Stone 588 (53 page)

"That was some shooting," Audrey complimented.

It mattered, Springer told himself, that it had been a kill-or-be-killed situation. His reflexes, only his reflexes were to blame. That bastard's bullets were him asking for it, deserving it. How about that gleaming angel with the sword? How about bloodbaths and holy wars? Springer decided he wasn't off the hook . . . but he could live with it.

Springer and Audrey peeked warily around the comer, kept watch on the door at the far end of the catwalk. Every couple of minutes around the edge of the jamb a Wintersgill man fired blindly in their direction. Just to keep them put. After a half hour of this the door was closed.

"What do you make of that?" Audrey asked.

"The door?"

"Yeah."

"They're trying to sucker us out."

"What time is it?"

"Almost seven."

"The cathedral closes at nine thirty."

"Closing time is probably what they're waiting for. When the lights are turned off they'll make their move."

"Can't hit what they can't see."

"Who knows what they'll come up with?"

"I hate being cornered in here like this," Audrey said.

Springer could hear the fear behind the anger in her voice. He took her hand in his for some mutual transfusion. He stretched out and tried to make himself more comfortable on the hard dusty planks. He thought of where they were, visualized the cathedral as he'd occasionally seen it, objectively, from high above—the huge cross configuration of it shaped by its slate roof. He marked their position with an X on his mental view. They were under the left arm of the cross. It would seem, philosophically, a safe place to be. He went on thinking about it and recalled how symmetrical and immaculate the roof of the cathedral had always appeared to him. No debris on it, every slate in place, well kept. It occurred to him that in order to repair and maintain the roof there would have to be some way to get out onto it. He looked around the corner, ran his eyes along the underside of the slanted roof from beam to beam. He caught upon an interruption in the texture, a square, darker area. It could be a hatch. It was about thirty feet down the catwalk in the direction of the door.

Audrey kept her pistol sighted on the door, would fire upon any movement there. Springer went swiftly down the catwalk and found that it was indeed a hatch, about three feet square. It was easily accessible, at about waist height. Hinged at its top, held by a pair of large hooks and eyes at its bottom. On the nearby horizontal beam lay a length of broom handle.

Springer undid the hooks and heaved the heavy hatch open. Its hinges were begrudging, made a loud, rusted, croaky sound. Springer signaled Audrey to him. She climbed out over the raised collar of the hatchway. He followed her out, removed the propping broom handle, and quietly closed the hatch.

They were at the south edge of the cathedral's vast roof. Fiftieth Street was ten stories below. A narrow walkway ran between the roof and a stone balustrade that served as a decorative railing all around. They decided on a position about ten feet from the hatch. The situation was still a standoff, but anyone who attempted to come out through that hatch would be an easy target.

The sun was going, was already weak enough to be looked directly at without squinting. About a third of it was already behind the seventy-story Rockefeller Plaza Building. Across the way the linear blackness of the Olympic Tower was being raked by late sun yellow, and off to Springer and Audrey's right many of the windows of the fifty-floor Helmsley Palace Hotel were ignited patches. Those buildings surrounded, dominated. Springer had the feeling that there were thousands of spectators looking down on his and Audrey's plight but if he signaled for help they would probably just wave hello back. It would be equally futile, he knew, to try yelling down to anyone on 50th Street. The surface of the city created an impenetrable, constantly rising cloud of noise.

"Going to hell in high places," Springer thought aloud.

Audrey was more optimistic. "Seems to me everything is pointing in the other direction." She meant the spires of the cathedral pointed heavenward, as did its many pinnacles and gables.

Springer was reminded of one of his unresolved childhood wonderings: Why was heaven always believed to be up—even after the world took half a turn and what had been up was down and what had been down was up? His father, Edwin, had only claimed to be a Protestant whenever officially required to do so. His mother, Mattie, had thanked the life source (which Springer presumed was God) for beautiful blessings prior to Christmas dinner and other special meals when they'd had turkey. So he'd never been religious. Once, when someone had inquired what his religion was, for candid amusement he'd replied, "D-flawless." Lately, though, since Jake had become ill. Springer had often found himself pleading with some determining power beyond himself to intervene favorably.

