Coming of Age (35 page)

“Any idea why he grabbed Jarvis in the first place?” Kesner asked. “Eggers said you were pretty vague about the whys and wherefores of the situation when you first flew through Plat City four hours ago.”

“For the moment all of that's still unclear,” Tirrell lied. “Let's worry about it after we get Jarvis out safely, okay?”

“I just thought it would help us figure out how serious Martel is,” the other grumbled. Raising a hand to the side of his head, he gave a series of orders into the radio headset he was wearing. He listened for a few seconds and then nodded. “Okay, everyone's in position. Mark, let me have that loudspeaker and we'll see what we can shake loose … thanks.” Raising the cone-shaped device to his lips, he clicked a switch. “Martel?” his amplified voice boomed, echoing off the nearest hills. “This is Detective First Ray Kesner. We have you surrounded and outnumbered. Come out one at a time and surrender or we'll come in and get you.”

The echoes faded and for a moment there was total silence as even the nocturnal insects remained quiet in the wake of the loudspeaker's roar. Then, clearly audible, came the faint scrape of an opening window. “You'd better talk to Tirrell before you try anything stupid, Kesner,” Martel called. “Move in and Jarvis dies. I mean it.”

“All right,” Kesner replied, “just take it easy. What exactly do you want?”

“For now, assurance that your people will stay at least half a kilometer away from this building. I'll have the rest of my demands ready for you in a while.” Another squeak announced the window's closing and the end of the conversation.

Kesner lowered the loudspeaker. “What the hell is this business about demands? Any idea?”

“I expect it's mainly a smokescreen,” Tirrell told him. “All he really wants is to get safely away from there with Jarvis, however many kids he has with him, and a box or two of what I suspect is crude gold bullion. To do that he has to wait until it's pitch black out here, dark enough that we won't be able to neutralize the threat to Jarvis's life. But he's not likely to apprise us of such a move in advance—he obviously doesn't want us working on a way to stop him.”

“Seems reasonable,” Kesner growled. “Well … I suppose we could set some floodlights around the area. As long as it's light out here they can't leave.”

“You'd be risking Jarvis's life that way,” Tirrell reminded him.

“Not really. He'd have to be completely crazy to kill his only hostage over something like that.”

“He wouldn't have to kill him outright,” Tirrell said. “If he gave Jarvis a small dose of cyanide he would live for at least a couple of hours before dying. You'd then have the choice of letting Martel go on his terms or waiting around until Jarvis dies.”

“Ouch! I hadn't thought of that.” Kesner touched his headset again. “Palmyra, have you got an angle where you can see inside? …Even with the night glasses? …Yeah, I'm not surprised. Anyone else able to see anything?”

Another pause, and Kesner's silhouette shook its head. “Palmyra says that the windows are so filthy that he can't see through them even with the night glasses. I'm not sure that even putting a spotlight on the building from out here would do us any good.”

“Do you suppose we could sneak in one of the north doors and get into the south section that way?” Tirrell suggested hesitantly. “There are only nine or ten of them in there—they can't be holding the entire building.”

“Probably not. But I had a look at the refinery's blueprints on the flight down, and there seems to be only one door connecting to the south section. Almost certainly they've got it barricaded by now.”

“How about air vents or other kinds of openings?” Tonio asked.

“The ventilation system is loaded with filters,” Kesner told him, “and all other conduits are either sealed or wind up inside the furnace or somewhere just as useless. Anyway, getting in isn't the point. We could handle them just as well from out here if we had a little bit of light in there.”

“I know that,” Tonio said impatiently. “But if we could get someone inside, he could take some flares in with him.”

There was a moment of silence. “You're right,” Kesner said, sounding mildly surprised. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Let's see those blueprints,” Tirrell suggested.

With a prolonged rustle of paper Kesner laid them out. Covering the lens of his flashlight with his hand, Tirrell let a faint glow fall on the plans from between his fingers.

