“What’re you doing?”
The door into the bedroom was raked by a series of oblique bullet holes near the top. Splinters showered over Blackstone, and he dove over by me. He held his gun upright and divided his attention between the door and the window.
“The charms on the window,” I said. “They’ll probably protect us until we reach cover.”
“You don’t think—” Machine-gun fire interrupted him.
“I can’t stop you from coming,” I said as the aluminum storm window came free of its track. “You’ve got the gun.”
My theory was partly confirmed as the inside window was suddenly peppered with gunfire. Again, it was oblique, the sniper shooting from off to the left somewhere. I stuck the storm sideways through the opening, and the shots stopped hitting the window. I could still hear them, thudding into the wall above the window frame.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
“
Maxwell
—“
I dove through the open window trying to simultaneously keep the charmed storm window between me and the sniper, and to present as small a target as possible. I didn’t land well. My left knee decided to remind me of what happened last night and buckled. I spilled to the ground, my bandaged hands losing their grip on the window as I plowed face first into the wound of raw earth left by the magical winds.
The storm window fell across my back. Lucky for me, the aura of protection provided by the charms worked for a diameter of about seven feet. Bullets that should have been kill shots were plowing divots in the ground about two feet in front of my face.
I heard Blackstone mutter an obscenity as I heard something hit the ground on the far side of me from the sniper. I felt the storm window lift up, and the sound of gunfire was much closer.
“Get up,” Blackstone said between shots.
I did, and saw him standing next to me, holding the storm window with his left hand, as if it was a riot shield. His gun was pointed in the general direction of the unseen sniper. He fired another shot and yelled, “Get moving!”
Twenty-five feet to the airport fence, Blackstone moving slowly to keep from overtaking my limping lope. Every few steps, he would take a shot and mutter something like, “Fucking bullshit.”
In front of the fence was an overgrown drainage ditch filled with a foot of black stagnant water. We took shelter in it, crouching behind our magic window.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Blackstone said. “Now what, genius?”
“Through the fence,” I said.
Above us a jumbo jet took off, rattling fillings and drowning out the gunshots. I backed up, down the trench, away from the sniper. I risked a look back at the not-so-safe house, but I really couldn’t see much of anything through the weeds. About ten yards down I found what I was looking for. A muddy stream fed runoff under the fence, into the ditch I was wading through. Despite the pain in my hands, I dug into the muck to clear a space under the chain-link.
“
Blackstone
,” I yelled above the engines of the passing jet. I started under the fence without waiting for him. I crawled into the woods on the other side of the fence, and started running directly away from the house.
Blackstone was on the other side of the fence, with the window and its protection, but I was running on pure panic now. The fact was every instinct was screaming at me to put as much distance between me and the gun as possible.
The cover didn’t last long. In a few seconds the sky opened above me and I was running through knee-high grass at the end of “White’s Elephant,” the ten thousand foot runway built as one of the last grand projects of the eponymous mayor before he left office. It was long enough to accommodate nonstop flights to the Pacific rim, at a time when there wasn’t more than a single flight out of Hopkins that left the North American continent. The runway’s extra length was unused and unnecessary until the Portal graduated from natural disaster to tourist attraction.
I ran toward the runway. The asphalt cut the air with heat ripples, and the sound of taxiing aircraft was a pressure trying to squeeze my head inside out. When I cleared the grass, my feet slid on gravel that flanked the edge of the asphalt. I fell down next to the concrete base of a runway light.
It felt like I’d slammed into a wall. I wasn’t in great shape to begin with, and the past few days had taken their toll. When I got my breath knocked out of me, it was hard to get it back again. I rolled over, stunned, for a moment unable to do anything if the sniper decided to target me.
It seemed an hour where nothing moved. The thrum of jet engines so loud it wasn’t really a sound any longer, just a throbbing pressure. Above me, the sky was cloudless and just starting to purple with evening.
Then, suddenly, Dr. Blackstone’s face appeared over me as the silver belly of a 747 slid by above. He still had the gun. He pulled me up and started dragging me toward the terminal. The sniper didn’t reappear.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I
DON’T know what Blackstone flashed at airport security, but it made them very deferential, right up to providing him with a private interview room and coveralls to replace the wreck our clothes had become.
“This is a fucking nightmare,” he told me when we were alone. “What the hell happened back there?”
Every joint in my lower body ached, and I, for one, wasn’t feeling very conciliatory. “Someone screwed up,” I told him.
He nodded vigorously, though the skin on his face had turned a shade just this side of purple. “Yeah, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t take a genius to realize that your cover was blown back there.”
Blackstone didn’t look pleased at my assessment, but he didn’t disagree. He looked at me and shook his head. “The whole situation here’s blown. We need to get you out of the city.”
“Hey,” I said, “wait a minute. You don’t have the authority to do that.”
“You have no idea exactly what authority I have,” Dr. Blackstone said. “I’m giving you a choice. Gracefully accompany me on a flight to Washington, or go there in handcuffs.”
I got up. “You can’t just kidnap American citizens.”
“You’d be amazed at what one executive order can do.”
Blackstone escorted me out into the terminal. I was good, and therefore didn’t rate the handcuffs. However, the fact that I didn’t try to ditch him and lose myself in the crowd had more to do with the idea that there were some very powerful people out there ready to do me physical harm than with any sense of cooperation.
While we walked down the terminal, Blackstone pulled out his cell phone, which had survived the mess. After a few moments of trying to get it to connect, he grimaced and closed it.
