Masters of Fantasy Part 13

Yes, it can hurt! It can get you killed! Larson refused to argue the point. Have you seen Shadow?Not yet, Silme returned. I'm peeking over when I can, but they have us closely watched. Tend to keep us bunched so they can see everyone at once. Keep looking. Larson doubted even the Shadow Climber could make it up the outside of the Empire State Building without climbing aids, but he had to hope. His tiny companion had done many things deemed impossible, often for that very reason. Then, suddenly, something Silme had said returned to haunt him. Oldest to youngest! Though not the words she had used, Silme caught the reference. They're telling the police their plan right now. One person every half hour until . . . oh my G.o.d! The contact abruptly cut off. Silme. Silme!

When Larson did not get an immediate answer, he stopped the concentration. Without training like Silme's from the Dragonrank school, he could not reach her. He could only wait. He found himself staring at the number on the landing: 53. Above him, he heard voices. He slowed, moving as quietly as possible and straining to hear.

The talking stopped, but Larson could hear the occasional sc.r.a.pe of a shoe against concrete. Cautiously, he rounded the fifty-fourth landing and looked up to two uniformed men. Static hissed from one's belt. Cops. Confidently, with the look of a man who belonged, he continued upward.

The policemen spotted Larson and leaped to attention. Both were young, of average height and build; but the similarities ended there. One had red hair peeking from beneath his cap, while the other had no visible hair at all. The redhead sported blue eyes to his companion's brown, and a deluge of orange freckles. Both seemed in reasonably good shape, though neither seemed eager to continue the climb.

"Who are you?" the red-haired cop demanded.

Larson took advantage of the limitations of the walkie-talkies. If they could carry this far, these men would have known him, like the others. "Al Larson. Special team, FBI."

Both men looked him over top to bottom. "Got a badge?" the second asked.

"Yes," Larson lied. "But not the time to show it." He added harshly, "again." With the air of someone in

authority and a hurry, he pushed past them and jogged up the stairs.

Larson heard the words "arrogant jerk" behind him but did not bother to slow. He wanted them to

believe that he had demonstrated his bona fides to those lower down the stairway, the most likely way to explain his presence here and now.Apparently, the ruse worked because he heard no signs of pursuit. That or they're too tired or lazy to follow me. The reason did not matter. The increase in speed dragged agony through Larson's legs, but he scurried upward until he had gone high enough that the others would not notice a change in pace.

Air rasped through Larson's lungs, raw agony; and the close stuffiness seemed suffocating. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

Silme appeared in his head. Al, they've dropped the security guards!

What? Larson's reply was startled from him, without thought. Even if the method of communication allowed for mishearing, he did not want her to repeat that particular information. Both at once?They think it shows the police they mean business. As opposed to shoving just one guy off the Empire State Building. One was already dead.

The cops and the crowd didn't know that. Larson quickened his pace, though his legs felt as if he had bolted bowling b.a.l.l.s to his thighs, and he seemed to have gasped the last of the stairwell air into his lungs.

Silme's contact turned irritable. You're arguing with me? They're crazy, Al. Just get up here right away! Oh, so now you want me up there. Larson wisely kept that to himself. I'm coming as fast as I can. I'm a decent runner but no pro, and going up isn't the same as on a track or even rugged terrain.

Silme returned nothing for several moments. Larson concentrated on steady rhythmical motion, watching the patterned marble stairs unscroll beneath his sneakers. By now, even his legs appeared to remember the design: eighteen stairs to each landing. Why not an even twenty? Larson abandoned the idle thought, glad for the 160-step reprieve.

A sudden thought brought a second, desperate wind. Silme, my mother?Scared but fine. Like the rest of us. Larson was pretty sure Silme understood the deeper intent of his question. Oldest to youngest, he reminded.Y-ess. This time, Silme surely knew, but she feigned ignorance.Pain and the battle for breath contributed to Larson's irritability. Come on, Silme. Where does my mother fit on that spectrum?Silme dodged the question. She's still a young woman.Silme . . . Don't you think you'd be happier not knowing?

Probably, Larson admitted, rounding the sixtieth landing. But tell me anyway.Silme waited inordinately long to continue. After the guy in the wheelchair . . .Yes. Larson deliberately injected impatience into the sending.He looks about a thousand years old. His caretakers says he's eighty-nine, but he acts more like an infant . . . Silme . . . Larson chastised her clear delay, then guessed, She's next. After the old man. Isn't she?Al, just hurry.

Though Silme gave no direct answer, Larson knew he had discovered the truth. He refused to let the news paralyze him. If he did, all was lost. I'm hurrying, he said. But I'm going to need your help.

