"Are you looking for the train?"
She swiveled around and gaped at Aidan in the doorway. He closed the door behind him. "You have the train token, Sydney. I gave it to you."
Joe had gotten Eli into a wheelchair and rolled him down the hall to Luis's room so they could keep each other company for a while. After what they'd been through together, they were like old army buddies. Joe had caught a taxi outside the hospital, and was now on his way to Rikki Cosgrove's address. But there were traffic problems, and Sydney wasn't answering her cell.
As he sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the back of that smelly cab, Joe began to wonder about that burnt little boy china figurine Sydney had found on Eli's bed. He began to wonder--if heroes were being murdered--whose life had Aidan Cosgrove ever saved?
"I wanted you to see those photos, Sydney," Aidan said. "I wanted you to see the extent of my mother's abuse." He stood between her and the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a white button-down shirt, untucked. His stance wasn't threatening, and yet Sydney knew he wouldn't let her leave.
Aidan had been manipulating her all this time. He'd played her perfectly. And just in case she still hadn't realized how he'd trapped her, he'd left her one final clue--the Monopoly game. Every time there was a slight breeze, more loose bills drifted across the carpeted floor.
Aidan's eyes stayed riveted on her. "I supported my mother--and her various scumbag boyfriends--with my modeling," he explained. "But I was still their punching bag. My mother said I deserved what I got, because I was a smart ass." He chuckled cynically. "She blamed me for the fact that she could never keep a man."
He nodded toward the coffee table. "One of the modeling people discovered what was being done to me, and she took those Polaroids for child protective services. They couldn't make the charges stick against Rikki and her current flame at the time, but it sure as shit ended my legitimate modeling career. Oh, I still got some assignments from time to time, but it was never the same.
"Then there was the fire, and that finished my modeling days for good. But you have to hand it to Rikki. She still used me to raise money--parading around her broken, scarred, burn-victim poster child. And you helped her. I was a cash cow for my worthless mother--and for you, too, Sydney. It's because of me you went into the hero business."
"I was trying to help you, Aidan," she murmured.
"Well, you didn't," he said evenly. "My life just got shittier. After the fire, I was still getting the crap kicked out of me by Rikki and her boyfriends, only it was worse. I was in constant pain from my back injury. And my dear, sweet mother was taking--or selling--all my pain medications."
Sydney was devastated by these revelations. She felt so sorry for him, but that didn't make her any less afraid and revolted. "I haven't talked with your mother in years, have I?" she asked. "It was you who called me this weekend, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yes, Sydney," Aidan said--in his mother's weak, whiny voice. He smiled a little.
Sydney remembered finding Rikki Cosgrove rotting away in her deathbed. The dying woman could barely talk. And yet, an hour before she'd been strong enough to call and ask her to come over. Why hadn't she realized it then?
"That story I told you about the woman in San Francisco is true," Aidan said, stepping closer to her--backing her toward the window. "Thanks to this rich bitch, I used to fly up here and look after my mother on weekends. Once she became immobile and helpless, I stayed on full time. I did a good enough job imitating my mother on the phone and through the door so no one knew how ill she really was. And I let her rot. I starved her. She was in a lot of pain, but I didn't give her any medication. I pretended to come and go on weekends, but for the last few weeks I've been here the whole time, watching her die--and thinking of you, Sydney."
"But why go after me--and all these people who never did you any harm at all?" Sydney asked. "For God's sake, I saved your life, Aidan."
"I didn't want to be saved, Sydney," he growled. "I wanted to die. I started the fire that day--on purpose. I was going to kill my mother. I planned to watch her burn, and then I was going to jump out the window--to my own death. But you had to play the hero. So what happened? I was left scarred, and in constant pain. And my mother just kept making money off me and letting her boyfriends slap me around. It was worse than being dead, Sydney. I would have been better off if you hadn't interfered. You're responsible for all those years I suffered after the fire. But you made out all right, didn't you? Hell, you made more money off me than my mother did."
