What Comes Next (56 page)

The only remaining route out was the path he’d used to enter. The small basement window glowed with outside light. To get to it was a risk—if the people firing came even one or two steps down, they would be able to cover the entire basement. The only place to hide would be back in Jennifer’s cell, but Adrian knew that the teenager would not retreat there, nor could he ask her to. He had pulled her out. He could not ask her to return. No matter if the cell was the only safe place—and that was questionable—Jennifer could never see it that way. She was huddled by his side, clutching bear and hand. She was whimpering.

A second volley crashed down the stairs, whining shots scouring the thickening air. Smoke curled around them, bitter smells and dust, and both coughed. It was hard to breathe.

One exit. One exit only. He gently pried Jennifer’s fingers from where they were digging into his arm. She seemed panicky and didn’t want to let go, but when he pointed with his gun toward the window it seemed as if she understood.

“We have to get up there,” he whispered, his voice hoarse against the noise from the automatic weapon.

At first, Jennifer’s eyes were clouded with fear. But as she glanced toward the window, perhaps nine or ten feet up on the wall, her vision cleared, and Adrian could see understanding. She also seemed to toughen, almost as if she had abruptly aged in that precise second, passing from innocent childhood to nearly adult, all because of the cascade of gunfire.

“I can do that,” she said softly, nodding. She should have been yelling above the weapons fire but Adrian understood her response with the clarity that danger brings.

He uncurled from where they had huddled against a wall and began grabbing at old and abandoned furniture, misshapen items that once had been part of living in the farmhouse—a broken-down washbasin, a pair of wooden chairs—and pulled them desperately across the basement, throwing them against the wall beneath the window. He had to find enough that they could ladder their way up and reach the window. His fractured ankle screamed at him, and for a moment he wondered whether he’d been shot. Then he realized it made no difference.

At the top of the stairs, Michael was shooting with the camera over Linda’s shoulder as she loosed each burst from the AK-47. He made certain that the camera didn’t catch her face so she could be recognized. The explosions deafened them, and when she stopped they both leaned forward. He doubted that they’d managed to kill Number 4 and the old man. Wound them, possibly. Scare them, certainly. He was acutely aware of the gun in the old man’s hand. He thought Number 4 might be armed as well. After all, she’d had the Magnum she’d been given for her on-camera suicide.

He was trying to be logical and to think things through, even as adrenaline pounded away within him and he kept his right eye glued to the viewfinder.

“The gun you gave Number Four…” he said to Linda. He kept his voice low, hoping that the camera mic wouldn’t pick it up, although he knew some of his words would undoubtedly be recorded and were heading out over the Internet. “How many shells were…”

“Just the one she needed,” Linda said.

She placed the AK-47 at her hip and tightened her finger on the trigger. Just as Adrian had observed, she knew that if she stepped down a few feet she would be able to cover the basement effectively. But the angle would be very difficult for Michael to film behind her.

Like a cinematographer preparing each shot for a complicated action sequence—one with racing cars, explosions, and actors scurrying pell-mell in every direction—she did quick calculations in her head. “If we rush them—” she began, but he cut her off.

“Listen,” he said. “What’s that sound?”

The two of them tried to force comprehension past the ringing in their ears caused by the explosions from an automatic weapon fired at close proximity.

It took a few seconds for the two of them to realize that what they were listening to was the scraping sound of junk being hauled across the cement floor and thrown against a wall. At first Michael imagined a barricade and thought the old man and Number 4 were going to try to hide themselves and fight it out below.

In his mind’s eye, he reconstructed the basement, trying to see the most advantageous spot for a makeshift foxhole and a pair of cornered rats. And as he did this he saw the small cobwebbed window in his mind’s eye. The window was the only remaining route out or, if Linda and he got there first, the means to shoot down—both with his camera and with all their weapons.