* * * After a crossover at the sixty-fifth floor, Larson charged toward the top with nothing to stand in his way but his own human frailty. He felt like he had run for hours, lungs burning, legs aching, sweat stinging his eyes. He longed for a companion, some bunkmate with eternal stamina to challenge him when he felt like giving up. But, as he gulped scant air into his lungs, he felt thankful that his only partner chose a different route to the top. There did not seem enough air for two in the cramped, stagnant stairwell. Almost there. Almost there. Larson drove himself forward, his legs numb, moving only from habit. He looked at the number on the landing door: 84. Excitement thrilled through him, chilling the sweat that covered every part. He dragged up the stairs, buoyed by the energy that comes of impending success.

Larson nearly crashed into a pair of policemen lounging on the landing. He froze, panting savagely,

unable to speak.

The men did not press. Though their breath came more easily, they seemed noticeably fatigued, their uniforms askew and their faces pink-cheeked. Relatively young and sinewy, they had clearly been chosen for their ability to make the climb. One was black, round-faced with a well-tamed afro, the other sandy blond with quick, green eyes. "What's the buzz, cuz?" one asked, a far cry from the personal challenges Larson had, thus far, received.

Larson froze, too tired to move, too wracked with nervous energy to sit. "How much..," he panted, " . . . do . . . you know?"

The black man gestured toward himself. "Name's Carter. Yours?"

Uncertain whether the man had just given his first or last name, Larson gasped out, "Al."

"Mahan," the other man said. "Jimmy Mahan." He studied Larson with a knowing wince. "Take a load off for a bit."

Larson grasped his knees, seeking the best position to gulp air into his lungs. "Can't.

Got . . . to . . . move . . . fast."

Carter huffed out a laugh. "How you going to do that when you're gasping like a landed fish? Ain't doing no one no good in that state."

Larson had to agree. He lowered himself to the landing in a crouch, still too driven to fully sit.

"They're . . . tossing hostages. No time . . ." My mom!The cops exchanged glances, smiles wilting in an instant. "Tossing?" Carter repeated. "You mean over the side?"

"Eighty-six stories down," Larson confirmed, the concept, now spoken, staggering.

"s.h.i.+t." Mahan wiped his brow, picked his cap up from the floor, and plastered it on his head. "What's the

plan?"

Larson thought fast. Ideally, he would get one of the men to give him a gun; but he could not think of a

way to request such a thing without raising ruinous suspicions. "To get up there, of course. What's blocking the way?"Silme's presence returned in a wild flurry. Al! The old man! They're carrying him to the rail.Mom's next. Larson knew he should feel callous about worrying more for what might happen than the fate of one at risk now, but he could not help it. The old man had lived a long life and probably had little understanding of his fate. Silme, what's blocking the stairwell door?Which one?

Stumped by a simple and obvious question, Larson went quiet. Any . . . one he tried.Silme did not question. They're locked.Of course. Two guarded by armed men-usually. If there are more, I don't know about them. Antic.i.p.ating Larson's question, she added. I can only read surface thoughts, not everything they know.

"Locks, for one thing," Carter said in answer to a query Larson had forgotten in the hailstorm of his and Silme's exchange. "We've got the key, of course, but it's not much use from inside the stairwell."

Larson pursed his lips, breathing gradually coming easier, though his legs still ached. He thought of

Taziar, hoping the little climber would have the sense not to rush in alone. Taziar possessed neither the ability nor the mentality to kill. Taziar. That gave Larson an idea. "Are there any windows on this floor?"

Mahan shrugged. "It's an office building. Practically made of windows." He added doubtfully, "Why?"

Larson did not even want to waste time saying "No time to explain." Instead, he charged for the heavy door, slammed in the handle, and dashed into the hallway. He charged down the high-ceilinged corridor, noticing nothing but the first office door. He turned the k.n.o.b and struck it with his shoulder simultaneously. He hit solid wood frame, clearly locked, but the force of the blow shattered the opaque gla.s.s front. Shards stabbed his shoulder, and rained, further broken by the green marble floor. He sprang through the gap, dislodging the remaining, clinging pieces and crus.h.i.+ng the gla.s.s beneath his sneakers to powder.

Eyes on the window, Larson stumbled into a desk, sending a chair careening to the floor and das.h.i.+ng pain through his hip. Ignoring it, he floundered through the wreckage, still unable to take his eyes from the window. b.u.mped and bruised, leaving a wake of askew furniture, he made it to a pane that stood more than a half-foot taller than his six-foot frame. He slammed the heels of his hands against the gla.s.s.

