Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (37 page)

Larson ignored the crack, his voice wheezy. “Silme and Bolverkr were here.” Meticulously, he mopped blood and sweat from his forehead before twisting the strip of cloth into a tight knot around his head, staunching the bleeding. Covering it with the policeman’s cap, he scooted around the corner of the building. The pain in his head had nearly disappeared, but the arm wound still throbbed with a deep, dull agony, sapping him of strength.

“Obviously they were here. The air is foul with Chaos. I hope that means you forced them to cast some draining spells.”

Larson replied in a voice more closely approximating his normal one. “I don’t know that I can take all the credit. But Bolverkr cast the most spectacular spell I’ve ever seen.” Larson exhaled through pursed lips. “I’m glad he didn’t use that against us at his castle.” He considered aloud. “I wonder why not?”

Taziar shrugged. “Hard to say. Guess it’s the same reason a soldier doesn’t always use the best maneuver in a fight. He didn’t think of it under pressure. Remember, too, he was crazed then. Or maybe he didn’t want to waste the life energy.”

“Doesn’t make a difference.” Larson dismissed the question for more urgent matters. “In the future, we need to be prepared for fire. That was the spell, some sort of wave of flame. And we need to find Timmy. Fast.”

“I know....”

“Let’s go.” Larson started along the building, uncertain where to begin his search.

“Wait.” Taziar caught Larson’s forearm.

Larson shook free. “You don’t understand. We need to move quickly. For all I know, Timmy might be within the area of the fire.”

“He’s not.”

Larson turned.

“You didn’t let me finish.” Taziar drew up beside Larson. “I was trying to say, ‘I know where Timmy is.’ I got here shortly after you did. What do you think I’ve been doing all evening?”

“What?”

Taziar paused, apparently surprised by the question. “I just told you. Looking for Timmy. And you, too.” He smiled. “I started high and worked down. Timmy’s on the second floor. He’s fine. For you, I just followed the fighting noises.” He brushed aside the hem of his shirt, revealing the Colt .45. “Oh, and here. Can you use this?” He pulled the pistol from his belt, clutching it upside down with a finger looped behind the trigger and the barrel facing his own abdomen.

Larson winced. “Better than you can, I’m sure.” He took the gun, pausing to check the cartridge.
Four shots left.
He chambered the gun, placing it in the cocked and locked position for hip defense. He tucked it into his waistband, disliking the cold touch of carbon steel against his skin. “Now tell me about Timmy.” He placed his back to the wall, crouched in the shadow of the precinct building.

“He’s on the second floor in a room.” Taziar rubbed his side, looking relieved to have disposed of the gun. “There’s a woman with him.”

“A policewoman?”

Taziar’s eyes widened. “You have female city guards?”

“A few.” Larson rearranged the gun to a more comfortable position.
Bleeding, armed, and wearing a cop cap. We’ve got to keep out of sight. This would be impossible to explain.

“I don’t know. How do you tell?”

“A uniform? A gun?”

Taziar’s mouth formed a grim line. “I didn’t see either.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a man who enters and leaves at intervals. He does have a uniform. Gun, too, I think.”

Larson frowned. “How did you see all this?”

“Through the window. The rooms to either side have windows, too.”

“Open window or closed?”

Taziar did not hesitate. “Half opened. The rooms to either side are empty. All three rooms lead to the same hallway. There’re long bars along the hall ceiling that make light. The rooms are lit by flasks hanging from a metal stalk.”

Fluorescent and overhead lighting.
Larson chuckled inwardly at Taziar’s focus on the technologies he could not understand. “You did your homework.”

“Excuse me?”

“You did a good job scouting the area.” Larson rephrased his comment in words Taziar could comprehend.

“Thank you.” Taziar accepted the compliment offhandedly. “It’s what I do. Remember? It’s kind of nice not to get scolded about it for a change.” A slight smile and a friendly gaze stole all bitterness from the comment.

Larson grunted. “Yeah. Well, I guess sneaking off half-cocked has its place. Though remind me to tell you about third rails sometime.” He changed the subject. “Let’s get moving. Where is this room Timmy’s in anyway?”

Taziar inclined his head, indicating the back of the precinct.

Larson inched toward the corner. “Listen, you’ve been up there clambering around already, right?”

Taziar followed closely. He made no verbal reply.

Larson swiveled his neck to look over his shoulder, catching the end of Taziar’s affirmative nod. “You think it’s climbable?” Taziar stared. He imitated the tone Larson used when voicing sarcasm. “No. It’s impossible. I made up that whole story about Timmy and the rooms.”

Larson loosed a snorting laugh, only then realizing how silly his question must have seemed to a man who had scaled a skyscraper. “No. I meant do you think I could climb it.”

Taziar studied Larson’s sturdy, human frame. “I haven’t seen you in this form all that much. I’d guess you could.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Larson continued around the building, Taziar behind him. “I have an idea.”

