The Blazing Bridge

by Carter Roy

  She smiled at me. “But it didn’t turn out how he planned. And now I get to have both my mom and my dad close by. So I should probably be thanking him.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Greta,” Dawkins called back. “But we can soon discuss this in comfort, for we have arrived.” He grabbed his sword belt and climbed out. “I’ll collect the beast.”

  The Montana was a huge century-old apartment building facing Central Park at Seventy-Second Street. Thirteen or fourteen stories tall, it filled half a block, with tall peaked towers at each of its four corners.

  With the squirming pink gym bag in his arms, Dawkins leaned back into the open window of the cab. “Give a call if things get weird,” he said.

  “Weirder, you mean,” Diz said, putting the cab into gear and driving off.

  “What time is it?” Mrs. Sustermann asked, yawning.

  “Time to die!” the cat mrowed from within the bag.

  Dawkins shook it hard. “You be quiet,” he said, and checked his watch. “It’s a quarter past midnight. A perfect time for us to sit down to a late dinner.”

  The front doors were unlocked, so we strolled right into the paneled entrance hall. A huge chandelier twinkled above us.

  “Fancy!” Dawkins said. “But where’s the doorman?”

  On the desk facing the door was a well-worn laminated sign: BACK IN 10 MINS.

  “I have Agatha’s code,” Dawkins said, “so we don’t have to wait for this person to return from nature’s call.” He hit the call button and the elevator doors quietly slid aside on well-oiled gears. Dawkins tapped a code into the keypad for the south penthouse, and the doors whispered shut. After a moment I realized we were moving.

  “Didn’t think we’d ever actually get here,” I said.

  “Sorry about running away from the subway station,” Greta said. “That wasn’t so cool.”

  “It worked out okay in the end,” I said.

  “Mrs. Sustermann,” Dawkins said, “there is much to tell you, and most of it will strain belief. But if you don’t mind waiting just a while longer, your husband should be here in the morning, and he will be able to explain everything. Until then, we all need some rest, and I need a frighteningly large amount of food.”

  “As long as I’m with Greta,” Mrs. Sustermann said, “I am happy to wait for the rest of the story. I’m sure it’s a super cornnuts-cray—” She stopped midsentence.

  With a soft bong, the elevator doors had opened onto a dark hall.

  “Why is it so dark out there?” she asked.

  “Hello darkness, my old friend!” the cat screeched.

  Dawkins gave the bag a good shake and shoved it into Mrs. Sustermann’s arms. “Keep that thing quiet, please.”

  In the light from the elevator, we could see a bit of the landing. Across from us, in front of a wall of green marble, was a long, narrow table with three enormous flowering plants in metal vases.

  I felt a flicker of recognition. “Have we been here before?” I whispered.

  “Not unless you’re pals with a movie or TV star,” Dawkins replied. He drew his sword.

  “TV,” I said. “That’s it. This wall was behind my dad when he Skyped with us.”

  “Ah.” Dawkins raised a finger to his lips and then tiptoed out into the hall.

  I didn’t have a weapon of my own, but I followed him out anyway, and grabbed one of the brass vases from the table. I dumped the dirt and big creepy plant onto the floor, then raised the vase over my shoulder, ready to throw.

  At the entrance to the apartment, Dawkins gestured for me to go to one side of the doorway. He stood on the other. Then, with the toe of his sneaker, Dawkins gently pushed at the heavy mahogany door.

  It swung open, onto a dark and silent apartment.

  CHAPTER 13

  WEAPONS OF BRASS DESTRUCTION

  Dawkins disappeared through the open doorway.

  I wasn’t sure whether to follow or not. All I had was my ugly metal vase. But the first lesson Dawkins taught me was that a Blood Guard finds weapons in whatever he has at hand, so I gripped my ugly metal vase tightly and stepped forward.

  And then someone inside hit the lights.

  There was a Bend Sinister agent fifteen feet in front of me. I blinked at the sudden brightness, but I didn’t need to be able to see to fling the vase.

  I scored a direct hit, and he fell backward over a fancy red couch-bench thing. He kicked his legs in the air and rolled to his feet, a bloody welt on his forehead and fury in his eyes.

