across the threshold.
There was a tremendous blast as the door downstairs exploded inward. A dozen voices filled the house, an army of men shouting:
“Police!”
The tac team had arrived.
Emory reacted fast—much faster than I did. I was too feverish, too drugged, too foggy in my mind to move quickly. But Emory—the moment he heard the sounds below, he threw his shoulder into me. Unsteady on my feet, I stumbled, reaching for the edge of the open wall. I missed it. I fell to my knee in the inner chamber. I caught a glimpse of a room draped in red velvet . . . a four-poster bed . . . expensive stuffed animals against one wall . . . Very gothic.
Emory darted down the hall out of sight, quick as black lightning. I staggered up to go after him, seizing hold of the open wall to propel myself forward.
But before I could, I sensed a presence behind me. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the girl.
She was beautiful—a beautiful child—and forlorn, so frail and forlorn. She stood trembling in a purple nightshirt with a faded picture of a cartoon princess on it. Her wrists were tied around the bedpost.
She was seven or eight years old. She had long brown hair and green eyes with a dusting of freckles on her pug nose. She wasn’t crying. She was frightened beyond tears, desperate beyond tears. But her expression—lost, helpless, hopeless, terrified—would have shattered the heart of a statue.
I leapt to her, the rage flaring in my chest like a living flame.
“I’m a policeman,” I told her, nearly choking on the words. “No one will hurt you. No one.”
I worked at the ropes quickly, blinking back tears.
“I want to go home,” she managed to say—and her voice broke and she gulped and started to sob.
The ropes came loose. I swept her up into my arms. She weighed nothing; nothing at all.
“Hold on to me,” I said. “Don’t be afraid.”
I carried her out the door. Through the crazy maze of corridors. I don’t know how I found my way. The corridors snaked and twisted endlessly. The floor was dipping and swaying beneath my feet like ocean waves. The darkness curled in mistlike tendrils off the walls, and mist like darkness swirled around me. My body seemed a dead and raglike thing. Only the flame of rage inside me propelled me forward. Only my arms had strength, clutching the child against my chest.
I came around a corner and almost ran into the barrel of a submachine gun. A tac in black armor, helmeted, masked, loomed out of the mist of my mind, monstrous.
“It’s Champion!” I shouted at him.
But he’d already seen the little girl, already thrown his arms up, pointing the rifle skyward. He cried out a curse, his voice cracking.
“Where’s the stairs?” I shouted—but I saw them, just a few yards away. I had made it through the maze.
The little girl was sobbing and trembling now as I carried her down the sweeping curl of steps to the foyer below. I had to hew close to the wall because men in black armor were pouring up the stairs past us, holding their machine guns at the ready. I could hear the tac team shouting all around beneath me and above me as they searched each room of the massive mansion:
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Just as I reached the ground floor, Monahan stomped immensely into the foyer. He was coming out of one of the halls. He was waving a .45 semiautomatic in the air, shouting, “Check the grounds!”
“Jimmy!” I called to him. I set the girl’s feet on the floor. “Help me! Take her!”
Monahan looked down at the child. He blinked once. He holstered his weapon. He lowered his enormous body to one knee in front of her. He wrapped his gigantic arms around her and pulled her against his vest. I heard him murmur to her in a voice like a dove cooing, “You’re safe now, baby.”
I left him there, staggered away from him, staggered through the mind-mist to the foyer table. Grabbed the keys that Emory had left there and staggered out the front door.
A
There was a tremendous blast as the door downstairs exploded inward. A dozen voices filled the house, an army of men shouting:
“Police!”
The tac team had arrived.
Emory reacted fast—much faster than I did. I was too feverish, too drugged, too foggy in my mind to move quickly. But Emory—the moment he heard the sounds below, he threw his shoulder into me. Unsteady on my feet, I stumbled, reaching for the edge of the open wall. I missed it. I fell to my knee in the inner chamber. I caught a glimpse of a room draped in red velvet . . . a four-poster bed . . . expensive stuffed animals against one wall . . . Very gothic.
Emory darted down the hall out of sight, quick as black lightning. I staggered up to go after him, seizing hold of the open wall to propel myself forward.
But before I could, I sensed a presence behind me. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the girl.
She was beautiful—a beautiful child—and forlorn, so frail and forlorn. She stood trembling in a purple nightshirt with a faded picture of a cartoon princess on it. Her wrists were tied around the bedpost.
She was seven or eight years old. She had long brown hair and green eyes with a dusting of freckles on her pug nose. She wasn’t crying. She was frightened beyond tears, desperate beyond tears. But her expression—lost, helpless, hopeless, terrified—would have shattered the heart of a statue.
I leapt to her, the rage flaring in my chest like a living flame.
“I’m a policeman,” I told her, nearly choking on the words. “No one will hurt you. No one.”
I worked at the ropes quickly, blinking back tears.
“I want to go home,” she managed to say—and her voice broke and she gulped and started to sob.
The ropes came loose. I swept her up into my arms. She weighed nothing; nothing at all.
“Hold on to me,” I said. “Don’t be afraid.”
I carried her out the door. Through the crazy maze of corridors. I don’t know how I found my way. The corridors snaked and twisted endlessly. The floor was dipping and swaying beneath my feet like ocean waves. The darkness curled in mistlike tendrils off the walls, and mist like darkness swirled around me. My body seemed a dead and raglike thing. Only the flame of rage inside me propelled me forward. Only my arms had strength, clutching the child against my chest.
I came around a corner and almost ran into the barrel of a submachine gun. A tac in black armor, helmeted, masked, loomed out of the mist of my mind, monstrous.
“It’s Champion!” I shouted at him.
But he’d already seen the little girl, already thrown his arms up, pointing the rifle skyward. He cried out a curse, his voice cracking.
“Where’s the stairs?” I shouted—but I saw them, just a few yards away. I had made it through the maze.
The little girl was sobbing and trembling now as I carried her down the sweeping curl of steps to the foyer below. I had to hew close to the wall because men in black armor were pouring up the stairs past us, holding their machine guns at the ready. I could hear the tac team shouting all around beneath me and above me as they searched each room of the massive mansion:
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Just as I reached the ground floor, Monahan stomped immensely into the foyer. He was coming out of one of the halls. He was waving a .45 semiautomatic in the air, shouting, “Check the grounds!”
“Jimmy!” I called to him. I set the girl’s feet on the floor. “Help me! Take her!”
Monahan looked down at the child. He blinked once. He holstered his weapon. He lowered his enormous body to one knee in front of her. He wrapped his gigantic arms around her and pulled her against his vest. I heard him murmur to her in a voice like a dove cooing, “You’re safe now, baby.”
I left him there, staggered away from him, staggered through the mind-mist to the foyer table. Grabbed the keys that Emory had left there and staggered out the front door.
A
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