It barely budged. Larson hammered his fists against the window, howling with rage.

Silme's voice entered Larson's head with an eerie quiet. Al, they threw him over. He's gone.Oh G.o.d. Larson stifled the image of the old man tumbling through the air, eyes wide with terror, mouth wrenched open in scream after scream. He wondered how long the man would have to contemplate his fate before it ended with a flash of excruciating pain, then nothing. Silme, I'm coming.Hurry, she sent, bare understatement. Please hurry.Larson hurled himself at the safety gla.s.s, vision suddenly filled with clouds, the buildings around seeming distant and small. The gla.s.s did not give, but Larson's rational mind did. What the h.e.l.l am I doing? If this breaks, I'm going down. He backed up, rea.s.sessing the situation. Seeing a latch on the window, he smacked himself in the forehead, feeling like a royal fool. Of course, they're made not to break. Can't have people accidentally falling, but no reason not to let some fresh air in now and then. Working the catch, he easily opened the window. Now what? I'm not Shadow. Larson clambered to the sill, deliberately looking only up. A downward glance might paralyze him.

Groping along the rail-like mullions, Indiana limestone, and sand-blasted spandrels, Larson discovered solid hooks placed as if for climbing. He nestled his hands into them, a million thoughts distracting him from the job ahead. If these go the length of the building, Shadow probably figures this skysc.r.a.ping monstrosity for the easiest thing he's ever climbed. Larson recalled that Taziar's friends had bragged he could climb a straight pane of gla.s.s, and Larson had seem him scramble up brick buildings without a moment's hesitation. He also realized that the hooks had to serve as tie-ons for window washers and, possibly, maintenance workers.

Sunlight reflected from the steel, its glow shattering into a blinding array that forced Larson to squint.

He worked his way to one of the enormous stainless steel pylons that braced the observatory tower, only one floor above him.

Al. Larson stiffened, gouging the hooks into his hands. Don't do that!Don't do what? It was a right and innocent question.Larson realized that his own keyed-up terror had caused him to startle, not Silme. She had contacted him with an appropriate slow gentleness he should have appreciated. Stay with me, will you? I'm going to need you.Sorry. I was just comforting a scared little boy. Where are you?

Larson sh.o.r.ed up his leg and right-hand holds before groping over the observatory ledge with his left. I'm coming over the side, like Shadow. Watch for my hand. His fingers banged against cold metal. Only then, he remembered the fencing that surrounded the open-air terrace, constructed to frustrate suicides. Wait a second, he thought to himself and Silme simultaneously. How did the gunmen get the old man past the fence?

They cut a hole, Silme explained. Pushed them through. An emotion accompanied the sending like a mental s.h.i.+ver. Made us all look through. Let us know what's in store for us if the police don't give in to their demands soon. Then, they placed some of the more terrified ones on the phone.

Larson gripped the fence. Peace Army, indeed. Bunch of crazy s.a.d.i.s.tic b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.Abruptly, Larson's description sunk in. Silme's contact wafted terror. You're where?Larson felt along the metal, defining diamond-shaped mesh that would admit the head of someone who wanted the dizzying experience of looking down. He knew from his one visit there, as a young child, that the bars curved toward the building at the top to thwart a more determined jumper from simply climbing over the security rail. I'm at the outer edge of the terrace, touching the fence. Watch for my hands. Direct me toward the hole they cut, and distract anyone who might see me.

All right, Silme returned. I'm watching for Shadow there, too; but I can't communicate with him.Larson remembered Taziar's mind barriers. Choosing a direction at random, he worked his way along the edge, using pylons as steps. Movement proved easier than he had expected, though one wrong weight-s.h.i.+ft would send him plunging to his death.

Al, I see you. You'll get there a lot faster if you go clockwise.

Larson repositioned, switching direction and heading back the way he had come. A trek that had seemed surprisingly simple, at first, rapidly became a discomfort. His muscles, already aching from the climb, cramped from the unnatural position; and his nerves wound them to tight coils. Wind pounded his face, threatening his grip. Granite sc.r.a.ped the skin from his arms, and the fencing bit into his fingers.

Almost there. Almost there. Silme's cautious p.r.o.nouncement fell on welcome ears. Then, her tone changed drastically. Wait! Al, one of them's headed toward you!Larson's heart pounded. He could imagine himself struggling to get up while a stranger tore off his hold and sent him into a long and fatal plunge, filled with evil laughter. Distract him!