  But by that time I’d grabbed a fat brass bowl from a table by the entryway, and I hit him with that, too.

  The third time he got up, I was ready with a metal sculpture of a very tall, very thin person. I swung it at him like a baseball bat and scored a home run: he slumped down onto the couch and stayed there.

  “Nice work on the guy on the divan,” Greta observed from the doorway.

  “Greta!” I said, looking over my shoulder. She and her mom had come in, her mom holding the squirming pink gym bag. “It’s not safe! We don’t know how many there are.” My foot squelched in something wet. I looked down: blood.

  “There is no way I’m sitting out there like a damsel in distress,” Greta said, pulling the door shut and locking it behind her. “I trained for the Blood Guard, too. Give me a weapon.”

  The knocked-out guy in the foyer had a sword. I dragged it away with my foot and slid it over to Greta. Then, getting a better grip on my statue–baseball bat, I followed the trail of blood around the corner into an enormous living room. There were two couches and a bunch of chairs around a fireplace, and in front of them was Dawkins, standing over a little muscly guy in a suit—clearly another Bend Sinister agent. The man was out cold.

  Next to them, bunched up like a closed accordion, was a rug.

  “I took out one of them in the other room,” I said.

  “And I pulled the rug out from under this fellow,” he said, tapping the guy’s chest with the point of his sword. He looked at me. “Please put down the priceless Modigliani, Ronan, and use this instead.”

  I set the sculpture down as he tossed the man’s sword to me. I reached out and caught it by the hilt.

  He smiled. “You’re getting better at this. Now let’s see if anyone else is lurking in the apartment.”

  I pointed to the black iron staircase that climbed up to a second floor. Dawkins shook his head. “This floor first.” But the huge kitchen was empty, as were the media room, dining room, and bathrooms.

  “He’ll have taken Agatha,” Dawkins said. “Judging from that trail of blood, the dogs did not go gently.”

  But when we came back into the living room, Agatha and three of the Dobermans were waiting with Greta and her mom. The fourth Doberman was lying on the couch, his torso wrapped in a bandage.

  “Aren’t you a joyous sight!” Dawkins cried. He picked Agatha up and hugged her, then turned his attention to each of the dogs. “What happened to Pestilence?”

  “When Mr. Truelove and his three agents walked in, I whistled the Dobermans to me and ran for my panic room.” She pointed to the wall beside the fireplace; part of it had pivoted away from the corner like a door. It was a foot thick and made of steel, with huge lock bolts like a bank vault’s. Behind it was a bathroom-size room with an easy chair, a table, and four TV monitors. “All of the dogs obeyed except Pesty. He attacked one of the men—buying us enough time to open up the room and get inside. I called him again, and this time he ran to me, but as he did, another of the agents slashed him with a sword.”

  “Brave pup,” Dawkins whispered, kneeling by the dog and stroking his muzzle.

  “You are one lucky little girl,” said Mrs. Sustermann. “Where are your parents?”

  It took me a second to realize she was speaking to Agatha.

  “It’s a very long story,” Agatha said, frowning. “Who are you?”

  “This is my mom,” Greta said.

  “Ah! So you did find her.” Agatha scratched Pestilence
behind his ears. “I patched him up as best as I could; there’s a first-aid kit in the panic room.”

  “But no telephone?” Dawkins asked.

  “It hasn’t been installed yet,” Agatha said. “I only purchased this apartment six months ago, and the contractors haven’t finished all the work.” She looked up at the fireplace, and I spotted something I hadn’t noticed at first: a small, dark glass hemisphere attached to the wall. “But the closed circuit cameras are connected, so I was able to watch and listen while Truelove strolled around whistling ‘Mack the Knife.’”

  “He does that,” I said. My dad always whistled when he was thinking hard.

  “It was beyond irritating,” she said. “After he checked out both floors, he came back here and stared up into the camera.”

  “But he left all this priceless artwork!” Mrs. Sustermann asked. “What in heaven’s name was he looking for?”

