Harrigan, himself almost spent, dragged Baker and Sonnen
berg through the firearms foyer and into the deeper black
ness of the Hall of Armor. At the far end he thought he saw a shadow ducking quickly out of sight.
“We're in a mess, lad.” He'd found Roger Hershey while
working through the bank building from the rear. No help
there. Not much here either, by the look of it. Harrigan put
a hand on Baker's shoulder and shook it. “Come on, Baker. We're dead meat if we sit here.”
“Tina?” Baker whispered distantly.
Harrigan slapped him sharply across the face and was re
lieved to see a flash of anger. “That's what we need, lad. We
need the beastie.”
“No,” Sonnenberg barked, straightening to a sitting posi
tion against an island display case. “The darts. They'd work much faster on Abel. His metabolism, it's too efficient.”
Harrigan glared at him. “Let's hope no one else heard
that, bucko.” He flipped open the cylinder of the gun he'd
taken from Chuck Graves before cramming him into a half-
open sarcophagus and shouldering the stone lid back in
place. One cartridge left. He remembered the three in his
Walker Colt. Christ! Wrong caliber again. Harrigan held up
the two revolvers for Sonnenberg to see.
“Two guns,” he said quietly, “and one useful bullet be
tween them. The three of us are a mess, and they have five trained men all armed and mostly healthy. Don't start with
theory, Doc.”
“It's not theory. Abel won't even last as long as Jared.”
“What about Charley, then?”
“Much slower metabolism,” Sonnenberg answered, shak
ing his head, “but he'd be quite useless in a physical situa
tion.”
“Tina,”
Baker called.
“she's sleeping,”
Charley answered.
”liz rocked her and
kissed her so she's all quiet and sleeping.”
“Charley, where are they?”
“under the horse”
“Horse?”
“big fake horse.”
Baker turned his head and saw where Charley meant in
the dim outline against the far portal lights. He nodded, the
small motion making him dizzy.
”Charley
y
I don't think I can help
t
he
m.
I think I have to
call Abel”
“abe
l’
s getting drunk now. ill try to help her, baker, ill
be scared but ill try.”
“Drunk?”
Baker asked. Oh! Yes. The drugs. Oh God,
Tanner. Liz. Liz, I'm so sorry.
In the Garden Court, the big man, Gorby, had worked his
way to a small door at the end opposite the bank facade. Burleson, from the position he now held at the entrance to
the firearms foyer, saw him and waved him forward.
“Where are Peterson and Graves?” Burleson whispered.
Gorby glanced around to get his bearings. “There's a big room through there with suits of armor. By now they should
be at the only other door to it.” He couldn't help staring at the womanlike scratches that raked Burleson's face.
“Okay, stay here,” Burleson ordered. “I'm sending Bi
aggi in first to draw fire. We go in behind him from both
sides and Peterson will move in from that end.” He turned
toward Biaggi, who stood several yards away with Duncan
Peck. Peck seemed to be scolding him. He raised a palm
toward Burleson, keeping him at a distance.
“Michael,” he was saying softly, ”I want Baker alive and
I want Sonnenberg alive. Do you understand that, Michael?”
“Yes, Mr. Peck.”
“This part is equally important, Michael. I want only Baker, you, and myself alive when we leave these grounds.
Sonnenberg is to die by no hand but mine. Do you under
stand that, Michael?”
Biaggi blinked as if it were too much to absorb.
“Richard the Lion-hearted, Michael, died at the end of a
siege from a crossbowman's dart. On his deathbed, King
Richard forgave the man who killed him. Even so, the hap
less archer was tortured to death by Richard's officers on the
ground that only a king should kill a king.” Alexander the
Great, Peck recalled, took a similar view of the murder of
Darius, but he considered his point adequately made. It was
unthinkable that an adversary such as Ivor Blount had be
come would die at the hands of an insect like this.
“It's a question of respect, Michael,” Peck continued.
“My respect for the man's genius is such that I'm prepared
to forgive any lesser man who might have been temporarily
subverted by him. Is my meaning clear, Michael?”
His meaning was clear. Biaggi nodded. He was nuts. He
was as screwy as Sonnenberg and as fucked up as Baker. But
if there was a way out of this, Biaggi was ready to take it.
“Just tell me what you want, sir.”
”I want no one alive, Michael, who might compromise
me if questioned, except one whose silence is ensured by a
profit motive. These people”—he gestured toward
Burleson—“will nobly answer any question asked by a
higher authority. You will not, Michael, because I'm going
to make you rich. You will become steadily richer with each subsequent service. Your greed, you see, is your salvation.”
Peck looked for the light in Biaggi's eyes that would tell
him that venality had won its battle over suspicion and
doubt. The light came. And then an even greater glow of re
lief. Good, thought Duncan Peck. Let us hope that it glows a beacon to us all until it is convenient to extinguish it.
Nuts, Biaggi repeated to himself. But nuts wrote checks.
And the checks would go into the same bank as the tapes
he'd make, with copies sent to Peck so he'd remember who had who by the balls.
“Sir?” Burleson approached partway. “Sir, Gorby's had
an idea. We might be able to turn on the emergency lights in
there.”
Harrigan crouched as he sensed another movement
near the
far end of the hall, near the armored charger. The horse's
skirt, he realized. It was moving. Harrigan squinted through
the darkness. He saw a shadow moving silently near the
mounted knight. Tanner Burke, he decided from the size and
shape. Now he heard a dull popping sound, as if something
fastened had been pulled free, then a faint scrape of metal
against metal.
