Against a Brightening Sky (3 page)

We broke through to a clear patch of sidewalk. A large plate glass window on the front of a jeweler's shop loomed in front of us. Black moiré taffeta lined the window display and showed off rhinestone bracelets, necklaces, and earrings to their best advantage. The crystals glinted rainbows, mimicking the pattern in the fabric.

The window glass was flawed, full of ripples that distorted the reflection of the milling crowd behind us and the buildings across Market Street, buildings that overlooked the parade route. Images wavered, appeared to move as I stared.

All but one. The princess ghost I'd seen in the dressing table mirror stood in the center of the glass, still and calm. She'd known I'd be here, in this place at this exact moment, and waited for me. I couldn't say how I knew that was true, only that I did.

The ghost raised an arm and pointed, the fan in her hand touching the reflection of a building directly across the street. I turned and saw tiny figures moving on the roof, men who appeared no bigger than children from a distance. One carried a bundle to the iron railing that edged the roof and stood there, waiting on his partner. The other man got down on one knee, arms held at a strange angle. He shifted position, and sunlight shimmered dully on the long barrel of a rifle. “Oh, God … Sadie! Sadie get down!”

Libby looked up immediately, instinct or divine intervention drawing her eye to the same rooftop. Shock froze her in place for an instant, but no more. She grabbed Sadie's arm, dragging her into the shelter of the jewelry store doorway. I crowded in as well, heart hammering, and jammed Libby, Sadie, and Stella up against the shop door, little Connor wedged between us.

The door must have been unlatched. We tumbled inside, landing in a heap of tangled skirts and frightened, crying children.

Explosions sounded from outside, followed quickly by panicked screams, frantic shouts, and breaking glass. A clerk came around the front counter, an older woman in a prim gray dress, who stood and stared at us, mouth agape. “What … what are you doing on the floor?”

Libby lifted her head and glared at the woman. “Trying not to get shot. Get down, you ninny.”

The front window shattered, spraying glass into the shop. Shards skittered across spotless marble floors to land at the clerk's feet. She squeaked in fright and scurried into the back room, yelling for Mr. Perkins to call the police. I curled over Connor as he sobbed, and made shooshing noises in his ear, trying not to think of Sam and Jack out there.

Most of all, I was trying not to imagine Gabe lying in the street, cold and still.

 

CHAPTER 2

Gabe

Gabe and Jack were fighting a losing battle against madness, but they fought anyway. They didn't have any other choice.

Five streets met at the intersection surrounding Lotta's fountain, forming a large, open square. People continued to crowd into the square, ignoring all Gabe and Jack's shouted orders to disperse, ignoring everything but their eagerness to enter the fray. Pushcarts selling ice cream, roasted peanuts, and sausage on a roll were abandoned by the vendors and overturned. Fistfights broke out in pockets on every side of the fountain, onlookers cheering on the men flailing at each other.

Women were just as crazed, using anything at hand to pry out cobblestones to throw at the union organizers. Children huddled against walls or cried in prams, apparently forgotten by their parents. Gabe prayed none of the children would move. They'd be trampled and he didn't think anyone would notice.

The crowd's fury was unprovoked. Unnatural. Gabe was rarely frightened after nearly fifteen years on the force, but this mob scared him. He saw the same fear in Jack's eyes.

Word of the riot near Lotta's fountain spread quickly among the cops stationed up and down the parade route. It took only a few minutes before they all converged on the area, their ranks swelled still more by the officers who'd been a part of the parade. The one bright spot Gabe found was that whatever mania had taken hold of the crowd left him and Jack, and the patrolman coming to their aid, untouched. Reinforcements helped, but the police officers were still outnumbered three to one.

Dominic Mullaney wasn't faring any better in his attempts to restore reason. Again and again he tried to separate men shouting at each other, stop fights, or convince his supporters to walk away and go home. They argued right back, and more than a few took a swing at him. Mullaney had a darkening bruise on one side of his jaw and a split lip, but he didn't back down. Gabe gave him credit for that. Whatever was going on, Mullaney wasn't a part of it.