  “Us,” I said. “He wants us.”

  “He explained that he wasn’t after me,” Agatha said, “but that he didn’t mind that I was hiding in there, watching, because now there’d be an audience when he delivered his prize to Evangeline Birk.”

  “That’s the name,” Greta’s mom said. “The same one Grendel used, the one Truelove mentioned.”

  “Does that mean she’s coming here?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself; I looked back over my shoulder like she might be there already. “We have to get out of here now.”

  The pink gym bag in Mrs. Sustermann’s arms writhed. “The glorious one is on her way! There will be no escape for you—just give yourselves up!”

  “Excuse me,” Dawkins said, taking the bag. He took three steps forward and swung the bag like a bowling ball, releasing it at the last moment so that it slid across the floor. The cat yowled as it disappeared into the other room. “To give us all a bit of privacy.”

  “Poor Grendel,” Greta said.

  “Agatha, how many can fit into that panic room of yours?” Dawkins walked over toward it. “It looks very small.”

  “Maybe two or three people? But then I’d have to leave the Dobermans—”

  “Mrs. Sustermann,” Dawkins said, waving her over. “We are going to need you to stay with our friend Agatha here until help arrives.”

  “The child?” Mrs. Sustermann asked, stepping inside the panic room. “Greta and I are happy to watch over her.”

  Agatha carried Pestilence back into the room and sat down in the chair with him on her lap. The other three dogs obediently crowded in.

  “You, Agatha, and the dogs will be safe in here until your husband and the rest of our friends arrive. Which will be very soon.”

  “But Greta—” Mrs. Sustermann said, stepping back out.

  “Will be with me and Ronan,” he said, blocking her. “We are very good at taking care of each other, but we’ll only be able to do that if we know you are safe.”

  “Please, Mom. The three of us can get away, but not if you’re with us. You’ll be okay in here,” Greta said, hugging Mrs. Sustermann again. “We’ll just find somewhere to hide out until help arrives.”

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Mrs. Sustermann said. “I haven’t liked any of tonight.”

  “I know,” Greta said, her face still tucked into her mom’s shoulder. “It’s not going to be like this forever, I promise.”

  But it was going to be like this forever, wasn’t it? I looked away.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on, but, well—I trust you.” She joined Agatha in the room, the dogs sitting around their legs. “This is cozy,” she said.

  And then Dawkins pushed the heavy door shut and held it while one bolt after another was turned. When he stepped away, you couldn’t tell there was a seam in the wall at all.

  The three of us headed for the front door.

  “Sammy,” I said into the Bluetooth necklace. “Did you catch all that?”

  There was no response.

  “Sammy? Are you still there?”

  “He’s probably in the cab with Diz,” Greta said. “On his way here.”

  “Let’s get out of this building,” Dawkins said, “phone up Diz, and meet them on the street.”

  The pink gym bag had come to rest against the side of the unconscious man in the entryway.

  Dawkins looked down at him and then the vase and brass bowl I’d used to knock him out. “You attacked him with home furnishings?”

  “Someone told me a Blood Guard can make just about anything into a weapon,” I said, shrugging.

  “Obviously a wise and rakishly handsome someone,” Dawkins replied, reaching for the door.

  But before he grabbed it, the doorknob rotated.

  The three of us stopped and stared.

  The knob twisted all the way, and someone on the other side pushed. But Greta and her mom had turned the deadbolt, and the door didn’t open.

  “Could it be Sammy and Diz?” Greta whispered.

  “They don’t have the elevator code,” Dawkins replied.

  “Maybe whoever it is will give up and leave,” I whispered.

  Dawkins shook his head. “Let’s just back away very quietly.”

  We’d taken two big steps when whoever was on the other side of the door started pounding on it, hard.

  “Burn it down!” commanded a woman’s voice.

  She was answered from behind us.

  From the gym bag.

  “In here!” the cat shouted. “The ones you seek are in here! Birrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk! ”

  CHAPTER 14

  A SLIPPERY SLOPE

  “Birk! Birk! Birk! Birk!” the cat shouted.