I'll try. Silme's contact disappeared from Larson's mind.Now completely disoriented, Larson made a desperate choice. He had to a.s.sume the worst, that Silme's interference would fail. He could freeze and hope the other man did not see him, but that did not suit him. A man of action, Larson found himself incapable of just remaining in place, blindly hoping a ruthless killer did not notice him. Instead, he increased his pace, the wind whipping though his ears making hearing all but impossible.

Jaggedly cut metal sliced Larson's palm, and pain shocked through him. Biting his lip, he maintained his

grip, easing into position in front of the hole.Al! Silme's presence jabbed into his mind like a hot spear. He's right at the opening!Larson jerked his head up and found himself staring into the cold dark eyes of a killer. s.h.a.ggy black hair fell around a rugged Caucasian face a few years older than his own. He wore a V-neck s.h.i.+rt, a leather backpack, and a hand-hammered peace sign swinging from a gold chain. The eyes went wide with clear shock.

Push him, Silme! Feet wedged, one hand winched onto the shattered fencing, Larson wound his free fingers around one strap of the man's pack and pulled with all his considerable strength.The man slid toward Larson, as if on a dolly. As most of his weight tipped forward, he screamed, grabbing wildly. Larson flinched. If those flailing hands caught him, they would both go tumbling. His own balance thrown backward, he seized a death grip on metal and strap. For an instant, they remained in a strange balance, hovering between life and death, while time seemed to stand still. Then, the man toppled toward oblivion, shrieking in mindless terror. The abrupt s.h.i.+ft of weight tore free Larson's toeholds. Suddenly supporting the full ma.s.s of two, every tendon in his right arm seemed to snap at once, a stabbing explosion of burning pain. His fingers jerked open. I'm dead. The calm realization seemed savagely out of place. Then, the backpack straps slipped free. The weight of the killer disappeared. A scream swirled on the wind, and something steady clamped onto Larson's wrist, arresting his own fall. Battling rising panic, he sought and found his toeholds on the pylons.

Hold on, Silme sent. I won't let you fall.Larson gulped down bile. He swung his left hand over the ledge, still gripping the killer's backpack. Only then he realized that he could have saved himself some serious injury if he had only let go instead of clinging to the backpack. At the time, the idea of loosing any solid grip had seemed madness. He looked up to Silme's worried features, both hands clamped around his left wrist.Hurry, Silme sent, glancing wildly behind her.Larson scrambled up the ledge and through the hole, the pain in his right arm a constant, screaming blessing. It reminded him he was alive. But not for long if we don't do something quickly.Larson jerked up the pack and pawed through the contents. He found clothing, food, and spare magazines. d.a.m.n it, no gun. The irony became a burning bitterness. I nearly died for no gun. He glanced at Silme. Get back with the others. Let them know I'm on your side. To help me if they can.

Silme nodded, turning. She headed for the central gift shop.

At that moment, a huge man with long, greasy blond hair crashed through the door. "Hey!" He seized Silme by the wrist, spinning her through the door, then slammed it behind her.

Though enraged by the manhandling, Larson kept his head. He dove aside, just as the man raised a .45 automatic. Larson skittered around the loop, pressing against the gift shop wall. Then, another man burst through a door to his left, sandwiching him between them.

s.h.i.+t! Surrounded, Larson tried for desperate unpredictability. He sprinted for the fence and dashed up the diamond mesh, only then noticing another man just reaching the incurving spires at the top. Shadow! Brutal realization dawned. And I just gave him away.

"Holy f.u.c.k!" the blond shouted. Ducking, he fired at the figure over Larson's head.

Blood splashed Larson's cheek. "NO!" Without thought for his own safety, he hurled himself at the shooter. He struck the blond with a force that hurled them both to the floor. A bullet ricocheted wildly, and the hostages screamed, running toward the opposite side of the store. Both men slid, cras.h.i.+ng into the gla.s.s storefront, pain jarring through Larson's left side. He caught the man's gun-hand with his left,

then slammed his aching right arm downward. He heard something crack, accompanied by a rush of pain through his strained muscles. The gun clattered to the terrace.Shadow! Silme screamed in Larson's head.Larson scooped up the gun, whirling. The other man fired at Taziar. The little climber dodged, then lost his footing on the fencing.

"No!" Larson shrieked, charging to save his friend, though he knew he could never arrive in time. The killer whirled on Larson, shooting. Fire tore through Larson's thigh, dropping him to a spinning crouch.

He watched, helplessly, as Taziar pitched from the fencing into empty air. "No!" he screamed again.

"No! No!" Rage overtook him. He trained the blond's gun on the second man, who was now hurriedly reloading. Larson pulled the trigger again and again, until the slide locked back on empty.