The first gunshot caught Gabe by surprise. He saw a man crumple off to the left, blood blooming in crimson petals on his chest. The ringing echo of gunfire was swallowed by the roar of voices and shouts, and he couldn't tell which direction the shot came from. A second man standing a good twenty yards away fell and didn't move. No more than ten feet from where Jack stood, a third man went down, clutching his leg and screaming. The victims were spread across the square, the shots fired with too little time between to have come from close range.

Someone was shooting into the crowd from above. Gabe spun in circles, desperately searching the rooftops for the gunman.

He saw the gun barrel and a second man toss something off the roof an instant before the first explosion. The ground under his feet rocked and Gabe stumbled sideways. Brick and timber were blasted off storefronts, landing hard on those unfortunate enough to be in the way. Windows on both sides of the street shattered and trees near where the dynamite landed blew apart, dropping more debris onto the crowd. The air filled with the smell of burning cloth and wood and flesh.

The tenor of the mob's screams changed with the explosion. Anger evaporated and gave way to terror. People who'd refused to budge a minute earlier ran now, frantic to get away. Gabe fought the surge of people, struggling to keep the men on the rooftop in sight and make his way toward the building.

He caught up with Jack and pointed. “There are two of them on the roof. We need to get up there, but I'm guessing they were smart enough to barricade the door on the way in. Find two or three of our men in case we need to break the door down.”

Another small explosion went off behind them. Instinct made them both duck and cover their heads with their arms, but nothing more than a fine rain of pulverized paving stone and dirt fell.

Jack stood first. He gripped Gabe's shoulder briefly, his grim expression at odds with his flip tone. “Stay low, Captain Ryan. If you get yourself killed, Sadie would never let me hear the end of it.”

“You do the same, Lieutenant Fitzgerald. I'm too old to break in a new partner.” Gabe rolled up his fedora, stuffing it in an inside overcoat pocket. He was fond of the familiar hat and didn't want to chance losing it. “Let's go.”

Both of them moved toward the building in a crouching run, brushing aside the clinging hands of panicked civilians. Jack broke away to intercept two officers in uniform, both of them rookies with semi-panicked expressions. Parade duty was supposed to be an easy assignment. Gabe shoved away guilt and kept running.

The man on the roof tossed off two more thick bundles of dynamite, lobbing one as far as he could to the left and the other to the right. A parade float flipped end over end and skidded across the intersection on its side. More windows broke and a building caught fire. The wind picked up and gusted down Market Street from the Bay, twining between buildings and howling under the eaves with a lost, mournful sound. Gabe shivered as the wail grew louder and hung in the air.

Smoke and ash swirled around him now, mixed with brick dust, and made it hard to see. Shapes moved in the murk, half-glimpsed figures riding the wind and reaching toward the fleeing crowd, fingers hooked into long, grasping claws. Gabe wiped his eyes, willing the apparition out of existence and refusing to acknowledge the queasy feeling in his middle. Delia and Isadora knew how to deal with spirits or creatures drawn to death and misery, but he didn't. Ignoring them was the best he could do on his own.

Gabe dodged around a pile of burning timber. His mind registered the small hand sticking out from underneath, but reacting—feeling—could get him killed. He heard the rifle shots now, each one a muffled crack that sounded far away underneath the ringing in his ears, but he could count them off. With people more scattered, the gunman had clearer shots and took his time, picking his targets off slowly.

That the man on the roof hadn't shot him or Jack, or any of the uniformed officers, baffled Gabe. He picked possible reasons apart as he ran, each smoky breath burning his throat and eyes.

A hunch became conviction as the wind wailed again, feeding his imagination. Cops dressed in bright blue uniforms or with their badges reflecting the sunlight were easy to spot in the crowd, but the gunman had no interest in picking them off. Only one target mattered to the men on the roof. The explosions and shooting people at random were a diversion, a way to flush someone from hiding. Whoever the gunman was looking for, he hadn't found them yet.

The next bundle of dynamite fell short of landing on the roof of the
Examiner
building and went off before hitting the ground. Chunks of brick blasted off the front, tearing through canvas sunshades on ground floor windows and falling onto the sidewalk. An older couple and a young woman who appeared not far out of her teens dashed away from the shelter of an awning, and into the open. As soon as the men on the roof were able to see the terrified family running below them, the shooting stopped.