He touched his lover on the shoulder and lifted his finger to his lips in the universal signal for stealth and quiet. He gestured for Linda to follow, but first to let go another burst. She did this, sweeping the AK-47 back and forth down the narrow corridor of the stairwell, raining bullets into the basement until the clip was empty.

She grabbed the second clip from Michael’s pocket and expertly slammed it into place, pulling back the bolt so that she was ready to fire. Then she hustled after him.

It took a few seconds for Terri Collins to understand what was happening. From where she and Mark Wolfe were standing next to Adrian’s car the shooting noises seemed disconnected, like hearing things on a television set in another room. What she could hear had to translate into a picture in her head, which would prompt a clear-cut response. Even muffled by the house, the noise of automatic weapons fire was unmistakable. Years earlier, she had spent too many hours waiting with small complaining children in her old car for her ex-husband to finish up on a military firing range where cutting loose with hundred-shot barrel clips at fixed fake terrorist dummy targets was the norm.

She pivoted toward Mark Wolfe. Recognition like electricity flowed through her.

“Call for help!” she shouted.

He fumbled with the cell phone as Terri sprinted to the back of her car. She jacked open the trunk and removed a black bulletproof vest that she kept there. It had been a gift from her neighbor Laurie many years back when she was still a patrolwoman, and she had not worn it once since unwrapping it at a Christmas morning gathering.

“Give them the right address,” she shouted back over her shoulder. “Tell them we need everybody. Tell them there are automatic weapons involved. And an ambulance! If you have to, tell them an officer has been shot. That will make them move fast.”

She fastened the Velcro closings, snugging the vest to her chest. It felt terribly small and flimsy Then she chambered a round in her pistol.

She heard a second distant volley of gunfire. Without thinking about what she was doing beyond knowing that she had to get to where the firing was taking place, she started running.

The last command, which she threw back over her shoulder, was “Wait there. Tell ‘em where I’ve gone!”

Moving as fast as she could, gun clutched in hand, Terri raced toward the driveway and the road up to the old farmhouse.

Wolfe was busy calling for help and watching as she disappeared around the corner. When the local police dispatcher came on the line he was clipped and precise.

“Send help,” he said. “Lots of help. A police detective is in a shoot-out.”

He gave the dispatcher the address and he heard the shocked and instantly breathless woman say, “It will take time for the state police to respond to that location. At least fifteen minutes.”

“There isn’t fifteen minutes,” he curtly replied, then disconnected the line.
She’s never had to handle a call like that one,
he thought.

Wolfe looked up, his eyes staring at the path that Terri Collins had just raced. She had vanished around the corner, just past the battered mailbox. The forest by the entranceway was too thick for him to make out her progress; it appeared to him as if she had been immediately swallowed up. He was torn. He had been told to wait and the half coward in him was perfectly willing to stand back in a shady safe spot and allow whatever was happening to happen without any more direct involvement on his part. But this natural sense of self-preservation warred with another part of his personality, the part that wanted
to see
and was willing to take all sorts of risks to indulge that particularly demanding curiosity and unrelenting desire.

Everything important in his life was about being
within reach.

Taking a deep breath, he started to run after the detective, although he kept repeating to himself, in time with each stride, to stay back, stay hidden, and let it all play out in front of him.
Get close,
he insisted, as his legs stretched into a sprint of his own,
but not too close.

Adrian balanced on misshapen debris and helped Jennifer up next to him. Everything was unsteady beneath their weight, and he could feel the entire panic-built structure swaying and threatening to collapse. He stuffed his gun in his pocket and hoped it would not fall out, and then he cupped his hands together and made a step for the naked teenager. She lifted her foot and placed one hand on his shoulder to steady herself, but she kept the other hand clutching her bear. With a single grunting force of strength, he launched her rocketing upward toward the window. She grabbed at the frame. Adrian saw her thrust the bear hand forward, throwing the toy outside as she grasped the splintered wood. Jennifer teetered for an instant, and then, kicking and scrambling like a fish floundering on the deck of a boat, she forced her way up and out.