“Oh, damn!” he heard Baker mutter.
Harrigan reached out to silence him and then brought the
same hand cupped to his ear.
“Harrigan.” Baker pushed to his hands and knees. “It's
Tanner. She heard me.”
“What's she doing?” Harrigan wondered if anything
would ever surprise him again. ”I told her to stay put.”
“She has a mace.” Baker struggled for balance to rise to
his feet. “One of Peck's men is down there. She's going after
him with a mace. And outside they're saying something
about these lights. She'll be wide open, Harrigan.”
“The beastie, lad. Does he have enough left to take out
that one man before he wraps the mace around the lady's
neck?”
“Abel?”
”i can, baker, only now. last chance, baker, only now.”
“He says he can handle it.”
“Let's do it, lad.” Harrigan pulled Baker and Sonnenberg
erect. “Take out the man and get me his gun. If we reach those narrow stairs we used, I can hold them to doomsday while you lose yourself in the park.”
“No,” Sonnenberg rasped. “He'll never . . ”
“Abel. Only that one. Only get us safely out of here. Do
you understand, Abel?”
“safe, yes, baker.
I’ll
make you safe”
“Come out, Abel.”
“Jared, don't!” Sonnenberg's voice rose. “He won't run. He'll never run.”
Even in the darkness, Harrigan could see the grin. And he
saw Abel's hand as it reached for the wall. And then the
crunching sound of a war ax being torn from its mounting.
“You're first in,” Burleson told Biaggi. He stood with his
dart pistol in his right hand and a revolver in his left. The re
volver was leveled at a key-operated light panel on the wall
near the foyer's entrance. ”I fire at this as soon as you dive through. When it shorts, emergency lights go on and we fol
low.”
Biaggi glanced at Duncan Peck.
“Gorby first,” Peck whispered. “He's healthiest.”
Gorby took a breath and stepped into the doorway. He hesitated. Biaggi stepped forward and shoved him headlong
into the darkness. Then, pistols leveled, he and Burleson
dropped to a crouch and waited for the first muzzle flash or movement.
Instantly, something was wrong. Gorby had stopped with
a muffled grunt, as though striking a wall Biaggi knew was
not there. The dim outline of Gorby's shoulders stood mo
tionless for a long moment, then rose slowly as if floating
and began to drift backward toward the Garden Court. Bi
aggi saw Gorby's legs now, twitching, quivering, the toes
half a foot off the surface. He lifted his eyes, his brain ask
ing what could dangle two hundred and twenty pounds that high, and he looked into the grinning face he had seen in the
park. Gorby, his head lolling sickeningly to one side, hung
at the end of an outstretched arm. A spiked medieval war ax
bobbed carelessly from the other.
“Darts!” Peck gasped an order. Burleson's pistol spat at
Abel's chest, and Biaggi, stumbling backward, fired another that lodged in Abel's cheek. Abel rocked and blinked but the
grin remained. Burleson swung his revolver toward the
switchplate. Four quick shots roared until it answered with a
spit of flame and smoke. Emergency fixtures, mounted high
in corners, instantly flickered and began to glow amber, their
light glancing off a metal thing that bobbed up sharply and
arced toward Burleson's head. Burleson's reflexes saved
him. He threw himself under and away from the whistling blow and crashed into a tangle with Duncan Peck. Peck
thrashed himself free. He ducked under Gorby's body,
which had swung like a counterweight under the force of Abel's blow, and scrambled on his hands and knees
out of
Abel's field of vision. That took him into the firearms foyer, but Peck was beyond fearing any lesser threat he might en
counter there.
Harrigan saw him. He saw Peck's face in the faltering,
amber light, crabbing frantically toward him. Peck paused to
pat awkwardly at his waist as if a weapon had been lost, fi
nally wrenching a small aerosol can from a loop on his belt.
Chemical mace. Good luck, Harrigan muttered to himself.
He raised his pistol with its one remaining bullet. What the hell, he thought. It's as good a shot as he'd get. But another
gun cracked first, and a bullet whined by his face with a
rumbling roar that swept the length of the Hall of Armor.
Harrigan whirled toward its source. Peterson! He faced Har
rigan, in a combat crouch, near the flanks of the mounted
knight.
Harrigan swung his revolver, his sights dropping on Pe
terson's breastbone, but in that motion he saw Tanner.
Damn, he couldn't shoot. She had appeared from behind a
display of thrusting weapons and was padding quickly
toward Peterson, a real mace poised at her shoulder like a baseball bat. Peterson saw Connor's surprise and spun,
dropping to one knee as the mace came down across his
raised gun arm. Harrigan heard the bone crack, and a wild
shot blasted a cloud of plaster from the wall. The muzzle
blast stunned Tanner.
Before she could raise the weapon again, Peterson
snatched at the mace's shaft with his good left hand and
pulled. The two of them crashed backward against the leg of
the mounted knight. Come on! Harrigan wanted to shout.
Get clear! The horse's parade skirt flipped up. Two arms,
small arms, wrapped around Peterson's neck and squeezed.
“No!” Tanner screamed. Then her long hair flew as Peter
son's fist caught her high on the temple. Harrigan fired. The
shot, aimed too safely and too low, ricocheted harmlessly
under Peterson's splayed legs. Peterson tensed, awaiting the impact of a second bullet he could not avoid. None came. He saw that Harrigan's sights had him cold and that the line of
fire was clear, yet there was no shot. Peterson faked to his
left. Still nothing. He knew then that Harrigan's gun was
empty.