Stunned, Sydney kept staring at him. She had tears in her eyes. She remembered calling to young Aidan as he'd stood out on the ledge of that burning building. She'd asked if anyone else was in the apartment with him, and the frightened child had shaken his head. And at that press conference--her first time meeting and talking with him--that burnt, broken little boy had whispered to her: "I really, really tried not to land on you. I didn't expect you to catch me."
Part of her wanted to reach out to him--and reason with him. But she didn't dare. She stole a glance out the window, hoping to see Joe down there. But there was no sign of him. She looked at Aidan again. "Please, Aidan, there's already been too much killing and suffering. I know you've had a raw deal, but that's no reason..." She could see he wasn't listening. He was looking past her--at the window.
Sydney quickly glanced over her shoulder; still no sign of Joe.
"Listen to me," she said. "If you turn yourself in and tell your story to the police, they'll probably be more lenient with you, maybe even get you some help...."
"Did you call Joe?" he asked. "Is that why you keep looking out the window? Are you waiting for him to show up?"
Sydney sighed. She locked eyes with him and nodded. "Yes. And he'll probably have the police with him--"
"No, not your Joe. He'll come alone, because he needs to play the hero." Aidan reached back and pulled a gun out from under his shirttail. "I'm afraid Joe won't be able to save you, Sydney. But I am giving you a chance to be a hero today..."
Backing up, Aidan kept the gun trained on her as he took a can of charcoal-starter out of the front closet. He handed the can to her. "Squirt some of this on the carpet and around the bedroom doorway," he said.
Sydney didn't move. She realized what he'd planned for her. She'd saved him from burning to death; so now she would die in a fire.
"Do it," he growled, eyes narrowed at her. "Or do I have to? You know, I might just spray you with this stuff, Sydney. Strike a match, and do you know how fast you'd be engulfed in flames? Would you like that?"
She reluctantly complied and squeezed the tin can. A braided line of charcoal starter shot from the spout, soaking the ugly beige carpet and dripping down the doorway frame to Rikki's bedroom.
"Squirt some over there," Aidan said, pointing to the bedroom's carpeted floor. He led her into the bedroom. "And get the mattress, too. You know, I've always been fascinated with fire. Kind of funny, coming from a burn victim, isn't it? But I think that just made me respect fire even more. Hit the wall around the bathroom door. That's it, get it real good..."
The sharp smell of charcoal starter began to overwhelm her. But Sydney followed his orders, and prayed Joe might get here on time--with backup. With her free hand, she furtively felt the outline of the pepper-spray canister in her pocket.
Keeping the gun at her head, Aidan opened the bathroom door and switched on the light.
Sydney gasped.
Lying unconscious in the tub was a half-naked young brunette. Her lip was bleeding, and her hands and feet had been bound with a black cord. Around her in the tub were wads of rolled-up newspaper. "Sydney, meet Jill," Aidan said. "She works at the flower shop. She's a very sweet girl, twenty-two years old. She wants to be a teacher, because she's crazy for kids. We had a date this morning, and she told me all about herself. Squirt some of that stuff on Jill, and make sure you soak the paper around her."
"No," Sydney said. "That's enough, Aidan. It's over..."
> "Don't pull that strong-lady shit on me," he hissed, directing the gun at Jill. "Do what I tell you or I swear to God, I'll shoot her right now."
Tears in her eyes, Sydney swallowed hard and finally obeyed him. Her hand shook horribly as she squirted the flammable liquid around the helpless young woman. She kept trying to think of a way to distract him so she could reach for her pepper spray.
"Jill and I are offering you the opportunity to be a hero again, Sydney," he said. "You don't have a very good chance of getting out of here alive once I start the fire. Your leg is a bit of a hindrance, too. And if you do live, no doubt you'll get burned--badly. There will be scars and pain. Maybe you'll finally have an idea of what I endured for years and years. But I know you, Sydney. You'll want to rescue Jill, which will delay your escape, and then--well, if the two of you don't die in this fire, you'll both wish you had."
Horrified, Sydney glanced at the unconscious woman in the tub. Aidan was right, because all she could think about was rescuing her. Maybe if she turned on the shower and doused the young woman with water, she could get her through the blaze with only a few minor burns.