Gabe's gut told him the hunter had finally flushed his prey. He waved his arms over his head and yelled, trying to attract the old couple's attention. The space between his shoulders itched, waiting for the crack of a rifle and pain. “No, stay there. Stay there!”

The wife said something to her husband and slowed down. Her husband glanced back to see brick and masonry crashing into the awning, tugged his wife back into motion, and kept going. They'd almost drawn even with Lotta's fountain when the old man fell, clutching what was left of his knee and writhing in pain. His wife and daughter grabbed the collar of the old man's coat and an arm, trying to drag him behind the fountain. The gunman shot the old man a second time and immediately fired again, hitting the old woman in the chest.

“Move, damn it! Move!” Gabe shouted again, but the girl didn't react. She stood stock-still in the middle of the street, staring at the dead couple, chest heaving and face blank with shock. Safety and cover were only a few steps away, but they wouldn't do her any good if fear froze her in place. And Gabe would never reach her before the gunman killed her too.

He knew, but he ran toward her anyway. “Get behind the fountain! Run!” A bullet hit the paving stones at her feet, sending up pointed shards of rock that nicked her cheek. Blood mingled with the tears sliding down her face. She stumbled backwards, but still didn't try to get away.

Another bullet slammed into the paving stones, driving the girl back a few more steps. The gunman hadn't missed any of his targets up until now. He was deliberately tormenting her, hoping she'd break and run. She set her shoulders and lifted her chin, staring at the men on the rooftop, and held her ground.

Gabe was completely focused on the young woman and hadn't seen Sam Butler until the tall reporter moved. Sam was much closer, his long legs adding speed to his sprint that Gabe couldn't match. Of the two of them, Butler had the best chance of reaching her first. He also had the better chance of dying.

Sam reached her seconds after the next round slammed into the ground, looping an arm around her waist and dragging the young woman into cover behind the fountain. The gunman's angry shout echoed, harsh and distorted. Bullets pinged against the brass in rapid succession, but the base of Lotta's fountain was wide enough to keep Sam and the girl out of the field of fire.

A quick glance to the left and right brought back the itch between Gabe's shoulders threefold. Only a handful of cops slunk along the edge of buildings, hugging cover while trying to work around to the shooter's building. Other officers helped the injured to safety, staying low and moving quickly. The empty square was littered with smoking debris and lifeless bodies. Gabe was the only person standing.

Shots still pinged off the fountain, but he didn't trust the gunman not to turn his frustration on other targets. Gabe ducked behind a small mound of bricks and a partly buried ice cream vendor's cart, imperfect cover at best. He quickly searched the street for Jack. His partner had reached the building harboring the gunman and the man throwing dynamite. Jack and the two rookie officers were swinging a cast-iron bench from a trolley stop between them and trying to break down the front door.

Two more uniformed officers approached Jack from an alley between buildings, accompanied by a third man dressed in street clothes. A large badge was pinned to his coat, marking him as a detective. Gabe didn't recognize him from a distance, but the chief would have called in other squads by now.

The strange detective said something to Jack as he pulled a .38 Smith & Wesson with a six-inch barrel out from under his overcoat. Very few cops carried that kind of service revolver. Those who did were usually ex–army officers who'd been issued the pistol during the war. The detective stepped back to the curb and fired at the men on the roof. Jack yelled, but it was too late.

Gabe barely had time to huddle tight against the ice cream cart before bricks and broken glass, hunks of wood and shingles began to pummel him. Small impacts drew involuntary groans and grunts. A few larger, heavier pieces hit his back and pried loose cries of pain, pain that lingered and let him know he'd been hurt. The cart took the worst of the punishment, his sole bit of luck in the midst of an unlucky day.

His ears rang to the point he could hear little else when the deluge stopped. Dust caked his face, plugged his nose, and the taste of gunpowder sat on the back of his tongue. Blood matted his hair. Gabe groaned and dragged himself up to his feet, bracing an arm against the cart and keeping his eyes closed until the world stopped spinning. Waiting, as well, to dredge up the courage to view what might have happened to Jack and the officers with him, to Sam and the young woman.