  “Second floor!” Dawkins hissed, pointing his sword at the circular iron staircase. He hooked the gym bag with his free hand as we ran.

  “Why bring it?” I asked.

  “The cat knows too much—it might tell them where Agatha is hiding,” Dawkins replied.

  At the top of the stairs was a sitting room lined on three sides by tall slanted windows.

  “That direction will be only bedrooms,” Dawkins said when I started toward a back hallway. “We are going out this way.” He went to the windows and opened a set of French doors, and a cold wind gusted into the room, whipping the gauzy curtains like streamers.

  Agatha’s apartment occupied the top two stories of the peaked south tower of the apartment building, and the balcony looked out over Central Park, a vast field of shadow with a few strings of lights crisscrossing it—roads and footpaths. Stretching out beneath the balcony was the steep slope of the tower roof, and then a drop to the street fourteen stories below.

  “No escape this way,” Greta said.

  “Guess not,” I said, looking over Greta’s shoulder. I gripped the doorjamb so tightly my fingers hurt.

  “Don’t worry, Ronan,” Dawkins said, stepping back inside. “I’m not going to throw you off the balcony.”

  He went left and threw open another set of French doors, then stepped out onto that balcony, and announced, “Perfect! Between this tower and the north tower is the flat rooftop of the apartment building. If we can get down there, we can descend the fire escape to the street, and then hide ourselves in that big park over yonder.”

  “How are we supposed to get down to that fire escape?” I asked. “We’re up here, and it’s way down there.”

  He didn’t answer, just ducked in and grabbed the gym bag.

  “Birk!” the cat coughed. “Birkity Birk Birk!”

  Dawkins smiled. “It looks to be about a one-and-a-half-story drop from the tower eaves to the main rooftop. So we hop over the balcony railing, slide down the slates, catch ourselves at the edge, and then carefully climb down to the roof below.”

  I took a step backward into the room. “I don’t like this plan.”

  “High time to get over this newfound fear of heights, Ronan.” He raised up the pink gym bag. “The cat will test it first,” he said, setting the bag on the slate roof tiles on the other side of the railing.

  The bag slid away f
ast. At the bottom edge of the tower roof, it vanished; I could just barely hear the possessed cat’s infuriated yowl.

  “Looks safe enough to me,” Dawkins said, taking Greta’s hand. He reached back for mine, but I stepped away. “Ronan, come on!”

  A sound carried up the stairs—of wood splintering, a door being kicked in, maybe; of death and destruction headed our way. I glanced back.

  That was when Dawkins lunged, tucked his left shoulder into my gut, and lifted me.

  “You said you weren’t going to throw me out the window!”

  “Shush,” he said, swinging his right leg over the railing. “Obviously I was lying.”

  The wind was fiercer on this side of the tower, pushing at us as he brought his other leg over and stood on the wrong side of the balcony railing.

  Over his shoulder, I could see back through the open balcony door into the apartment. No one had appeared at the top of the stairs yet. Maybe they hadn’t actually managed to get through the front door. Maybe there was a place to hide in the tower itself. “It’s not too late to go back inside.”

  “Greta? Take my hand,” Dawkins said. “On three. One …”

  She climbed the railing and stood next to us, her red hair whipping in the wind. She took his right hand with her left. “Sorry, Ronan.”

  “Two …”

  “Why are you always carrying me?” I said as Dawkins hit three and the two of them hopped from the balcony onto the slate.

  We went a lot faster than a cat in a gym bag.

  Maybe it was the wind pushing us, or the sharp slant of the tower roof, or the greasy, slippery grime coating the slate tiles, but we zoomed away. I watched the bright windows of the balcony grow small behind us, like my dad’s face in my dream.

  “Too fast,” I wheezed.

  “We’re going too fast!” Greta echoed.

  “I’ll slow us down,” Dawkins said, kicking his legs to one side and turning facedown. In the process, I slipped off his shoulder, bounced hard on my back, then rolled right over him.

  There are probably hundreds of things a person can do to stop himself when tumbling downhill, but I couldn’t think of any of them. I just hyperventilated, squeezed my eyes shut, and waited to die.