56
Ghostly letters spelled out the words CHIRICAHUA PAINT CO. in canary yellow on the dark red brick just under the roof line of the warehouse. Below that were two rows of multi-paned factory windows, all of them either blacked-out or broken. The property was wrapped in chain link. Behind the warehouse, an east-bound train rattled past. Laura wished she could scream to them. But even if she were able, they were too far away.
Mickey Harmon un-padlocked the gate and swung it open, waiting for Galaz to drive through. They jounced across the potholed parking lot around to the back and parked in the shadow of the building. Mickey got out of the 4Runner and into the backseat. Galaz left the engine running so he could run the air conditioner.
“Where’s Musicman?” Galaz asked Harmon.
“Parked down the road between a couple of trucks. Must think he’s invisible.”
Galaz laughed. “I’ll bet he’s waiting for it to get dark. You should leave the gate open, make it easy for him.”
“He might call the police,” Harmon said.
“He won’t. He wants her for himself. There’s no way he’d give her up—not voluntarily.” A smile flickered on his face, not reaching his eyes. “What do you think, Laura? You’ve been hot on Dale Lundy’s trail for some time. You think he’s going to give up now?”
“No.”
“See, Mickey? Cardinal knows her quarry.”
She stared at him, feeling the ache in her eyeballs. Tried out her voice again. “You used me to find him.”
He laughed. “It pays to have a crack investigator on the home team. At a certain point I didn’t need you anymore, though—Jay tracked down his ISP before Charlie did.” He turned to Harmon. “Just remember, Mickey, I want Lundy alive. I want the last thing he sees to be me doing Summer. I want him to know he’s been dominated. He’s got to learn that he can’t defy me.”
He tapped the steering wheel, the only sign that he was nervous. “I’ve got to figure out what to do with Laura here. Any ideas?”
Harmon grunted.
“I didn’t think so. That’s why you never got higher than the third level.”
The third level? He must be referring to the game Dark Moondancer. Pushing forty, and he was preoccupied with a kid’s game. It was the first thing about this whole situation that made her want to laugh out loud. The feeling didn’t last long.
Galaz’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel: Tap, tap, tap. “Jay was easy, but if one of our criminal investigators disappears, that’s going to look bad. I really wanted to have some time with Summer, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen now.”
“I dunno. You could maybe take her someplace else—“
“No. There’s the time element. I’ll be lucky if I have a half hour. Laura here is the head of a task force, people will be calling, they’ll come looking for her. This whole thing could blow up in our faces. Better just go ahead and cut my losses.”
Laura asked, “Why Dark Moondancer?”
“Why? Because it’s more than a game, that’s why. Dark Moondancer transcends fantasy. To get to the highest level and become Dark Moondancer, you have to make it real. Things you would never dream of doing in your regular life—you’ll do if you want to win. This game isn’t for the faint of heart.
“The problem with Mickey here, and Jay—they always pulled their punches. They had no commitment. No vision.”
Across the empty lot east of the warehouse, Laura saw cars crawling along a road that paralleled the railroad tracks, the last rays of the sun flaring off their back windows. Too far away to signal. She traced their movement with her eyes, though, watching them turn and go out of view, becoming swallowed by the rise of land and the creosote. One of them was a brown Caprice, the kind Buddy Holland drove. Now she wished she’d brought Buddy with her.
She said to Jay, “After all these years, you’re still playing this game?”
“It’s not just a game. It’s a way of life. There are smart people and dumb people, powerful people and losers. Dark Moondancer is a metaphor for power.”
“Do you still play it, Mickey?” she asked.
Mickey grunted something intelligible. Scared to say anything in front of Mike Galaz?
“Did Jay?”
Galaz said, “Jay was nothing but a rich crip who outlived his usefulness. Although he did buy me this warehouse for my extracurricular activities.”
“Did he have anything to do with Julie’s murder?”
“You saw the note.”
“The one you wrote and planted?”
He smiled. “You think the three of us did it? That’s what you think? Jay, Mickey and me?”
Even through her pain, Laura was amazed at her own curiosity. She wanted to know how long Galaz had been killing. She wanted to know if Jay had helped him kill Julie Marr.
She had to know.
Galaz sensed that need and abruptly changed the subject. “You’re not so different, you and the pedophile. There are a lot of things I can take, Laura, but being patronized is not one of them. I don’t take that from anyone.”