He leaned back against the balustrade. Its weather-eaten stone ground roughly into his spine.

Audrey relaxed against the slant of the slate roof. The roof was more steeply pitched than it appeared from street level, had a 60-degree angle to it. From the edge of the roof up to its ridge was at least thirty feet. Along the ridge was an ornamental upright of wrought iron about four feet tall, a fencelike grille in a repetitive pattern of foliate tracery and spiky finials.

As he looked around. Springer realized the carved stonework did not include any gargoyles, not a one. He called Audrey's attention to the fact. "All Gothic cathedrals are supposed to have them. Fork-tongued monsters, griffins, bulgy-eyed lizards, things like that. The uglier the better."

"I don't miss them," Audrey said impassively.

"Know the purpose of gargoyles?"

"To scare the devil out of everyone."

"Nope."

"Okay, then they're for spouting water from the roof, so it doesn't just run down the wall and ruin the masonry."

It never really bothered Springer when she stole his thunder. "You're very well read," he told her.

"Just another of the countless reasons why you should be glad I'm yours," she said with mock immodesty. The levity helped briefly.

They didn't talk much for the next twenty minutes, kept their eyes fixed on the hatch, waiting for the slightest movement. Their impatience built; they felt that as long as an encounter was inevitable it might as well happen and be over with.

"Maybe they've given up on us," Audrey said.

"I doubt that."

So did Audrey. "They still think they've got us trapped in that dead end."

"They'll wait until nine thirty."

"Then what?"

"Find we're not there, find the hatch, and come on out."

"And we'll plunk them," Audrey pledged grimly.

Springer parried that prospect with a grunt. He'd been considering the wrought-iron embellishment on the ridge of the roof, thinking that to get from this side of the roof to the other side would require climbing over that spike-topped obstacle. Four feet tall, it would be more than an inconvenience. What it suggested to him was there might be another hatch on the other side that gave into another attic. In fact, that same wrought iron followed along every inch of ridge of the cross shape of the cathedral, dividing the roof into four sections. There might even be four hatches to four separate attics. That would be the reason why the attic they'd been in hadn't gone all the way around the transept, the arm of the cross shape. The huge, high windows at each extremity of the transept preempted attic space.

If he was right about this, Springer thought, it could be their way out. Go up and over the ridge to the other side of the roof and then down through the hatch there. Leave the bastards prowling around in the dark with no one to shoot at but one another.

Springer explained his notion to Audrey. It sounded reasonable to her; anyway, was certainly worth a look. At once she took a testing step up the roof. Springer stopped her, told her, "You stay here and watch the hatch." The pitch of the roof appeared dangerously steep.

"You don't have on the shoes for it," Audrey said.

She was right. His leather-soled shoes would slip on the slate shingles. But, he thought, barefoot he'd be able to manage it.

While he was removing his shoes and socks, Audrey took it on her own to make the climb, was already partway up. There'd be no stopping her now,

Springer knew. Anyway, perhaps it was best that he remain there near the hatch where the greater danger would come from. He saw that the gum soles of her sneakers were providing her with excellent traction. He'd leave his own shoes off in case she had trouble and he had to get up to her. He kept shifting his attention from the hatch to her.

Audrey found the going difficult. It was nearly impossible to compensate for the steepness by leaning forward, and she kept stubbing her toes on the angular juts of the overlapping slate shingles. When she was halfway up she stopped and inserted her pistol into the waistband of her slacks, and that allowed her to resort to a climbing crawl. She reached ahead hand over hand and trusted merely the toes of her sneakers to provide adequate grab. It was much easier. At two thirds of the way up she lowered her head and looked back between her feet—just for the belly-hollowing sensation of it. One good long look was enough.

She continued up.

And soon she reached for and grasped the wrought iron. It was sturdier, thicker around than she'd thought it would be, and pocked rough. She pulled herself up so she could see through one of the spaces in its tracery. If she saw a hatch anywhere on the other side of the roof she'd signal Springer to come on up.

She saw a Wintersgill man.