But then Sydney saw that he'd pried off the hot and cold water knobs, and her heart sank.
"C'mon, there's more to do," Aidan said, nodding toward the bathroom door.
Biting her lip, Sydney gave one last look at the young woman in the tub. As Aidan led her back toward the living room, she felt the soaked carpet squishing beneath her feet. Her hand strayed toward her pocket.
He stopped in front of the coffee table, where he'd set out the family album for her to find--along with those awful Polaroids and his old modeling shots and contact sheets.
"Did you like my pictures, Sydney?" he asked. "Wasn't I a beautiful kid?"
Nodding, she inched her fingers into her pocket. "Of course you were, Aidan."
"Take some of those eight by tens and the contact sheets and roll them up for me, real tight--so it's like a baton."
Reluctantly, Sydney took her hand out of her pocket. She put down the can of charcoal starter and did what he'd told her to do. She realized she was making a torch for him.
"All right, now, soak one end of it in the charcoal starter," he said. "I never did like any of those pictures. They just reminded me of how she used me."
Sydney squirted more of the flammable liquid on the rolled-up photos. The smell of it was starting to make her ill. All the while, she heard a sound from down the corridor: the elevator humming. Maybe Joe was on his way.
Aidan watched her every move. "Okay, now, put down the charcoal starter and hand me the baton you just made."
Trembling, Sydney complied. In the distance, she could hear the elevator doors whoosh open, and then a faint ping.
Aidan grinned. "Well, I think that might be your Joe to the rescue..."
"Joe, watch out!" she screamed. "It's a trap! He's got a gun--"
Before she could get another word out, Aidan slammed the butt of his revolver against the side of her head.
Stunned, Sydney fell to the floor. It took a moment for her to focus again. She blinked and saw Aidan hovering by the half-open door, the homemade baton in one hand and his gun poised in the other.
"Joe, look out!" she yelled.
Just then, he came to the doorway.
Aidan fired the gun twice. The loud shots reverberated in the near-empty living room. Joe darted back toward the corridor--out of sight. There was a heavy thumping from footsteps.
Sydney couldn't tell whether or not he'd been hit. Struggling to her feet, she reached for the pepper spray in her pocket. She still wasn't sure what had happened to Joe. But Aidan had tucked the gun under his arm and now set a lighter to the makeshift torch.
Lunging toward him, Sydney doused him with the pepper spray.
The torch-baton exploded and flames crawled up Aidan's arm. Shrieking in terror, he dropped the gun and the makeshift torch. The photos used to assemble it separated and fluttered around the room. Sections of carpet soaked with the charcoal starter now ignited, and the flames licked up at the walls. Screaming, Aidan hit his arm again and again to extinguish the fire eating away at his flesh. He weaved over toward the window and tried to smother the flames with the curtains.
Sydney spotted the revolver on the floor, and she dove for it.
The room filled with smoke, and a fire detector let out a shrill monotonous beep. The Monopoly money drifted around her--some of the bills were on fire.
Pulling herself up, Sydney glanced over toward the door. She still didn't know whether Joe was alive, dead, or wounded. She heard someone coughing, but it sounded like the woman in the bathroom. The smoke and flames in the next room had become so thick Sydney could barely see anything past the bedroom doorway. In all the confusion, she'd lost sight of Aidan.
Then she spotted him again--by the open window. His arm was charred and bloody. But he was staring at her, half-smiling.
Sydney aimed the gun at him, but she knew as well as he must have, she couldn't pull the trigger.
He just nodded at her, and then started out to the window ledge.
"No!" she screamed.
"You can't save me this time, Sydney," he said. "You can't even save yourself."
Aidan climbed out the eighth-story window, then pushed himself off the ledge.
For a few moments after that, everything was a blur. Someone set off the building's fire alarm. The shrill beeps and the constant ringing assaulted her ears. Black smoke swelled from the blaze in the bedroom, and yet Sydney blindly made her way in there--and then to the bathroom. Somehow, the flames hadn't moved across the tiled bathroom floor, but the room was swelteringly hot and red ashes darted around her like incendiary moths.