What was he talking about? “Patronize you?”
“Come on, Laura. Don’t play that game.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what you think I did.” In her mind she reviewed her actions of the last few months. She had always been polite, always did as she was told, was very careful in fact because she didn’t know him well. She’d gone out of her way to stay under the radar, to do what he wanted, even going outside the department and working with Jay Ramsey because he asked her to. She had done everything—except show up at his party.
He couldn’t be that petty, could he? Why would the fact that she didn’t show up to his parties make a difference to him either way?
Galaz glanced at his watch. “Times a wasting. Mickey, you’re going to have to do the honors.”
Mickey Harmon got out and opened the passenger door.
“Better take the cuffs off. That would look bad if anyone driving by looked too hard. Laura, can you walk under your own steam?”
“I don’t know.”
“Get her on her feet and see.”
At 22nd and Park, Buddy Holland got caught at the light. By the time he made the turn onto Park, both the Suburban and the 4Runner were gone.
He put on the afterburners, gunning it up to eighty to catch the cars ahead, but none of them were the vehicles he was looking for. Galaz must have turned off somewhere in between. He backtracked and found himself cruising through the warehouse district, his instincts telling him they were here somewhere. But where?
The sun was going down and it was getting harder to see. He scanned the roads, empty except for big trucks and semis parked for the night, the blank-windowed factories and warehouses. Then he saw something out of place—a small white car tucked in between two trucks.
A white GEO Prizm crammed to the ceiling with junk.
He drove down the road and pulled in behind an empty office building to think.
Buddy didn’t know what kind of connection there could be between Dale Lundy and the meeting between Laura Cardinal and Lieutenant Galaz. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. And now, here was this amazing coincidence. A ’94 GEO Prizm parked between two trucks.
He got out of the car and slipped behind the empty building. He walked to the next block, cutting back between two warehouses, following an internal alley. He emerged fifty feet or so from the car.
Getting darker by the minute.
He drew his weapon, using the back end of a big tractor trailer for cover. He went from one truck to another until he was behind the truck parked to the left of the GEO. This gave him a good back view of the GEO, including the driver’s side.
No signs of life. No movement inside that he could see, but with stuff piled that high, it was impossible to see past the back seat. Buddy squinted at the license plate. He didn’t need to call in to get Dale Lundy’s plate number; he knew it by heart.
He was right. It was Lundy’s car.
He thought about going back to the Caprice and calling it in, but just then he heard footfalls down the road, the crunch of shoes on dirt. A hundred yards up the road he saw a figure almost obscured by darkness—just the white of his shirt. Walking north.
Headlights appeared at the other end of the road, lighting up the weeds along the side of the road. Buddy watched as the man ducked behind a palo verde tree until the car had passed. Then he was walking again, heading up to the street Buddy knew from his previous pass was a dead end.
He flashed his MagLite on the back of the GEO, approached it at a slant, gun trained on the driver’s window. Adrenaline pumping, knowing he should identify himself, but aware that the man walking up the road might hear. With every step, he saw more of the interior of the car.
Empty.
Relief like a douse of ice-cold water. Summer wasn’t there. But where was she?
Buddy looked up the road. The man was almost to the cross street. Buddy watched as he crossed the street and walked along the chain link fence on the other side, then stopped. Too dark to tell, but Buddy assumed there was a gate. The man just stood there, peering in. Even from here Buddy could tell he was scared. It was in the way he hung back, the nervous movement of his head as he looked around.
What do I bet it’s you, asshole?
Laura was able to hobble from the car to the warehouse door, every muscle screaming. Her toes clenched, her teeth aching, her nerve endings shrieking like the high strings on a violin. Every shuffling step was an agony. She wanted to lie down. She wanted to curl into a ball. But Mickey had taken off the handcuffs so she needed to test her limits in case she had a chance to get her weapon back. Otherwise, she knew the end of her pain would also be the end of her life.
Once inside, her freedom ended.
“Carry her, Mick,” Galaz said, his voice impatient. “Otherwise it’ll take all day.”
Mickey slung her over his shoulder.
The warehouse was empty except for broken glass. In the huge, cavernous space, their footsteps crunched on glass and concrete, echoing in the rafters high above. The last light of the day poked through the jagged holes in the many windowpanes. The intact windows had been painted over dark green, giving the place a murky, aqueous cast.
