Land of a Thousand Dreams (64 page)

He ducked, and the torch bounced across the floor toward the opposite end of the warehouse.

His men scattered, flinging themselves out of the way as the torch landed at the base of a stack of crates. Boxes and packing crates blazed up like dry tinder, illuminating the warehouse in an exploding flash of light.

Walsh's men, swinging torches and clubs, piled into the policemen. Michael lunged toward Rossiter, but was too far away to reach him.

Running at a crouch, he shouted, “Don't shoot!” to his men, but the warning came too late. Gunshots echoed off the walls of the cavernous building. Abandoned containers of cleaning fluid exploded as bolt after bolt of discarded material shot up into flames.

Dense, black fingers of smoke snaked upward, slithering around the rafters as the fire gathered momentum. Michael could already feel the heat. His throat burning, he whirled around, signaling his men to move forward. “Hurry! You men in the back—get out of there! Now! Get those children out of here!”

Turning back, he saw Rossiter at the main door. With the ledger securely tucked under one arm, he was struggling with the bolt on the door.

“No!” Michael screamed, taking off at a run toward him. “Don't open the door!”

The bookkeeper whipped around, his eyes wild as he stared into the fire. Without warning he hurled the ledger across the floor into the blaze. Then, turning back, he jerked the bolt free and threw the door open.

The blaze exploded with a roar. Men screamed, windows shattered, and chunks of the ceiling let go as the flames whooshed over the walls, a raging ocean of fire.

Rocked by the backdraft, Michael stumbled, righted himself, and again dropped to a crouch.

The ledger! It was his only evidence against Walsh! He had to get the ledger!

His eyes burned, his lungs struggled for air as he lurched toward the fire. His men came staggering past him, herding the children toward the door.

Denny Price, with a little boy on each arm, tried to stop him, but Michael pushed him away, shouting, “Keep going! Get them out of here!”

Spying the ledger, which had landed near a barrel, Michael pitched forward, losing his balance and floundering. The fire came racing toward him across the splintered wooden floor, coiling and rolling like hell unleashed.

His chest exploding from the smoke, his heart thundering with panic, he gave one strangled gasp and flung himself full-length across the floor, grabbing for the ledger.

The fire met the barrel. Michael saw a blinding flash of light, then nothing more.

Trying to stay clear of the smoke, Tierney saw the explosion coming before it happened.

“Da!” he yelled, his voice lost in the roar of the blaze and the clamor of shouting and shrieking children. “No, Da! Don't go back!”

He made a desperate, futile lunge toward his father, falling just as one of the ceiling timbers gave way, pinning his right leg to the floor. Dazed with pain and smoke, Tierney writhed and twisted, struggling to free his leg. Smoke billowed around him, nearly blinding him. The heat seared his skin, his eyes.

He knew he was losing consciousness, fought against it.

Suddenly, the weight was released from his leg.

Almost blinded by the dense smoke and gasping for breath, he felt himself lifted from the floor and carried toward the open door, away from the inferno.

He heard the sound of wheels whirring past him, and a small, shadowy form scooted by, toward the center of the fire.

Choking, Tierney fought for air, but found only smoke. Then the merciful darkness closed in around him.

Prodded along by one of the policemen, Arthur Jackson was on his way outside. Something made him slow his steps to glance back over his shoulder. At that instant, he saw Captain Burke dive toward the fire, his arms outstretched.

Arthur didn't think. Breaking free of the other children milling toward the open door, he charged back, toward the fire, head down, to help the captain.

His head snapped up when he heard the explosion. At the same instant he leaped into the wall of fire, throwing himself between the captain and the flaming barrel.

His last conscious act before the blinding light sucked him inside was to give the policeman a hard shove with both feet.

When Michael came to, a light drizzle had begun, misting his face. He coughed, heaved, then shook his head, clenching his teeth against the pain.

He forced his eyes open, but they wouldn't focus; all he could see was a mass of colors and distorted shapes. He started to drift off again, into the blackness. Suddenly it all came rushing back to him: the warehouse…the children…the fire…Tiemey….

Tierney!

At last his head began to clear. Again he choked and coughed, clutching his throat, which still burned with a vengeance.

He looked up, and found himself staring into the concerned face and gentle eyes of Bhima.

“Bhima?
How…where's my son?”

