Masters of Fantasy Part 12

Tim nodded. "Be careful."

It was not a promise Larson could fairly make, so he chose no reply instead. Thrusting out his chest and squaring his shoulders, he stepped over the police tape. A sudden hush fell over the crowd in his quarter.

A harried-looking policeman with sweat-plastered brown hair dangling from beneath his cap lunged for Larson, whistle blowing.

Ignoring him, Larson strode boldly toward the Broadway entrance.

"Hey," the policeman called. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

Larson jabbed a thumb toward the tallest building in the world. "My fiancee, my mother, and my sister are in there."

Another policeman joined the first, a red-faced, heavy-set man who looked irritated to have to deal with one rabble-rouser amid a crisis and an unruly mob. "Join the club, man. Lots of people got relatives in there. We're doing everything we can."

Larson attempted to step around the larger man. "Look. There're only seventeen hostages, and three of them are my fiancee, my mother, and my sister. So, at most, there're thirteen people in the same boat as me. And your best just isn't good enough."

The red-faced man turned purple and sidestepped back into Larson's path. The other officer looked

stunned. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Let's just say I served a stint in Vietnam but you won't find any record of it." For the first time, Larson tried to use the contradiction to his advantage by implying that he had served as part of a clandestine force. "You won't find any record of any kind on my fiancee. And we have a 'special' form of

communication."

The larger man rolled his eyes and looped a finger near his temple.

But the smaller man ignored his comrade, clearly impressed by Larson knowing the exact count of

hostages. Likely, they had discussed the Vietnamese Peace Army's demands and details by telephone and not with the press or public. "What else do you know?"

Larson recited what Silme had told him: "Bob Hendricks, Steve Heston, and Mike Pevrin."

The larger policeman s.h.i.+fted impatiently from foot to foot. "You're wasting time we could be spending rescuing your relatives and the others. Who do you think you are? Maxwell Smart and 99?" He made a throwaway gesture. "Get back behind the tape."

When the smaller cop returned only a blank look, Larson tried another tack. "Banqo, Hyron, and Taybar.

Those were the real names of the hostage-takers and their aliases."

Now, even the heavy man's eyes widened, then narrowed suddenly in clear suspicion. "How do you . . . know that?"

En ma.s.se, the crowd went suddenly quiet and seemed to gasp in a collective breath. Knowing it probably had something to do with Taziar, Larson resisted the urge to look and draw the cops' attention, though that proved far more difficult than he expected. He dreaded the thought that the desperate kidnappers might have thrown someone from the building.

Silme's voice echoed through Larson's head. They're angry the police won't provide a helicopter.They won't? It was a pointless question asked from distracted instinct.They say it's too windy right now.Wondering if this was a ruse, Larson asked, Is it?Silme returned to sarcasm, a sure sign that she was more stressed than she was letting on to those around her, Last time I flew a helicopter . . .Is it windy? Well, yeah.

The conversation gained Larson nothing. He imagined a variety of air currents swept the Empire State Building at the calmest of times, but he thought he remembered talk of building a helipad on the top. Or maybe it was a dirigible mast. He shook the thought aside.

Larson looked up to find the policeman still glaring down at him, dark brows beetled. "So, how do you

know so much?"

"I just told you." Growing impatient, Larson hoped Taziar had done whatever had required his stalling.

"My fiancee and I-"

"I heard that," the large man growled, "and I'm not buying. How do I know you're not just another

member of the gang?"

Larson could think of several ways but saw no reason to bother. Neither of them had time for it. "Look, my mother, sister, and my fiancee are up there, held at gun point. I don't have to prove anything to you."

The bigger cop glanced at his companion, who had gone silent, studying Larson intently. The look spoke of irritation and withering disdain. "Oh, you do have to prove it. You have to get past me to enter that building, and I have orders not to let anyone through."

Larson forced his tone to a deadly and serious calm. "Shoot me, if you have to. I'm going in."

Quick as a cat, Larson dodged around the larger man and strode toward the fire stairs.

The mob cheered, and Larson pretended not to hear the policeman's shouts over the tumult. The walkie talkie on his belt blasted a strong round of static, followed by clear words: " . . . climbing the building!" The cop scurried after Larson, who quickened his pace. He glanced upward. The sun sheened from the chrome-nickel steel mullions and into his eyes, but he could make out a small, dark shape huddled against the spandrels. Taziar.

Apparently believing the thought for her, Silme responded. What about him?He's climbing the freaking building! A shock of clear surprise radiated from Silme. Does he know we're eighty-six floors up?Of course. I told him. Did you think that would discourage him? They both knew Taziar had a fatal attraction for anything anyone deemed impossible.

What if he falls?

Larson did not bother to send the obvious answer. Already, the little climber had clambered over the five-story base to the main portion of the tower, some seven floors above street level, enough to threaten life and limb, undeterred by a frantic group of policemen shouting at him through a bull horn.

