenberg whispered.
Baker waved him to silence. With his index finger he marked two positions flanking the pulpit. Sonnenberg un
derstood. But that was all the more reason for leaving him at
his game of possum and loosing Abel among them. But
there was more. He saw it on Baker's face. Tina. Ah, yes.
Tina. Sonnenberg resisted only slightly as Baker, rocking momentarily as if seized by a passing vapor, took Sonnen-berg's arms and gathered them over his shoulders in a fire
man's carry.
“They'll shoot us,” he said into Baker's ear.
“Just darts.” Baker hushed him. “I'll pick them out of
your butt later.” Sonnenberg bit back a groan as he felt his
lacerated chest pulled tight and hoisted against Baker's
back. Your butt, no less. Marcus Sonnenberg a shield, no
less. Jared Baker was spending entirely too much time in the
company of Connor Harrigan.
Biaggi saw them first. Baker and Sonnenberg. Two clean
shots. He shifted his dart pistol into his left hand and drew out his service revolver with his right.
“Michael!” Duncan Peck's voice boomed from the rear
of the room.
Maybe one shot. You want darts for Baker, you got them,
but I want one insurance shot through that old bastard's ear.
Baker whirled as if he'd heard and raised his rifle in one hand, jerking the trigger. Nothing. He'd forgotten to cham
ber another round. A dart, Burleson's dart, struck him high
on his chest. Unable to work the bolt without dropping Son
nenberg, Baker hurled the useless rifle toward Biaggi's
head, ruining the aim of another dart that whistled harm
lessly between his legs.
“Edward,” Peck's voice sounded, “shoot
Michael if
he
raises that revolver again.”
Baker tore loose the dart that sprouted from his collar
bone, glancing up along its line of flight. He saw Burleson,
a reloaded dart pistol again leveled at his chest and a re
volver aimed at a right angle in Biaggi's direction. Burleson
hesitated, distracted.
“BAYYKKERRR!”
Move, Baker urged himself.
“Stanley?” Sonnenberg's shout startled him. He felt his burden shift as it struggled for a better look at Burleson.
Baker looked again and saw Stanley this time. The little man
had staggered up from the pulpit's blood-smeared base and was reeling drunkenly toward Burleson, his hands forming outstretched claws. Burleson saw him now, too late. Finger
nails dug into Burleson's face and tore at it before Burleson could throw up his arms in defense. He clubbed furiously at Stanley's head with the barrel of his dart pistol.
“Stanley!” Sonnenberg's anguished cry came again. He kicked at Baker, wrestling him, twisting wildly at Baker's grip. Baker struggled for his balance and against a second assault now pounding from inside his head. He fell back
ward, tears flooding his eyes, grasping desperately at Sonnenberg, who had shaken free and was starting to crawl
toward Stanley Levy. A heavy door crashed open, and three
fast shots thundered near Baker's ear. Behind him, Baker re
alized. They were behind him now too. He felt an arm
pulling him to his feet while a hand with a gun in it reached
past him and seized Sonnenberg by his collar. Baker opened
his mouth to shout Abel's name.
“yes yes baker.”
He took a breath, but his tongue slipped over the word when he tried to form it.
“On your feet, lad,” Harrigan's voice barked. “Help me
with Sonnenberg.”
“Stop this, Connor.” Baker heard another, more distant
voice. “On my word, Connor, no one need
s to
be hurt.”
“Your ass,” Harrigan growled, snapping a shot toward
Duncan Peck and another at Biaggi, who was diving for
cover behind one of the gladiators. Baker felt himself mov
ing, driven by Connor Harrigan toward the guns and armor,
Marcus Sonnenberg somehow between them. More shots. A
spray of stone that made Harrigan grunt. Baker felt the dark
d
oorway swallowing him and the marble floor rushing up
toward his face.