He tried to push himself up, but a dizzying rush of pain sent him sprawling onto his back again. He squeezed his eyes shut, then flung an arm over them.

Bhima's soft, consoling voice spoke out of the darkness. “Your son is fine, Captain. But you must not try to get up just yet. You had a very close call….” The boy's words drifted off as Michael once more gave in to the momentary comfort of darkness.

When he again opened his eyes, Tierney hovered over him, studying him with a worried gaze.

“Da? It's over now. You're all right, Da.”

For an instant, Michael forgot his sick despair at his son's involvement in the evil of this night. “You're not hurt?”

The boy shook his head. “Took some bruises on my leg is all. I'm fine.”

Staring at him, Michael remembered what he had seen. “You left—”

“I came back.” Tierney's voice sounded strangely harsh and unsteady.

Michael searched his son's eyes but could read nothing in the hooded gaze. “Was it you who got me out?”

Tierney shook his head. “No,” he said, and Michael saw a faint trembling of his lip. “It was the—the one you call ‘Bhima.' He and his friends—” His voice faltered. “They…brought both of us out.”

“Bhima—” Michael again tried to push himself up. “Where is he? Where did he go?”

“He's with the children, Da,” said Tierney. “He and the others went to help the children. You'd better lie still now. You took an awful lot of smoke.”

A thought struck Michael, and he gripped Tierney's hand. “Rossiter! And the ledger—what about the ledger?”

Tierney glanced away, saying nothing. He got to his feet when Denny Price walked up, backing away to make room for him.

Dropping to one knee, Price wiped a hand across his smoke-blackened face, waiting until Tierney walked away.

“The ledger's gone, Mike. In the fire.” He hesitated, then added, “Rossiter's dead. We got two of the other goons, though. They're already in custody.”

Michael looked away, his gaze scanning his surroundings. Across the street, the warehouse was still burning, lighting the night sky with a gold and crimson glow. A firewagon was there, in front of the building, and some of the Bowery residents had formed bucket brigades. The smell of smoke was almost overpowering.

“They've got it under control,” Price said. “The rain should help finish it.”

  Michael drew in a ragged breath, immediately choking and gagging when his lungs rebelled. His throat was tight, his eyes burning, not so much from the smoke as from the bitterness of defeat.

“We were so close,” he muttered. “We almost had him.”

Glancing across the street, he saw Tierney. The boy was standing at the west wall of the dime museum, one arm braced against the building, his head hung low, his eyes downcast.

Heavyhearted, Michael looked away, turning his gaze in the opposite direction. In the middle of a vacant lot, directly across the street, stood a tall, powerful figure of a man, who seemed to be staring down at something near his feet.

Jess Dalton. As soon as Michael recognized the big pastor, he pushed himself up on one arm, catching his breath at a fresh wave of dizziness. His head cleared, and as he watched, he saw Dalton, in his shirtsleeves, his dark hair damp and tousled, bend and carefully scoop something into his arms.

The drizzle had increased to a light rain, and a cheer went up from the firemen.

Michael was only vaguely aware of Denny Price's low voice beside him. “We lost Scanlan tonight, Mike. Bill's gone….”

Jess Dalton had started walking in their direction, and Michael pushed himself up even further.

As the pastor came closer, Michael saw that he was carrying a blanket-draped form, limp and still, like a broken doll….

“…and the Jackson boy…he didn't make it either….”

Jess Dalton kept walking. He was close enough now that Michael could see his eyes, glazed with anguish, and his face, wet, but not with rain…with tears….

“…the poor little fellow, he hadn't even got a good start on his life, such as it was….”

Michael fought not to strangle on the painful lump in his throat. “How?” he choked out. “What happened?”

Price didn't answer right away. When he did, Jess Dalton had almost reached them, the burden in his arms seemingly weightless as he cradled it against his massive chest.

“Rourke saw him run in after you, when you went for the ledger.” Price paused, then added softly, “Bhima and his friends, they brought you and Tierney out…but the black boy was the one who saved your life….”

Jess Dalton stopped in front of them. The rain was falling steadily now, and as Michael looked up to meet the stricken gaze of the pastor, he felt his own tears spill over and mingle with the rain.

A great sorrow clouded his spirit, and Michael knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that tonight heaven itself wept over New York City.