Adrian gasped with a sense of relief. He was a little astonished at what he’d done.

He did not know how he would manage to get himself up the same distance. From where he was perched—like a bird on an unsteady branch—he looked around for something he might add to the pile and gain the necessary feet.

He saw nothing.

Resignation began to gnaw at his stomach.

She can run. I’m stuck here. I’d like to get out, but I can’t.

As these defeated thoughts crept into him he heard a sound from above.

“Professor, quick!”

Jennifer, who had disappeared through the window, was now leaning back in, half in, half out, reaching her skinny arm down toward him.

He didn’t think she would have anywhere near the strength to help him.

“Try, goddammit, Audie! Try!”

Brian was shouting in his ear.

Adrian looked up. Only this time it wasn’t the teenager leaning through the window, reaching for him, it was Cassie. “
Come on, Audie,
” she begged.

He didn’t hesitate. He grasped at her arm, clawed at the wall, pushed as hard as he could with both his broken and unbroken legs. He felt the pile of debris crashing behind him and for a moment he seemed to float in the air. But as rapidly as that sensation came, he felt himself slam against the cement, and he thought he was falling until he realized he wasn’t, that he had hold of the window frame, digging his bleeding nails into the wood. He kicked his feet wildly. He did not think he had the strength to do the chin-up that was required, but he felt himself being lifted up, partly by the teenager grasping hold of his jacket collar, partly by what little power he had left, but also by all his memories.

Wings,
he imagined.

And suddenly he saw sunlight above.

He crawled through the window, Jennifer hauling him the last couple of feet.

The old man and the naked teenager slumped exhausted against the farmhouse wall. She was drinking in fresh air like it was the finest champagne, sunlight splashing across her face. She told herself,
Just one more breath, and then I can die, because this tastes wonderful.

Adrian scrambled to organize his thoughts. He could see the barn across the same open area he’d run earlier. From the far side of the barn the safety of the tree line was closest. If they could get there they could hide. As he grabbed at Jennifer’s shoulder and started to frantically point
that’s the direction we want to go
a thunder of bullets from the AK-47 smashed into the wall above their heads and tore into the ground near their feet. Clumps of dirt flew up into their faces, shards of wood and insulation rained down on their heads. It was like being caught in a tympani-drum being beaten madly. They jerked back, huddled together, and Jennifer started to scream again although her voice wasn’t powerful enough to rise above the insistent racket of the machine gun. It seemed as if the deadly hammering of the gun were coming out of her open mouth.

Linda and Michael had split up. She had gone to the back and was aiming the rifle around the corner of the house, which gave her a firing angle on the two of them. It was hard to shoot accurately without exposing herself, so she relied on the volume of fire to do the job.

Michael had run to the front, past his old truck, which gave him just enough cover to keep filming. He had lowered the shotgun and lifted the HD camera, sticking the laptop on the roof of the truck cabin.

All he could think of was
what a show.

Jennifer was shouting and holding her hands over her ears as bullets showered their position. She pressed against Adrian.

He was holding his forearm across his face, as if that might ward off the rain of automatic weapons fire. His eyes were closed and he expected to die any second.

“Audie, listen to me! It’s not over!”

He turned to the side and saw Brian. It was the Vietnam Brian, a young officer of men at war only a little older than Jennifer. His fatigues were covered with grime and his tin pot helmet was pulled down over his head. He was sweat-streaked, filthy, and he lay prone on the ground as he jammed a magazine into his M-16. His face was set with determination. Brian didn’t seem frightened in the least.

“Come on, Audie! Return fire, goddammit! Return fire!”

Brian let loose with a furious volley, his own weapon on full automatic. Adrian suddenly saw the edge of the house where Linda was drawing down on them exploding in fragments. A window shattered, glass flying up into the sunlight. He looked down and saw that he had tugged his brother’s 9mm pistol from his pocket and somehow managed to get into a kneeling position. The bullets striking the house were his own.