The one called Fane, the one Springer had kneed in the crotch. Fane now appeared none the worse for it. He was about six feet to Audrey's right and halfway up the other side of the roof. Barefoot, trouser bottoms rolled up to midcalf. Wearing no jacket now, his backup pistol and holster harness showing. Fane was intent on climbing, making sure of the placement of his feet, not looking up at that moment.

Audrey ducked down out of sight, pressed herself against the surface of the roof.

She could, she thought, just pick him off. Let him have it without even a warning. Don't have any compunctions about doing that, she told herself. She was suddenly aware of the force of her outward breaths, felt that the merest tightening of her throat would cause them to become some kind of audible animal sound. Her heart was pounding. Also, she realized, she was still clinging to the wrought-iron tracery. Fane might notice her fingers. She slowly released her grasp, withdrew her hands from the tracery. Her pistol was in her waistband, hard beneath her. She humped up her middle and reached for it. Only for an instant was she careless about her toes, but that was all it took for her sneakers to give up too much of their hold. She slid down the roof a short way, tried to brake herself by turning her feet sideways, putting more of the rubber soles of her sneakers to the slick slate. But the grab of the sneakers was too sudden. Her weight and momentum overwhelmed her ankles and the next thing she knew she was sprawled parallel to the line of the roof. Unable to resist its sharp pitch, she tumbled swiftly down, seeing sky, buildings, roof, sky, buildings, roof. Her full length struck so hard against the stone balustrade at the bottom, the wind was knocked out of her.

Springer thought she'd just slipped. He knew nothing of Fane. He rushed to her.

She rolled over and kicked at him, kicked him away. She didn't have the breath to tell him about Fane, nor was there time. Surely Fane had heard the clatter of her pistol on the slate. He'd have his bearings.

Audrey had her pistol in hand now. She fixed her eyes upon the ridge of the roof, the spot along the wrought-iron embellishment where she thought Fane would show. Her skeet-shooting experience would help. But damn Springer. He was still trying to minister to her, asking her if she was all right, making it more difficult for her to concentrate.

The first move Fane made was what she expected. She saw only the slight motion of the little black hole that was the muzzle of his silencer as it appeared in one of the curved, smaller spaces of the wrought-iron tracery. Fane was positioning his pistol before bringing his eyes up to aim it. He'd come up to it all at once and then take aim, Audrey figured.

Which was exactly what he did.

Audrey saw through the tracery the incongruity of Fane's features, especially the plane of his forehead.

Springer also saw him now.

Before Fane could get set to fire . . .

Audrey squeezed two shots.

The first hit Fane at the hairline. Because of the upward angle of its course the slug creased through his scalp and glanced off his skull. It hurt but didn't hinder all that much, by no means stopped him.

Audrey's second shot missed Fane completely.

It was very close but, nevertheless, a miss. The slug struck the wrought-iron tracery to the right of Fane's head, ricocheted off, and with its hollow nose already spread, entered Fane's left temple to plow through dura mater and cerebral cortex and nerve cells and glial cells and blood vessels. It didn't stop until it had slashed through Fane's middle cerebral artery and was deep in his brain, a kernel of death. The impact of the slug snapped Fane's head to the right. The rest of him followed, flipped over. He slid deadweight down the roof.

Audrey had regained her breath. She flexed and stretched to make sure everything was in place and functioning. Instead of giving in to thoughts of Fane, she apologized to Springer for having kicked him. She ignored her bruises and her badly skinned left knee, and retrieved the two spent casings. More souvenirs.

The other Wintersgill men would be coming now, Springer thought. They must have heard when he'd opened this hatch and figured, as he had, that there'd be another on the other side of the roof from which they could make a surprise move. Fane had been the first, probably others were already over there. How many? Two from four left two, but there was Groat as well, and the one who'd held the gun on Audrey in the Daimler. So, possibly four. They were professionals. Springer reminded himself. That gave them plenty of edge. He scanned the ridge of the roof, ran his eyes back and forth along it a couple of times, fearing they might at that instant be somewhere along it, concealed by the wrought-iron tracery, taking aim.