“Air vents; crushed ore conveyer; furnace feed, out-gas, and slag lines,” Kesner said, touching each point as he named it. “I'd say the best bet is to use the furnace feed duct … except I'm not sure how you'd get out of the furnace once you were inside.”

Tirrell nodded. “Tonio?”

“I think it's worth a try,” the righthand said promptly. “I'll need a flashlight, some flares, and probably someone to help me get in the other end of this pipe. One of those radios would be handy, too.”

“Hold it,” Kesner cut in. “Who put
you
in charge of this operation? Tirrell and I will decide if someone's going and who that someone will be.”

“I'm afraid we're going to have to skip the parliamentary procedure, Kesner,” Tirrell said. “There's no time for a long discussion—Martel could make his move practically any time now. Tonio's volunteered to try it, and he knows the situation and people in there better than any of your righthands do.”

“All right,” Kesner said heavily. “Technically, I suppose, you can take charge here. But remember that whatever happens will then be your responsibility.”

Tirrell nodded. “I know. Now get busy and start collecting the stuff Tonio'll need.”

Barely five minutes later Tonio was gone, flying low in a wide circle that would get him invisibly to the north side of the refinery where his three assigned helpers awaited him. Tirrell watched him disappear into the darkness, his feelings badly mixed. One way or another it would soon be over, he knew, and however it turned out Martel would definitely have lost his bid for the power he craved. And yet, down deep, the detective recognized uncomfortably that by sending Tonio in he had effectively forced the most crucial decision of his life squarely onto his righthand's shoulders. Tonio could do his best to rescue Jarvis … or could try equally hard to make sure neither the scientist nor his formula survived the night.

And Tirrell had no idea which the preteen planned to do.

For a long, agonizing moment he thought seriously about having Kesner call the boy back. But it was too late for that. Already the brightest stars were visible overhead; any minute now Martel would be opening his window again and announcing his imminent departure. No, Tirrell would have to trust Tonio's judgment … and perhaps, he thought suddenly, that was the best decision his tired and irresolute mind had been able to make. Perhaps the best decision it
could
have made.

The thought failed to console him. Staring through the gloom at the almost invisible refinery, he listened with half an ear as Kesner directed his righthand force into position, and tried to ignore the painful thudding of his heart.

O
NLY THE WINDOWS THEMSELVES
were still visible, and they were distinguishable only as rectangles of navy blue set into a pitch-black background. Seated with his back to the huge furnace, his hands tied tightly behind him, Jarvis shifted slightly to ease his muscles.

The figure standing over him stirred in response. “Relax,” Axel's voice came quietly. “It won't be much longer.”

“I'm sure,” Jarvis murmured. “You realize, of course, that the police aren't going to just let all of us fly merrily out of here. And if that cyanide hits me, it'll be
you
who gets charged with murder.”

Axel chuckled. “You don't know Omega very well. He'll get us out of here, all right. Don't worry about that.”

“Don't underestimate Tirrell,” Jarvis warned. Under cover of the conversation, he carefully probed the edge of the furnace's metal plate sheathing with his fingers, searching for another place where the coating of rust was thick enough to abrade rope. Omega was smart, all right, but the pressure was making him careless, and he hadn't bothered to check the metal before sitting Jarvis here. Finding a new spot, the scientist resumed his stealthy rubbing. “And my other comment still stands:
you're
the one holding those bowls over my head, not Omega. He didn't give you this job because he likes you—he did it because he thinks that dragging you in as deep as he is will insure your loyalty to him.”

“A lot he knows about loyalty.” Axel shifted position again and Jarvis tensed involuntarily. The two small bowls floating rim to rim directly over his head held enough sodium cyanide powder in the space between them to kill him ten times over … and the only thing holding it up there was Axel's teekay, transmitted through a single finger touching each bowl. A slight distraction, a flash of light or whiff of tear gas, and it would literally be all over. “Let me tell you a little secret,” Axel continued, lowering his voice still further. “As soon as we're all set up in Omega's secret hideaway, I'm going to get rid of him. I don't think he's telling the truth about making us into priests, and I don't want to wait until Transition to find out for sure.”