The young woman in the tub had managed to untie the black cord around her ankles, and now she struggled to her feet. But she was disoriented, and coughing from all the smoke.
Grabbing a robe off the hook on the bathroom door, Sydney plunged it in the toilet and then quickly wrapped it around the young woman.
Sydney felt a blast of heat as she led the girl out of the bathroom. Her hair was singed. Flames began to lash at her legs and arms. She could barely see anything in all the thick black smoke. She tried not to breathe it into her lungs. It felt as if she were being strangled.
Suddenly, someone covered her and the young woman with a blanket and guided them out of the bedroom's inferno. She knew it was Joe. Past the murky blackness and the shrill, deafening alarms, she sensed it was him. Joe led them toward the door. As they fled the smoke-filled apartment, the blanket slipped and she finally glimpsed him. His face was scorched red in spots, and burn marks covered his arms.
Sydney clung to him as they hurried toward the stairwell with the young woman. The stairs were crammed with people making their escape. Coughing and gagging, Sydney couldn't quite get a breath. "Just another couple of flights, honey!" she heard Joe scream. But she could barely hear him over the alarm--and now, sirens. They finally made their way outside, where fire engines sped up the street.
Sydney coughed and coughed until she spit up a black bilelike substance. Everything hurt. Her eyes had dried up, and she kept blinking so she could focus on what was happening around her. She saw the dazed young woman plop down on the little stretch of lawn in front of Rikki's building.
A bit farther down, she noticed Aidan's broken body sprawled on the sidewalk. Sydney winced. The poor, abused, little boy who had wanted to die fourteen years ago had finally realized his ambition.
"You okay, honey?" she heard Joe ask.
Nodding, Sydney at last caught her breath. She wiped some soot away from her face and worked up a smile for him.
It looked as if Joe was trying to smile back at her. But he started to cough. Blood spilled over his lips.
Panic-stricken, Sydney stared at him, and for the first time she noticed the bloodstain on his shirt--along with a small hole, where the bullet had ripped through to his stomach. He staggered forward, and she caught him in her arms.
"I--I'm sorry," he gasped.
Under his weight, Sydney collapsed to the ground, but she managed to sit up and cradle him in her arms. "Oh, no, no, no," she cried, rocking him.
"Tell Eli I'm sorry, too," he whispered.
Sydney kissed his forehead and touched his cheek. She helplessly watched him slip away. She couldn't save him.
All she could do was hold on to Joe's hand as he took his last breath.
EPILOGUE
His room in the Spaulding Avenue house just didn't seem the same. Dressed in his khakis, white short-sleeve shirt, and a tie, Eli sat at the end of his old bed. His navy blue blazer was draped over the back of his desk chair. Though he'd only taken a few items to Seattle, the room seemed so empty now--and so quiet.
Yet he could still hear the bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace." They'd given his dad a policeman's funeral. At least a hundred patrolmen on motorcycles and another fifty patrol cars had escorted them from the church to All Saints' Cemetery. Their lights flashed and sirens wailed. Eli guessed there were a hundred more cops--all in blue shirts and ties--saluting his dad's casket at the gravesite. There were dozens of reporters and TV vans, too.
He and his mom managed to keep up a stoic front, but when those bagpipes began playing "Amazing Grace," Eli could see her starting to tear up and tremble. He took hold of her hand.
His other hand was out of commission, still in an arm sling from the bullet wound in his shoulder.
His dad's friend, Luis, had gotten out of the hospital and flown back to Chicago in time for the service. Uncle Kyle was there, of course, and so were Aunt Helen and Eli's twin cousins. His buddies, Brad and Tim, were there, too. They'd even hung out with him for a little while yesterday, but it had been kind of a strained reunion. They'd seemed a bit nervous around him--like they'd expected him to burst out crying at any minute. He couldn't really blame them, because he'd been worried about that himself. For now, Eli had managed to have his sudden crying jags when no one else was around. His buddies had wanted to hear all about Earl and Loretta Sayers and what it had been like getting shot. But Eli didn't want to talk about it.
Final Breath Page 39