"Let him go," Larson heard the smaller cop say behind him.

The larger one snarled in response. "Let him go. Let him go? Why?"

" 'Cause even if he makes it past the others, even if he makes it up the one thousand five hundred and

seventy-five stairs-and I doubt it-he ain't going to be in any condition to do anything once he gets there."

"If he gets there."

The rest disappeared beneath the blather of the crowd, the shouts of the policemen, and the crackle of static and voices through radios. Larson reached the outer fire stairs, their usually locked door propped open by another pair of policemen.

Larson ran toward them.Al! Silme's sudden return startled Larson, and he nearly fell on his face. Where are you?Heading for the stairs. The stairs? But there's like two thousand of them.

Great. Fifteen hundred wasn't enough. She has to throw bigger numbers at me. He s.h.i.+elded the thought from his sending. What do you want me to do? Make like Shadow?Of course not. I want you to stay there and help the police. I'll send information.

Oh, yeah. That's worked great so far. Again, Larson guarded his sending.

The policemen blocked the stairwell. "No one allowed in there, sonny," one said.

Larson stopped. Too vexed to discuss the matter again, he pretended to turn away, spun completely

around, and crashed a fist against one's shoulder. Impact drove the man sideways with a gasp, opening

the way just long enough for Larson to dash through it. He sprinted up the stairs.

"Hey! Hey!" Their voices chased him, followed by slamming footfalls. "Hey! You can't go up there. It's dangerous. Hey!"

Larson thundered upward, paying the men no heed.

The policemen stationed every few landings had more important matters to attend than one lunatic hero wannabe attempting to defy the gravity of a greater than a thousand-foot climb. Even in his excellent

athletic shape, Larson found himself panting by level ten, breathless by twenty. Oh, great, Larson. Maybe you can crawl out the top in a wheezing frenzy and demand their surrender.

The thought sparked a realization that desperate concern for his family had not allowed him to consider. How am I going to handle these crazies? Larson shook aside the thought, focusing fully on simply making it to the top. Crazy, yes; but these guys aren't dumb. He slowed his pace, continuing his climb.

Where are you? Silme sent, with a clear hint of suspicion.Larson borrowed Taziar's line. You don't want to know.Probably not, but I need to. Larson did not oblige. What's happening up there?The three are spending a lot of time together. They're not sure they believe it's too windy for helicopters.

Larson did not like the sound of that. He focussed intently on the mental conversation, attempting to use it as a distraction for his aching legs and lungs as he forced himself upward. Can you convince them?

Not without taking a big risk. Don't know how they'll react to a mind intrusion.

Can't you just make some comment about how it's so much windier today than the last few times you came?

They've demanded silence. Threatened to throw a scared young boy over the rail. Tossed an old man's wheelchair off.

Larson's heart seemed to slam against his chest, driven by worry as much as exertion. At least, they seem to be avoiding actually harming civilians. He added to himself, Except whoever on the ground got smashed by wheelchair wreckage. He did not long concern himself with the bystanders ma.s.sed beyond danger by the police.

Silme's discomfort radiated clearly, even unaccompanied by words.

What? What what? Silme sent, too innocently.Irritable from the growing pain of his ascent, Larson refused to give quarter. You know something you're not telling me.

Many things, I'd warrant. Though a good joke at his expense, Silme took no joy from it, a clear sign that he had hit on or near the truth. Larson kept climbing at a swift, steady pace, no longer finding policemen on the landings. What are you hiding?I told you about the security guards. Larson winced. He had not forgotten. Is the second one . . .Still alive, Silme confirmed. But not conscious. She added uncomfortably, Al, they're contemplating some . . . evil things.Air wheezed through Larson's lungs. Go on. He appreciated the ephemeral quality of their conversation. In his current state, he could not have spoken.

The security men go first, then they plan to work their way down by age.

Distracted by his body, it took Larson's mind inordinately long to grasp the meaning of Silme's description. "Go first" as in- Thrown over the side. My G.o.d! One by one over a certain period of time. Until their demands are met. My G.o.d! Larson repeated, no other words coming to mind.They figure they're already murderers, so they have nothing to lose. Aside from the lives of innocent people. A sliver of fear slipped through Silme's carefully controlled facade. They feel their cause is more important.Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Kill innocents to protest the killing of innocents. Knowing better than to seek logic in the actions of fanatical true-believers, Larson glanced at a door to discover he had reached the forty-ninth floor. He groaned. Still thirty-seven to go.Apparently, Larson sent that last thought, because Silme replied to it. Huh?Larson tried to reverse the sentiment. Only thirty-seven more floors.You're climbing! I told you not to come up. You never listen to me, either. Silme would not be distracted. You'll be exhausted by the time you get here. How can that help?Can't hurt. Larson deliberately avoided looking at the numbers, not wanting to know how far he had come until he had gone significantly beyond his last look.