They didn’t have far to go. Half of one side of the warehouse was a suite of offices—cheap wallboard painted mint green, doors removed. Their destination was the corner office, closest to the back door.
“Who’s there?”
The voice belonged to a girl. It sounded creaky, as if she wasn’t used to speaking. Just inside the door, Harmon set Laura down.
She was facing into the room, but her mind balked. She stared at her feet, at the floor, a kind of disconnect. She didn’t want to see what had been done to Summer. Her job was finding the bad guy. Her job was to pick up the pieces. Her job was to comfort the families. There was nothing she had ever done that had prepared her for this.
She couldn’t do anything for Summer. She was helpless.
Galaz said, “What’s the matter, Laura? You’ve been looking for her all day—aren’t you the least bit curious?” At the same moment, Mickey Harmon poked her in the back.
She couldn’t see this. It would do her in. She couldn’t help Summer, she couldn’t help herself. For the first time in her life, Laura wanted to give up. Give it up, let it go. Like slipping into a warm bath. A certain comfort when you knew it was hopeless, and you were just waiting for death.
One more push from Harmon and she was in the room.
She smelled the stale air, fear riding on it. Fear and sweat and tears. And the coppery smell of old blood.
She squeezed her eyes shut, the way she did sometimes when the alarm went off and she insisted on sleeping a little longer, knowing that once she opened her eyes it was all over, she’d have to get up.
“Please …” the girl said, her voice drifting off. So pathetic that Laura felt a warm surge of emotion, tears climbing up into her throat.
When she heard Summer’s voice, her resolve came back.
She willed her eyes open.
When Buddy was a kid, he was obsessed with American Indians. He read books about them, watched movies, pestered his parents to take him to Indian ceremonies—especially the Apaches, who were the toughest people on earth. During the Indian wars, an Apache could cover seventy miles a day on foot. The Apaches trained their infants not to make noise because they might alert the enemy. They lived on stealth because otherwise they would be eradicated. Now his days of stalking the low-rent neighborhood in south Phoenix where he grew up came back to him.
He was quiet. Like air, threading through the cracks of the world.
Silently he tracked Lundy through the dark parking lot of the Chiricahua Paint Company. Adhering to his training: Always find cover. Cover was something a bullet couldn’t go through, like the engine block of a car. That was something that had been hammered into his head over and over. Find cover. If you can’t find cover, find concealment. And if you can’t find concealment, look for an escape route.
Lundy was a lightweight: A guy who picked on little girls. Watching him creep along the warehouse wall, flinching at every noise—it could have made Buddy complacent, but it didn’t. The minute you let your guard down, that was when fate got you. He’d seen it many times in his twenty-three years in law enforcement. Just a little bit of inattention, and you were dead.
So he did not underestimate this man. Hated him, yes, but even the hate he had to push down deep inside. He had to clear the fear for his daughter out of his mind if he wanted to help her.
Not much cover around here, so he went for concealment.
The little man had his back to the warehouse wall, inching around like he was on a ledge twenty floors up. Clear he didn’t know what he was doing.
Time to take him out.
Buddy was behind him in an instant, one arm around his neck and his other hand over his mouth. He was tempted to administer a choke hold, tempted to take the choke hold too far.
He said quietly in Dale Lundy’s ear, “Make a sound and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
A quick nod, his eyes bugging out.
He dragged Lundy backwards, off his feet—the guy was as light as a feather. Dragged him under a tamarisk tree. The salt cedar’s boughs trailed almost to the ground, affording him all the privacy he needed.
He had Lundy cuffed and on his stomach, one knee pressed into his back. Thinking about how much he’d like to pound his head into the pavement, crack it like an egg.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“I don’t know—“
“Don’t fuck with me. Where is she?” Pressing his knee harder.
“She’s in there.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save her, but he got her anyway, I tried, I tried …” Blubbering. New blue Keds skating in the dirt.
Buddy fighting panic now—who got her? “Is she hurt?”
“I don’t know—I don’t think so. She looked okay when he took her in there.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two, three hours ago? I can’t remember—it could be longer than that.”
“Who is he?”
“Dark Moondancer.”