“You aren't going to live even that long.” There was a slight jerk in the rope binding his wrists as one more of the fibers broke. Jarvis strained carefully at what was left. Not quite enough. “If you know Omega as well as you say, you must know he won't just wait for you to act against him.”

“You let me worry about that, okay? Now shut up,” he added as, across the room, Martel began speaking. “I want to hear this.”

It was not, as Jarvis had feared, the order to move out, but merely another in Martel's series of speculations as to what the police were doing. The relative silence suited Jarvis just fine, though. Leaning hard into the rusty metal, he put as much power into his efforts as he could without making any noise … and with a suddenness that jammed his wrists painfully against the edge, the rope finally broke.

Quickly, hardly daring to believe he'd done it, he worked his hands free from the loops around them. Then, moving carefully lest the sound of rustling cloth alert his guard, he rolled over onto his hands and knees and began to crawl, heading for the back side of the furnace. The first three meters were the hardest, as he waited with nerves on end for the shouts that would mean his discovery. But even to his own hyperalert ears he made no sound, and as he continued on, his fears gradually diminished. By the time he halted, half the circumference of the furnace and an eternity later, his heartbeat was no longer the loudest sound in the room. Leaning back against the furnace, his shirt soaked with sweat, he swiped at his forehead with a trembling hand and took his first deep breath in hours. For the moment, at least, he was free.

But even with darkness to hide him, such freedom would only last a little while past the discovery of his escape unless he could get out of the building. The doors, he knew, were out; any that weren't barricaded against the police would undoubtedly have preteens guarding them. The windows weren't designed for easy egress, and opening them made enough noise to wake the dead, anyway. But there was one more possible escape route … one that Martel might not have thought to block.

Jarvis's memory was far from eidetic, but he'd had ample time to study the room's layout through the long afternoon. Slipping his shoes off, he took his bearings from the windows and set off in what he hoped was the proper direction, feeling carefully for obstacles with hands and toes. Ten paces later he found what he was looking for: one of the ladders leading to the network of catwalks high above. With a silent plea to the metal not to squeak, he started up.

His luck held all the way up the ladder and perhaps four steps along the catwalk itself. But his fifth step brought his weight down on what was apparently a rust-weakened section of the grating, and with a loud
snap
that seemed to reverberate forever one of the heavy wires broke under his foot.

He froze, and on the floor below the quiet conversations abruptly ceased. “What was that?” one of the kids whispered nervously—and the words were barely out when Axel's bellow split the air. “
Grack!
Omega—he got away!”

“
Damn
you, Axel—no, hold it, damn it, everyone just stay where you are for a minute. Jarvis, you can't get away—we've got the doors blocked and we'll tear your head off if you try for one of the windows. Give yourself up right now or I guarantee the consequences will be very, very painful.”

Under cover of Martel's voice, Jarvis had made it another six steps along the catwalk. Now, as silence again settled onto the room, he paused, hardly daring to breathe. Clearly, no one below had yet realized where the original noise had come from, and he had no intention of giving them unnecessary hints. Pitch darkness or not, once they figured out he was on one of the catwalks they could have him in thirty seconds flat. Squinting into the darkness, he tried unsuccessfully to see how far ahead the next intersecting catwalk was, the one he needed to get on.

“All right, Jarvis, have it your way,” Martel snarled suddenly. “Axel, Brody, Royce—go to the east end of the room and start working your way west. Cover every square centimeter of floor and wall and make sure he hasn't climbed onto any of the machinery.”

Jarvis had made it to the intersection and onto the proper catwalk by the time Martel finished talking—but he knew his time was nearly up. The mere mention of climbing was bound to bring this aerial walkway to mind, and the minute Martel remembered it he would certainly reach the proper conclusion. Quickly, Jarvis unfastened his belt and took it off, coiling it as tightly as he could. Giving it enough loft to clear the other catwalks, he tossed it as far as he could toward the west wall.