“Didn’t get a Cleveland model?” I asked.
He muttered some obscenity and moved us toward a pay-phone. “You have no idea how sick I am of this town.”
I looked at the phone, then at him, and said, “Do I rate a phone call?”
Blackstone sighed. “Calling your lawyer?”
“My daughter.”
For once I saw the starch in his expression soften a little. I guess there was a human being in their after all. “Okay, I’ll give you five minutes.” He pulled out a credit card. “You’re going to use a secure account. And I’m standing right next to you. You don’t say where you are. You don’t mention anyone’s name. You don’t say where we are going—”
I picked up the receiver and took the card. “And I don’t mention the safe house, etc., etc.” I used the card to dial California. It looked like a regular long-distance calling card, but there were a lot more clicks and whirs and electronic noise than seemed usual.
Hell, it was a government account, there was probably a recording being made in the NSA’s basement for every call made with this account.
With Blackstone hanging over my shoulder I heard the phone on the other end pick up. “Hello?”
“Sarah?”
My daughter sounded surprised. “
Daddy?
”
“Yeah, honey.”
“What’s happening? You’re all over the news. Are you hurt? What happened? Are you all right?”
Oh, shit
. For some reason I was hoping the whole mess with Cutler was just going to be a local story. Silly me.
“I’m all right—”
In the background I heard a very pissed voice say, “Is that your father?”
Better and better.
There was a muffled commotion and the phone rattled as it dropped on the floor. I was suffering a pang of severe guilt that this was the first moment after the mess started that I’d thought of calling my expatriate family.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Kline?”
“Margaret, it’s all right. There’s just a little jurisdictional mix-up.”
“Mix-up? The anchor on CNN said you’re wanted in questioning for a murder.”
“It’s a misunderstanding. I didn’t do it—”
“Christ, I
know
that. Why the hell are there cops looking for you, then?”
“It’s jurisdiction. I’m cooperating with—” Blackstone placed his hands on the phone, ready to hang the thing up. “—the cops,” I finished. Blackstone moved his hand away. “They’re just not local. Cutler was dealing with dirty cops in the city here, and I didn’t want those people involved.”
“Why’s CNN saying you’re a fugitive?”
“The local cops don’t know I’m working with another law enforcement agency.” I looked at Blackstone, and when he didn’t appear concerned, I went on. “They might not know until charges are filed.”
I heard Margaret sigh. “Are you all right?”
I glanced at my hands but decided not to mention it. “I’m fine. I’m safe.”
“You said it was getting better.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with magic,” I lied. “Dirty cops, this could’ve happened if I was working in San Francisco.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Margaret—”
“If you can do the same work here, why don’t you move closer to your daughter?”
“Can you put Sarah back on the line?”
There was a rustling, then a voice that said, “Dad?”
“Yeah, honey.”
“You’re not in bad trouble, are you?”
“Not really,” I lied again. “Your mom will explain it to you. I’m fine. CNN just doesn’t have the whole story yet.”
Blackstone touched the watch on his wrist. Christ, I had not planned blowing my time arguing with my ex. “I’m sorry, honey, I’ve got to go.”
“But, Dad—”
“I love you. I’ll call back soon.”
“I love you, too. But, Dad—”
Blackstone hung up for me. He looked at my expression and said. “I gave you more than I was obliged to. You can talk all you want after we’ve debriefed you.”
I stepped back and handed him the receiver. He pulled out a different card, made a call—and with the power of a government expense account—we had a pair of business class seats on the next outbound Continental flight to Dulles Airport. The plane left in two hours. He made another call after he got his flight. “It’s blown . . . Yes . . . three agents . . . I had local authorities informed about the mess . . . no, I have the subject here . . . I’m taking him in for debriefing . . . I’ve made arrangements, the flight leaves in two hours . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . I understand.”
He hung up and started hustling us toward the gate.
“Hey,” I said. “The rush is over, you got your flight, calm down.” He looked at me as if I’d just suggested that he consummate an unspeakable act with his mother. “We’ll have about ninety minutes before they start boarding. I haven’t eaten a thing all day, aren’t
you
hungry?”
“
Christ
.” He looked at me as if my suggestion was singularly inappropriate, but he said, “Yes, we can get something to eat.”
He pushed us into the first place that we passed, a McDonald’s where some mental giant had contracted someone to construct full life-size simulacrum of some of the more creepy denizens of Ronald McDonald’s world. A life-size blue-furred hump of a monster watched us with eyes that were too human.
He sat me down at a McTable and was interrupted by an electronic beeping. He pulled out his cell phone again, listened, shook his head and cussed it as he threw it down on the lemon-yellow table. “Useless . . . Hold up your hand, Maxwell.”
I raised my right hand as if I was about to take an oath. He slapped one end of a pair of handcuffs on me, and before I could register an objection, he had the other end attached to the back of the chair next to me. “I thought we weren’t going to resort to handcuffs.”
“I don’t trust you, Maxwell. And right now you’re one of the few things I’ve got to salvage from this operation.” He looked back at the counter and asked, “So what do you want?”
I ordered the generic burger-fries-and-soft-drink, just because what to eat wasn’t high on my list of things I wanted to spend time thinking about. Dr. Blackstone went to stand in line, and I made a cursory examination of the McChair, which was fiberglass and bolted to the floor. It looked possible to break the cuffs free of the chair, but not in any unobtrusive way.