The car skidded to a stop and the man hurried around to the side to open the door. Jim didn’t argue as the man helped him drag Emma off the backseat, but he took her into his arms again to carry her towards a brick building not so dissimilar from the one that had exploded. “It’s right over there,” the man said and pointed to the building. He ran ahead of Jim to hold the door open. “To the left. The third door on the right.”
Jim ran in the direction indicated; the man dashed ahead of him again to throw the door open. Jim heard a woman’s voice say, “Hi, Coach, one of your players—oh my God!”
“Help her,” Jim said. He set Emma down gently onto a padded table. The woman whose voice he’d heard wore a white uniform, which Jim took to mean she must be the nurse.
“She was in the fire over by the dorms,” the man the nurse had called Coach said. “She must have breathed too much smoke.”
The woman picked up a Y-shaped instrument with a circle at one end. She pressed the circle to Emma’s chest while she put the other ends in her ears. Jim held Emma’s hand and waited for the nurse to do something. “It’s probably an asthma attack. A really bad one,” the nurse said.
“You help her?” Jim asked.
The nurse turned her back to rummage through a cabinet. “There should be a rescue inhaler in here. I’m not sure if it will work or not. We should call an ambulance.”
“No time!” Jim said. “Help her!”
“Here it is.” The woman held up what looked like a very large whistle to Jim. How that would help Emma he didn’t know. He gave Emma’s hand a squeeze as the woman stuck the whistle into Emma’s mouth and pushed down on the end of it. A hiss reminiscent of ratspeak was the only sound in the room.
The woman pushed down on the whistle four times and then straightened. “We have to give that a couple of minutes. That should be enough time to call for an ambulance. Coach, you might want to take your friend outside.”
Coach put a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Come on, pal, we’d better do as she says.”
“No! I no leave her! I stay.”
“Look, buddy, I’m sure you care about her, but—”
“I love her. I no leave her. Not ever.”
“I guess it’s all right if he stays,” the nurse said. She picked up a telephone receiver from the wall and punched in a number.
Jim didn’t listen to what she said as he concentrated on Emma’s face. It might be his imagination, but her skin seemed less purple now; it had downgraded to a shade of red. Her body still shuddered and her mouth still whistled as she tried to breathe, but she was better—he could feel it. She would make it. He bent down to whisper into her ear, “You no die.”
He had paid so much attention to Emma that he didn’t notice Coach slip out of the room until the man came back with two others in white shirts with silver badges on them. They didn’t carry guns, but Jim knew the oversized flashlights in their hands could easily knock him out. “I think you’d better step away from her, sir,” one of the policemen said.
“No. I no leave her.”
“Look, buddy, if you really want to help, you should get away from her and let the docs do their job,” Coach said.
“No. I not leave her,” he repeated. “Not ever.”
“Sir, you’ll have to come with us—”
The policeman didn’t get to finish as Jim sprung at him. The three men all had the advantage of size, weight, and strength, but he had the advantage of surprise and ferocity. The policeman who’d spoken only stared blankly as Jim stripped the flashlight away and used it to club the man over the head. He ducked as the other policeman swung his flashlight; Jim slammed his weapon into the man’s chin.
Coach had pressed himself back against the wall and held up his hands in surrender when Jim leveled the flashlight at him. “I’m sorry,” Coach said. “It’s just that—”
“You not take her from me! No one take her from me! Not ever.”
Jim kept his flashlight aimed at Coach, but the man backed away. He turned back to the table and saw it was no illusion—Emma was getting better. He tucked the flashlight into his belt to scoop her off the table; he didn’t have long before more police showed up to take him away.
Before he left, the nurse called after him to wait. He thought she might try to stop him, but she tucked the strange whistle into a pocket of Emma’s sweater. “You give her four squirts of that every few minutes until she can breathe without difficulty.” The nurse had tears in her eyes as she said, “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” he said and then bolted from the room with Emma in his arms.
***
A paramedic tried to fit an oxygen mask to Captain Donovan’s face, but she waved him away. She had more than enough breath to bark at Cielo, “I want that man found.”
“What man?”
“The goddamned Sewer Rat. He can’t have gotten too far with the girl. Just follow the smell—or look for that huge fucking rat of his.”
“That might be a problem, ma’am,” Cielo said.
“Don’t give me any bureaucratic shit right now. Just get some units to seal off the campus. And get some city workers to start looking in the sewers.” She reached into her pocket for a stick of gum, but it had become fused with the lining of her jacket, which itself had numerous holes from the fire. She took the jacket off and threw it to the ground.
How could she have let him get away with Megan Putnam? She should have cuffed him up on the third floor or at least insisted on taking the girl herself. Had she been behind a desk so long that she’d missed something so obvious?
Donovan collapsed onto the back bumper of Cielo’s car and put a hand to her face. She couldn’t help but imagine what the Sewer Rat would do to that helpless girl. He’d probably take her down to wherever he kept his lair—she imagined it looked like something out of Phantom of the Opera—where he’d tie her up and have his way with her while his rat buddies looked on. That was probably the best case scenario; she stopped herself before she imagined the worst case scenarios.