One God, one Law, one element,
And one far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
In Memoriam, Conclusion

Still wearing the policeman’s cap, Al Larson crept over checkered patterns of black and white tile and around the simple furnishings of the police office, cautious as a thief. A metal desk was set near one corner, lusterless despite the glow from the overhead lighting. Mismatched chairs formed a semicircle around the front of the desk, with one chair on rollers behind it. A telephone graced the right corner of the desktop, amid framed pictures and lopsided stacks of paper. Exhaustion rode Larson. Despite Taziar’s boost, the single-story climb had made his injured arm ache, and only concern for Timmy’s safety kept him alert despite fatigue and pain.

The now-open window that Larson had used as his entrance riffled air through the office. Directly across the room, the door stood ajar.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the confines. The door napped opened, then thrashed back toward its closed position.

Realizing the panel would bang against its frame, Larson sprang to quiet it. He skidded across the room, just in time to shove his fingers between jamb and door. The wood bruised his knuckles painfully, and he sublimated the urge to scream with a string of mental swear words. Catching the knob with his other hand, he levered the door off his fingers without opening it.

Footfalls rang from the hallway beyond.

Larson froze, hand straying to the Colt .45 sidearm. He hoped he would not need to use it for anything worse than intimidation.
I can’t leave Timmy. My brother’s life is worth too much, and it’s obvious the cops can’t protect him against Bolverkr and Silme.

The footsteps tracked past Larson’s door and on to the next, the room where Timmy waited with a female stranger. The hall went silent as the walker paused before the door. Hinges creaked, then the door clicked closed without latching.

Larson peeked out into the hallway. Doors interrupted the walls on both sides, the one to Timmy’s room resting, unlatched, against its jamb. No living creature moved through the corridor. Apparently, most of the men had run to the defense of their colleagues downstairs.
Which means anyone left up here’s going to be trigger-twitchy as hell.
The .45 slipped naturally into his fist.

Quickly, Larson exited his room, twisting the knob and closing it silently behind him. Two strides brought him to the room in which Taziar had seen Timmy.

A gruff, male voice wafted through the crack. “... tracked down your mother. She was looking for you. Real worried. She’s coming to get you....”

The news shocked Larson.
Oh, no. Why did we have to hear that? Now we know where Mom will be at a given time. And Silme will probably search Timmy’s mind for the information.
The concern that he had burned down his home for no good reason wrestled with the need for his full concentration.

Timmy’s alto lifted through the door. “But Al said we shouldn’t be with her now. That we shouldn’t know where she’s at.”

The man snorted. “Your brother slaughtered—” The woman interrupted. “Timmy, I’m sure Al had a good reason for giving you that advice. But things are different now. You understand. Don’t you want to go home with your mother?”

Timmy gave no verbal reply, but Larson guessed the boy must have nodded, because no one pressed him further. “Your mother’s staying with ...” the man started. Recognizing the danger of learning that piece of information, Larson grasped the knob and pounded on the door. “There’s violence in the main office! We need every man!” He ran farther down the hallway, hammering in a linear pattern of urgency. Then, he darted quietly to a position on the farther side of the door to Timmy’s room, back flattened to the wall.

A moment later, the door creaked partway open. A slender policeman appeared in the doorway, leading with his handgun. He faced the direction Larson had taken, decoyed by footfalls and unaware that Larson now stood behind him. Seeing no one, he started to turn.

Swinging his gun, Larson clouted the policeman against the temple, remembering, at the last moment, to pull the blow.
Tired as I am, I’m still stronger than I’m used to.
The cop’s .38 clattered to the floor. He crumpled into Larson’s arms.

Though small, the senseless man felt like a lead weight in Larson’s crippled grip. Prodding the door open with his knee, he dragged the man back into the room, aiming the .45 from beneath one sagging armpit.

Timmy hunched in a plush chair. A plump, handsome woman in her thirties sat beside him.
A social worker
, Larson guessed. Beyond them, the window edged open silently, as if of its own accord.

The woman gasped, gaze locked on the gun. Timmy went still, eyes wide, utterly speechless.

“Freeze! Hands up!” Larson tried to sound desperate, but his tone emerged more tired than anything else. He dropped the policeman; the still form flopped to the floor.

Taziar clambered through the window. With the woman and Timmy focusing their attention on Larson’s weapon, the Shadow Climber went unnoticed.

Larson kept his eyes on the woman, watching the remainder of the room only through peripheral vision.

The social worker’s mouth opened.

Afraid she might scream, Larson pointed the .45 directly at her chest. “Lady, shut up. You scream, I kill you. And don’t move, please.” Larson kept the gun in place, using neither it nor his hand to gesture.
Please? Did I just say please?
The incongruity of the propriety struck him.
Wouldn’t want to be impolite while threatening her life.

The social worker raised her arms, glancing protectively at Timmy, fear etched like a grisly mask across her features.

Just inside the doorway, Larson pinned the policeman’s .38 beneath his shoe and dragged it into the room. He kicked the door closed behind him, then, circumventing the woman, used the ball of his foot to send the gun skittering across the room to Taziar. “Cover her,” he said in English for the woman’s benefit, aware his other-world companion would have no idea what he meant. He adopted a perfect Weaver stance.