He shook Lundy until he rattled. “Are you playing games with me? Because if you are—“
“No no no! Dark Moondancer. That’s his name. It’s the truth, I swear to God, it’s his nick. He took her away from me, all I ever wanted was for her and me to—”
“Shut up!” He heard the savagery in his own voice. Out of control. Gritted his teeth, tamped down his revulsion. His voice quiet. “If you don’t shut the fuck up about that I’ll kill you.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me about Dark Moondancer.”
“I don’t know him really, except from the Internet. He … he and I have had transactions over the years. He knew I was in town and he wanted to … to meet Summer.”
Buddy gave him a hard slap to the head. “Go on.”
“He’s evil. He likes torture. That’s why I refused to let him meet Summer. I wanted to protect her.”
“What are you saying? He’s torturing my daughter in there?”
Lundy gasped. “Your daughter?”
“Answer the question.”
“Oh God. Ohmygod, I’m dead. Oh God, please don’t hurt me!”
His voice hopeless.
Buddy felt something crack in his heart.
Laura stared, taking in everything at once, but unable to completely assimilate it. Breaking it down object by object, things she could name. A gas can on the floor. A trouble light. Extension cords. A video camera. A work table. Tools arrayed neatly on the table’s pristine surface—pliers, a vise, an electric drill, a staple gun. The tool cabinet was like the one her father owned, candy-apple red. The kind you got at Sears.
Shackles bolted to the walls. Meat hooks dangling from the ceiling. A machine that looked custom-made, padded, something you’d see in a gym, but with shackles, chains, and pulleys at each end. A modern-day rack? Photos tacked to the wall, eight-by-tens of the hell he had committed on young women and girls—she counted three different women, photographed from all angles. Tied up, eyes bulging with fear. Before and After shots.
Digital photos of Jessica Parris after death.
A place for Let’s Go People! to unwind.
Laura took it in, trying to stay clinical. She almost lost it as she stared at the mattress on the floor, though, soaked through with old bloodstains. So many reds, browns and blacks they formed a hard, shiny slick.
Mickey prodded her deeper into the room.
“You two girls know each other?” asked Galaz.
When Laura finally looked at Summer, she felt both relief and revulsion.
The girl was bolted to one wall, huddled down as far as she could get, but her arms were held high above her head. Wearing a little girl’s dress.
Unhurt, physically. But how did you face something like this without losing a grip on your soul?
Twelve years old
She looked at Galaz, the supercilious smile on his face. Seeing living, breathing women as something to torture for his pleasure, because he was so empty he couldn’t get a high any other way.
If there’s a way for me to kill you, she thought, I will.
Buddy secured Lundy to the tree with the cuffs after tearing strips of the man’s shirt for a gag. Arms behind him, cuffs looped around a sturdy bough. Lundy on his knees.
That would hurt before too long. His back would be in agony. Good.
Buddy started for the back of the warehouse.
The cars were there, Laura Cardinal’s and Galaz’s. He made a circuit of the building, which was uniformly dark except for the one area near the corner, where a dim light leaked out through the holes in the painted-over windows.
That’s where they were.
Buddy leaned his back against the brick, which still retained heat from the day. He needed to call it in. The cell phone would have to do. But before that, he took the knife he always carried and stabbed the tires on the two vehicles.
He called 911, explained who he was, that he was a cop. Gave the exact location. The South Tucson police were on their way. He got through to DPS, to Jerry Grimes.
He’d give them five minutes.
Laura was aware of Galaz standing near her. He was smug, pleased with himself. But there was something else.
Something going on with him.
Working out a problem.
“Why don’t you check her shackles?” Galaz said to Harmon.
“They’re fine.”
“Humor me, Mick.”
Ponderously, Harmon walked over to Summer and bent down to check. He straightened, said, “I told you they were fi—“
The bullet took him in the chest, throwing him against the wall.
Galaz was holding Laura’s weapon, looking down at Harmon.
“Sorry, Mickey, there’s been a change of plans,” he said.
Mickey started crawling along the floor.
Galaz crossed over to Mickey, his latex-gloved hand swooping in to take the gun from Harmon’s shoulder holster. Harmon gasping, still crawling.
Galaz staring down at him. “You look like a snail, Mickey.”
He followed as Mickey Harmon crawled, his fancy shoes inches from his face. Laura saw the narrow planes of Galaz’s face—rapt attention.
She looked from him to the work table. Less than two feet away, but her muscles had gotten cold again from not moving, and when she tried to move in that direction, her body resisted like wood.
Had to do it.
Couldn’t.