When she looked back up, she saw Cielo hadn’t moved. “Something wrong with you, Lieutenant? I thought I gave you an order.”
“I was trying to say, Cap, we can’t do it.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“All of our units are being called out to handle the bombings.”
“Bombings? What bombings?” Her jaw went slack as he ran down the list of a dozen targets around the city; they ranged from a post office in the Trenches to an office building in Executive Plaza to a shipping company by the waterfront. “Jesus Christ.”
Since 9/11 the Rampart City Police Department had held numerous drills to prepare for a terrorist attack. Those drills included a plane crash into Robinson Tower, a car packed with explosives going off in front of city hall, and a backpack bomb detonated on the subway. All of those scenarios had assumed one terrorist attack; from what Cielo said, they had at least a dozen, all coordinated to go off at the same time.
Donovan stared at the flaming hulk of the college dorm. “What time did those other bombs go off?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
She nodded to herself. That time fell right into line with when she’d felt the ground shake beneath her feet, as if from an earthquake—or an explosion. “Get on the phone and tell whoever’s running the show that we got number thirteen right here.”
“You’re sure, Cap?”
“Yes.” She kicked at the ground with her boot, which had survived mostly intact. “When you’re done, find me a fucking stick of gum, would you?”
“Sure thing, Cap.” She left Cielo to make the call while she replayed events in her mind. Why had the Sewer Rat shown up at the dorm for Megan Putnam at that exact moment? Almost as if he’d known it would happen. Did that mean he was involved somehow? She couldn’t imagine he could carry out a dozen coordinated bombings, but then again plenty of generals hadn’t thought a bunch of goat herders could blow up Hummers either. She thought about that huge rat with
him that had acted so docile around him. Maybe he’d trained some of his little buddies to carry homemade bombs and then sent them off to wreak havoc. But how could they have managed that kind of coordination?
If he were responsible, or at least partly responsible, the question became why he’d run into a burning building to save Megan Putnam. The girl wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t a Playboy centerfold either; if the Rat wanted a girl to take prisoner, why her? In the confusion he could have taken any one of two dozen other girls at least, most of whom were prettier and none of whom probably had Megan’s asthma. What was so special about her?
“Cap?” Cielo said. He held out the phone to her. “The commissioner’s on the line for you.”
“Great, just what I need,” she grumbled. As she took the phone, Cielo pressed a stick of gum in her hand. She saw it was Juicy Fruit, not her favorite brand by far. It was that kind of day. “Yes, sir, I’m here.”
As she listened to the commissioner lay out plans to bring in the National Guard to help secure the city and evacuate high-profile areas, she kept her thoughts about the Sewer Rat and Megan Putnam to herself. If she talked about a grubby man with a giant rat friend, the commissioner would have her committed. Though at this point the loony bin might be preferable.
***
In the freezer, Becky found a pint of rocky road ice cream. The ice crystals on top indicated it had been in there a long time, perhaps from when he was still married to Isis. No, that skinny bitch would never eat a pint of rocky road. She had been too pretty to console herself with food.
Becky had just settled onto a stool with the ice cream when she heard footsteps echo across the ballroom floor. The footsteps were far too heavy to be from Dan, even if he had reverted back to his normal body. No, these were the footsteps of someone very big and very heavy—and probably very angry as well.
She set down the pint of ice cream and eased off the stool. She grabbed the first weapon she could find—a cast-iron skillet that hung from an overhead shelf. The weight of the pan would be more than enough to give the source of those footsteps a nice headache.
She clutched the handle of the skillet tightly and squatted down behind the island in the middle of the kitchen to wait. The sound of the footsteps wasn’t enough to drown out her heart as she waited behind the island with her flimsy weapon. While the steps grew closer, the obvious question popped into her head: how had someone got in here? Had Sylvia let someone in? And did that mean Becky could get out?
These thoughts still ran through her head as the door opened. She peeked over the edge of the island and caught a glimpse of her attacker as he entered. She’d seen him before—or at least people who looked like him. That had been last year when she had switched bodies with Emma and Russian gangsters had taken Emma and Dan captive. This guy looked exactly as those had, except he carried an Uzi instead of an AK-47, not that it mattered in either case as she had only the frying pan.
Her suspicions were confirmed when the man growled something in Russian into the headset he wore. If she were lucky, he had reported the kitchen all clear and would move on to another room. She wasn’t that lucky, as the man continued to make his way across the room; he swept his gun from one side to the other, as if he expected an ambush.
He stopped at the pint of ice cream she’d left on the counter. He stuck a finger into the ice cream and then spoke into his headset again. Becky resisted the urge to curse out loud; he’d figured out that someone had been in the kitchen recently. He had probably radioed his buddies to tell them to all come down here to flush her out.
Her grip on the skillet tightened even further as the man approached the island. Becky took a deep breath, to steady her nerves. Last time she’d fought these Russians in the scarlet armor, invulnerable to their bullets. This time she would have to do it on her own. That or surrender, in which case she knew what would happen to her and Dan. These thugs would rape both of them before they were killed.
