Ashley smiled and started past him. “Got it.”
“I mean it,” he said, following her. “No more than two minutes.”
“Yes, two minutes. I promise.”
seventeen
Now that the man has got my full attention, he smiles. He takes a few steps back, sets the briefcase down, places the gun on one of the tables, picks up a book, and begins flipping through it.
“You really enjoy working here?”
I don’t answer.
“Seems rather stuffy. Doesn’t mold grow around all this paper?”
Again, I don’t speak.
He sets the book aside, reaches into his pocket, extracts a silver lighter. He pops the top open with his thumb, uses the thumb to flick the flint. Sparks ignite first, then a small flame.
“Tell me, have you ever imagined what it would be like to die in a fire?”
I glance once more at the computer screen, at my sister’s suicide email. “She didn’t really do it, did she?”
The man holds the lighter up to his face, staring at the quivering flame. “Your question assumes I know who she is, and what it is supposed to be. But, taking a stab in the dark, I’m guessing you mean your sister, and whether or not she shot her family before stepping off the roof of her building. Am I correct?”
I don’t answer.
The man smiles again. “You may think your silence shows you’re tough, or some such ridiculousness, but we both know I’m right. The truth is, John, you were supposed to die first. Fortunately for you, you were given an extra day of life. Tell me, how did you use those extra twenty-four hours?”
“Did you jack my wheels?”
“Not me personally, no. But yes, that was us.”
“Who’s us?”
The man ignores my question. “You surprised us, by the way. We figured you would take a taxi. We had one on standby just in case. But then you headed to the train station. We had to follow you down there, then make the split second decision of giving you that extra push when you got close enough to the platform. Obviously, the push was timed a little too early.”
“Did you steal my package, too?”
Another smile. “That really fucked with your head, didn’t it? Got you in trouble with your boss, if I’m not mistaken.”
“They lost the account.”
The man shakes his head slowly, making a tsking noise with a tongue. “Such a pity, and yet I don’t care.”
He picks up another book off the table, holds it above the flame. He walks over to the closest bookshelf and sets the burning book on the bottom shelf. Within seconds, the fire begins to spread.
Turning back, he says, “Now, John, I’m going to give you a choice. We can either do this the hard way or the easy way. I normally don’t like saying that, because it sounds too Hollywood, but quite honestly, this is how it’s going to work.”
He picks up the briefcase, sets it on the table, unsnaps the locks, and opens the top.
I can’t see everything he has inside that briefcase, not from where I’m standing, but I recognize the syringe he holds up immediately. He takes a small vial from the briefcase, inserts the syringe into the top, pulls back on the stopper until he’s extracted nearly half the bottle. He taps the syringe before pushing the stopper a bit, just enough to spritz out some of the clear fluid.
“This is a heavy sedative. It will knock you out. It will stop your heart. It will be just like you’re going to sleep, completely painless. By the time the fire gets to you, you won’t feel a thing.”
Speaking of the fire, the flames have spread quickly. The entire shelf has gone up, and now the fire is working down the line. A heavy cloud of smoke has started to spread across the ceiling. Better late than never, one of the smoke alarms goes off, followed by another, then another.
“So what do you want to do here, John, the easy way or the hard way?”
“What’s the easy way?”
He steps forward, places the syringe on the counter. “I stand here, keep my gun aimed at you, while you inject yourself.”
“And the hard way?”
“You refuse to inject yourself, so I make you very uncomfortable before I inject you. As you can see, the end result is the same.”
Behind him, the flames grow even hungrier. The smoke becomes thicker. The fourth and final smoke alarm goes off, joining the frantic chorus. I think of all the years this bookstore has been in business. I think of all the rare books here, all the thousands and thousands of dollars. I think of Jim, how this is his store and life, and I think of Kyle, how this is the only job he has to support himself and his dying wife, and I look the man straight in the eye and say two words.
“Fuck you.”
The man laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Shaking his head, he says, “All right then, the hard way it is.”
He starts to raise his gun at me but pauses almost immediately. Something changes in his face. His brow furrows slightly. He turns his head toward the front of the store, and I can see a tiny earpiece snuggled in his ear.
“Shit,” he mutters, and swings the gun toward the door, just as through the window feet appear coming down the steps.
In seconds the bell will jingle, and whatever hapless customer coming to peruse the rare and used books will be killed by this madman.
I can’t let that happen.
I won’t let that happen.
And so that’s why I grab the thick book of Aztec and Mayan culture on the counter in front of me and fling it at the man’s head.
eighteen
Jeff headed down first. The reason, Ashley thought, was so he could hold the door for her-always a gentleman, that Jeff-but before he even reached for the doorknob, he paused and turned back to her, his expression incredulous.
“The place is on fire.”
Before she could speak, a gunshot sounded out inside the store.
Glass shattered.
Ashley screamed.
Jeff’s eyes went wide, yelling at her to hurry back up the stairs. He started to take a step forward and then his body jerked, his neck snapped back, blood erupted everywhere.
Still screaming, Ashley started back up the steps. It wasn’t easy in her heels, and in her panic, she slipped and fell. She managed to grab the railing at the last moment, but already her knee scraped against the step, drawing blood. She scrambled back to her feet and looked up toward street level.
A man was at the top-big, bald, broad-shouldered-and he was currently barreling down toward her. He wore a jacket, and as he tore down the steps, his hand reached in and came back out with a small machine gun.
Gunshots sounded out again behind her.
She wasn’t sure which way to flee now-up or down. Either way promised danger.
The bald man made things easier for her. The stairs were narrow and he wasn’t slowing down. It was clear, too, his focus wasn’t on her, but rather the door leading into the bookstore. Still, his giant bulk made it impossible for him to slip past her unmolested, and she found herself pressed against the railing, still screaming, until she realized the man had passed her.
She tried scrambling back up the stairs but slipped again, this time failing to grasp the railing and sliding back down the steps. Something immediately broke her fall, and it wasn’t until she turned over that she realized it was Jeff. He was clearly dead, his eyes half open and blank, blood pouring out of the back of his head where he’d been shot.
Inside the bookstore, more gunfire erupted, and smoke fought its way through the broken glass.
Ashley knew she needed to get back up to the street. That was where there was safety. That was where the police would come to save her.
Currently she was too hysterical to cry. She didn’t even have the mindset to let loose another scream. She simply stared up at the top of the steps, knowing that was where she now needed to be.