She looked at Summer. The look on her face. Jesus.
Throat constricted, aching, clenching—she inched her way, one eye on Galaz, the pleasure he got from watching Mickey crawl.
“Almost to the door, Mickey,” Galaz said. “If you make it before dying, I’ll let you go.” Pocketing her gun. Holding Mickey’s.
Laura was almost to the table.
Mickey, two feet from the doorway.
Galaz, in a world of his own. The look on his face orgasmic.
The knife was closest. She didn’t know if she could even wrap her crippled fingers around it. Even the idea was agony.
She heard a train horn.
Galaz still had his back to her, but he seemed to have lost interest in Mickey, who had fallen short of his mark and lay either dead or unconscious short of the doorway. Galaz oddly still. Thinking?
Laura’s fingertips touched the knife. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, tried to grasp it. How she’d be able to do anything when she couldn’t even wrap her fingers around the knife, she didn’t know.
Suddenly, Galaz turned.
Laura started and the knife scuttled out of her fingers.
Galaz looked from the knife to Laura. “Can’t do it, can you, Detective Cardinal? It must be frustrating, not being about to tell your body what to do when you’ve done it all your life.”
Unconcerned, he crossed to the place Laura had been. Like a choreographer, he eyed the distance between that spot and where Mickey Harmon was shot. “This can work,” he said, and nodded. “You shoot at Mickey and Mickey shoots at you. The problem is—maybe you can help me figure this out—what about all my hairs, fibers, fingerprints? Semen? What would you do?”
Laura needed to get the knife. But she’d pushed it even farther away, and her hands were cramping up even worse.
Galaz spun around and scanned the room. Frowning. “Have to burn the place down. That’s the only solution, don’t you think?” Talking more quickly now. “He shoots you, but you shoot him; he’s wounded. He’s got to cover this up though. So he pours the gas and lights a match and then tries to get out. Does that sound plausible?”
Not expecting her to answer.
“Or he’s about to pour the gas and lights it just as you shoot him—I don’t think it really matters. The important thing is the Point of Origin. It’s got to be right … here.”
He strode over to where Mickey was when he was shot. Only a couple of feet from Summer. He had been checking her shackles just before Galaz shot him.
Outside in the night, she heard a train coming, horn blaring to warn people away from the tracks. Laura looked at Summer. Fear shiny in her eyes. Watching Galaz, understanding what he was saying, that the Point of Origin would be at her feet.
Galaz looked at Summer.
“Something I’ve always wanted to do—the Joan of Arc thing. Too bad I won’t be here to see it all.” He winked at Summer and walked to the gas can, hefted it up. Held it near her, watching her face. Completely absorbed in her fear.
He looked bemused. Oblivious to Laura.
Laura said, “What about Musicman?”
Startling him out of his reverie. “Musicman?”
The train was coming.
“Weren’t you going to bring him here? To see Summer?”
“What? No.” He shrugged. “You can’t do everything.”
“But he defied you.”
Wheels ticking on the tracks, louder and louder.
“Can’t do everything,” Galaz repeated, uncertain.
The train upon them now, the rumbling shaking the room. A sweeping wall of sound, so big that for a moment it obliterated all thought. They were in the maw of sound.
Concentrate! She had to try one more time for the knife. She straightened out her fingers as far as they could go and pressed down on the handle, edging it to her by pushing the handle down against the wood.
The thundering in her ears. Fear pushing its way up into her throat. “Musicman wins, then” she said.
“He won’t win. He won’t get Summer now.” Galaz unscrewed the cap and sloshed some of the liquid on the floor. The smell hit Laura, the rank high smell of pure gasoline.
The thing she feared most was dying in a fire.
Summer, whimpering with fear.
Get your fingers around—
Galaz produced a silver lighter from his pocket. Paused. Laura could see he was still working it out in his mind, seeing the evidence the way the fire marshal would see it, the detectives, the ME.
Get your fingers around the knife—
The sound of the train abating now, the wheels the noisiest part.
Laura curled her fingers. It hurt like hell, but fire would hurt worse. She closed her eyes and with an act of will, squeezed. The knife was in her hand. She’d have to rush him, but she could barely move.
She’d just have to aim herself at him, keeping the point of the knife to the front.
Five feet away.
She clenched her muscles even more, the pain excruciating.
Galaz’s back toward her. Splashing more gasoline on the walls, the windows.