The Russian rounded the corner of the island, so close Becky could smell the sweat on him. Any moment he would turn the corner, see her there, and fill her full of lead. At least she could try to get in a lick with the skillet.
Before the man could find her, Becky heard something metal drop to the floor across the room. The man spun around to search for the source of the sound. That gave her the opening she needed.
Becky swung the skillet as hard as she could. Her aim was right on the money; the skillet came down on the back of the man’s head. The vibration from it ran all along her arm, but she managed to keep hold of the skillet. To her horror the Russian didn’t go down right away. He spun around and brought his weapon to bear—
She swung the skillet again, hitting him full in the face. This time he collapsed backwards onto the floor. She stood over him a moment, the bloody skillet still raised in her hand in case he tried to get up again.
A squeak drew her attention across the room. Someone else might have screamed at the sight of a three-foot rat on the counter, but she’d reluctantly grown used to the occasional visits of Emma’s “friend” Pepe. “You. How’d you get in here?”
The rat seemed to understand this question, as he leaped from the counter, onto the floor, and scurried into the ballroom. She set the skillet down on the island and replaced it with the fallen Russian’s Uzi before she followed the sound of Pepe’s claws clicking across the ballroom floor. She braced herself for another Russian to jump out at her, but there was no one.
In the foyer she saw how the rat had gotten in—and the Russians as well. One of the goons lay on the floor, unconscious. Tucked into his belt she saw a silver crowbar. The front door was ajar, no doubt forced open by the crowbar. Could it really have been that simple?
She started towards the doorway until she felt a stab of pain in her ankle. She looked down at the bracelet Sylvia had forced her to put on. The witch had promised the bracelet was full of explosives that would go off if Becky tried to leave the house. With a sigh, Becky knew even with an open door she was still trapped.
She thought of Dan asleep upstairs. She ran for the stairs with Pepe on her heels. At the top of the stairs, she found another unconscious Russian. She saw numerous tiny bites around his ankles and neck—rat bites. But there was no way Pepe could have done all of this by himself, not when he’d been in the kitchen with her, was there?
Her answer came when she reached the bedroom. Another Russian lay in the doorway, down for the count just like the others. Dan still lay peacefully on the bed, still asleep.
Dozens of rats swarmed around him.
Chapter 24
Though she didn’t want to worry her mother and Sophie more than they already were, Aggie didn’t show up for her classes that afternoon. In part she was afraid someone might go to the principal about her role in the fight with Glenda. Mostly she wanted to get Akako to safety before Glenda could try to finish the job.
The other kids were still too stunned by what they’d seen to intervene while Aggie took Akako in her arms to carry her out the side door. The little girl clung to her; she fell asleep as Aggie ran. She went as fast as she could until she reached the bleachers of the football stadium, where she set Akako on the ground.
Aggie said the words for a first aid spell to heal the cuts and bruises on Akako’s face. Nothing happened. She tried again, but still there was no difference. “Oh no,” she said. “I can’t be out already.”
When she had been a teenager the very first time, just a novice witch under her mother’s tutelage, she frequently overexerted her unstable power. She would usually pass out for a day or two before she recovered enough to try again. “Don’t be so greedy, Agnes,” Mother would tell her. “You can’t do everything at once. Think of your power like a flower growing inside you. You have to give it time to bloom.”
Agnes still didn’t listen. She didn’t want to wait to bloom; she wanted to be a witch, like Mother, Glenda, and the rest. In the privacy of her bedroom, she worked on her spells until she felt light-headed
, at which point Sophie would tell Mother on her.
It was the same thing now. She didn’t want to wait for her power to bloom. She wanted it back at its adult strength so she could heal Akako and then they could figure out a spell to use to get out of here. After a third attempt, she stamped her foot when nothing happened. “It’s not fair. Why won’t it work?”
Akako’s eyes fluttered open. Her voice sounded muffled by her swollen gums and probably some broken teeth as well. “Agnes, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’ve been better.” She put a hand to her head and then untied her remaining pigtail to shake her hair free. This made her look slightly older, more like the Akako Aggie remembered, the one she’d come to love after Red died. Akako looked around the bleachers with her one good eye and then back at Aggie. “What are we doing here?”
“I wanted to heal you, but it didn’t work. I’m out of power.” Aggie stared down at her useless hands. “I’m not even a novice yet.”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”
“When? By the time I graduate?”
Akako shrugged, no doubt because it hurt her to talk at the moment. Aggie winced at this thought; she realized how selfish she was to worry about her magic when Akako was in such sorry condition. She forced a smile to her face as she said, “I guess we’ll have to fix you up the old-fashioned way.”
The question became where to go. If they went to a hospital, the doctors and nurses would want to call their parents and then they’d both be in big trouble. Though Mother wouldn’t be at home, Aggie didn’t want to go there either in case Sophie showed up or asked Sylvia to swing by to look for her.
As if she’d read Aggie’s mind, Akako said, “We can go to my house. Daddy won’t be home from work for a few hours.”
Aggie bristled at the way Akako said this, as if Renee Kim had momentarily possessed her. “Are you sure? If he comes home early—”
Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Wrath of Isis Page 54
