Dead Sleep by Greg Iles Page A

they’re lying on the ground holding their guts or genitals in a bowl some medic gave them. Now Wingate is running around the room like a blind rat in a sinking ship; he might just go out a window. I scrabble to my knees and crawl toward the staircase, but the smoke only gets thicker. The lower floors of the gallery are on fire.
    â€œIs there a fire escape?” I shout, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s still trying to claw his eyes out.
    To my left I see a faint blue glow, a streetlight. That means a window. I crawl quickly to it and raise my head above the sill, hoping for a fire escape. I find a thirty-foot drop instead. Crabbing back toward the stairs, I stop halfway and wait for Wingate to rush by. A couple of seconds later he does, and I tackle him.
    â€œSHUT UP!” I shout. “IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP, YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!”
    â€œMy eyes!” he wails. “I’m blind!”
    â€œYOU’RE NOT BLIND! I MACED YOU! STAY HERE!”
    Standing erect in the thickening smoke, I rush to the sink and fill a coffee decanter with water. Then I stagger back to him and flush out his eyes. He screams some more, but the water seems to do him some good.
    â€œMore,” he coughs.
    â€œNo time. We have to get out. Where’s the fire escape?”
    â€œBed . . . bedroom.”
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œBa—back wall . . . door.”
    â€œGet up!”
    He doesn’t move until I yank his arm hard enough to tear a ligament. Then he rolls over and starts crawling beside me. As we move, a roar like the voice of some satanic creature bellows from the staircase. The fire’s voice. I’ve heard it in lots of places, and the sound turns my insides to jelly. There’s a reason human beings will jump ten floors onto concrete to escape being burned alive. That roar is part of it.
    I go through the bedroom door first. The smoke here is not as bad. There’s only one window. As I crawl toward it, Wingate grabs my ankle.
    â€œWait!” he rasps. “The painting!”
    â€œScrew the painting!”
    â€œI can’t leave it! My sprinklers aren’t working!”
    The pressure of his hand on my ankle is gone. When I turn back, I see no sign of him. The fool is willing to die for money. I’ve seen people die for worse reasons, but not many. I stand in the door and try to see through the smoke, but it’s useless.
    â€œForget the goddamn painting!” I shout into the gray wall.
    â€œHelp me!” he calls back. “I can’t move the crate alone!”
    â€œLeave it!”
    No reply. After a few seconds, I hear something whacking the crate. Probably the hammer. Then a creaking sound like tearing wood.
    â€œIt’s stuck!” he yells. Then a series of racking coughs cuts through the roar of the advancing fire. “I need a knife! I can cut the canvas loose!”
    I don’t much care if Wingate wants to commit suicide, but it suddenly strikes me that the painting in that frame is worth more than money. Women’s lives may depend on it. Dropping to my knees, I take a deep breath and crawl toward the coughing.
    My head soon bumps something soft. It’s Wingate, gagging as he tries to draw oxygen from the smoke. The flames have reached the top of the stairs, and in their orange glow I see the painting, half out of the crate but stuck against the side panel Wingate only partially removed. Unzipping my fanny pack, I take out my Canon, pop off three shots, then zip it back up and grab Wingate’s shoulder.
    â€œYOU’RE GOING TO DIE IF YOU DON’T MOVE!”
    His face is gray, his eyes nearly swollen shut. I grab his legs and try to drag him to the bedroom, but the exertion makes me dizzy, and for an instant my eyes go black. I’m near to fainting, and fainting here would mean death. Dropping his feet, I rush to the window, flip the catch, and shove it upward.
    The outside air hits my face like a bucketful