Harnessing her adrenaline. Clamping down on muscles already stressed beyond the breaking point. Take a deep breath.
Now.
When Buddy heard the shot, he reacted immediately. Drawing his weapon, he tried the metal door, but it was locked. He stared at the windows, looking for the weakest point. The panes were fashioned of glass and wood, and in some places the wood strips were broken.
There would be no element of surprise. They’d see him coming.
Then he heard the train. He realized the tracks went right behind the warehouse. All he had to do was time it right. He doubted anyone would hear the breaking glass.
He took off his shirt and wrapped it around his gun. Picked the place where the wood had splintered, where there were stress fractures.
Waited.
The train coming, coming, the rumbling getting louder and louder until it enveloped him in an ungodly roar—
Now.
Laura pushed off from her feet and launched herself toward Galaz, flat end of the knife handle jammed into her side to keep it steady, using her body as a projectile. Trying not to think that it could poke her own guts out.
Landing far short, crashing on her hands, her knees, her chin, her hand cut, the knife skittering harmlessly across the concrete.
Galaz spinning around, his face a mask of surprise.
The stink of gasoline everywhere.
“You actually think—“
Shock in his eyes as a gunshot exploded through the small space, the momentum spinning him around and flipping him backwards into the wall.
Head cracking—an awful sound. Holding his side, his mouth open and working.
In his hands, the lighter.
Manicured fingers flicking.
A rough male voice yelling, “Drop it! Do it now!”
Laura recognizing the voice, but not sure—
An incandescent moment when metal struck flint, ignition. Spark—a runnel of flame swirling up Galaz’s arm to his waxy face and up the walls.
The delight on his face turning to terror.
A blur beside her: Buddy Holland going to his daughter.
Laura thinking: Shackles.
Buddy from cop to father, his face twisted in terror as he ran to his daughter, pulled at her shackles, saying, “Keys keys keys!”
Frank Entwistle, peering down at her. “You okay?”
What do you think? But she didn’t say it.
“What about Mickey?” Entwistle asked.
“Mickey?” What about him?
Entwistle nodded toward the man lying in the doorway. “He had the key to your handcuffs, didn’t he?”
Then she remembered: Mickey bending down to check Summer’s shackles.
Suddenly, a loud whoosh! Galaz lit up like a burning straw man, sheets of flame spreading to the roof, the whole place getting darker, almost black. Boiling black smoke on a river of flame—
Concentrate! He had the key to your handcuffs, didn’t he?
“Mickey!” Laura shouted.
Buddy looking up, perspiration running down his face, glowing in the flickering light; his eyes like a wild horse’s.
Summer screaming.
Laura nodding at the man lying in the doorway.
Buddy, an acknowledging nod, then on the man like a jackal, coming up with a key ring, including three small ones—cuff keys. Buddy fumbling, Laura unable to move, Summer screaming screaming screaming—
Get out now, her brain told her,but she had no answer for that. The air buzzing at her mouth and nostrils like a swarm of bees, sparks lighting on her, in her hair, panic scrabbling like rats in the walls, the fear pure and hard and all-consuming.
I don’t want to die like this.
Even with the incredible noise of the flames, she heard the click of the lock to Summer’s shackles. Buddy cursing, praying, his breath hitching. Summer whimpering.
Laura, trying to remember where the doorway was because the air was now black except for the oily flames. Crawling, pushing her body to move.
Buddy running past her. She didn’t see him, but heard his boots on the glass, felt the wind of his passing, something soft passing across her face—the dress?
Fire feeding on oxygen. Blowing toward her—she could feel it on her feet, her back. Going toward the air? Or was that wrong? She couldn’t think. Maybe she was going in the wrong direction. Where was the doorway? I should have reached Mickey by now. Her throat clogging up, her chest seizing with the need to breathe—
Banging, loud voices.
“Police!”
People in the room. Noise, men, legs, guns, SWAT.
Eyes stinging. Harder to breathe. Gasping for air. She could be dead any moment. Grateful that she lay on her face away from the smoke, that they were here. They were here, they would get her out now.
Legs milling, but no one coming to her.
What about me?
Entwistle looking down at her, his expression sorrowful.
Someone else—SWAT?—crouching down. Then she was borne up and carried like a bird in the grip of a hawk, up and out into the air, rushing headlong through the hurtling dark, the clean bright stars overhead.