He stepped through the door into the dining room. The other thug lay dead on the floor in there. He lay on his back beside the dining table, his arms splayed, his mouth open, his eyes staring. That made Shannon feel a little better. He was glad he'd gotten to kill one of them at least.
He crossed the room quickly. He went to where the angel altarpiece lay smashed near the kitchen door. Without breaking stride, he stepped over the wreckage and went through to join Teresa and her family.
He brought them around to the front of the house, leading the way, holding the gun out before him with one hand and keeping the other on Teresa's arm. He led them to her car, a gray Ford, in the driveway. He stood guard as the three of them got inside. He opened the door-and just as he was about to lower himself behind the wheel, he heard a ragged scream from inside the house. It was a scream of unholy rage and frustration. It barely sounded human-barely even sounded animal to Shannon, but more like something subnatural, like some sound effect from a horror movie. As Shannon paused to listen, it came again, and then there came a string of terrible and Tourettic curses howled at full volume. There was a crash, another crash, the sound of glass shattering. Shannon saw Super-Pred stumble past the window as the gangster hurled a chair across the room in his fury. A light must have broken, because the front room flashed and went dark. Then, a moment later, there was another sound-a deep and airy utterance under the boy's raving-and a new, weirdly lightless light raced up over the walls, swift, giddy, and explosive, as if it were the living expression of the gangster's malice. He had torched the gasoline and set the house on fire.
Shannon got in the car and started the engine. As he backed out of the driveway, the blaze seemed to leap up around the white shingled house on both sides like two enormous red hands rising from the earth to grab hold of the place and drag it down.
At the same time, Super-Pred staggered out into the night, a small black figure against the great, red, rising flames. He had a gun in his hand and was firing wildly at the darkness as he went on screaming curses.
Shannon saw all this in the rearview mirror for another second or two. Then he guided the car around the corner, and there was nothing of it visible behind him but the orange glow against the blue-black sky, and that was quickly fading.
It was only one more of over fifty fires burning just then across the night city. SHANNON DROVE ON through the dark streets. The old man sat beside him. Teresa sat in back, cradling her son in her arms.
"You all right?" Shannon asked the old man.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. Where're we going?"
"How about you back there?"
"We're okay," said Teresa.
"Where're we going?" Applebee said again.
"I know a place," said Shannon. "Just hold on."
Then he drove in silence. He darted glances here and there, watching the street for danger. He caught the eyes of gangsters who looked up to check him out as he passed. He caught the eyes of whores and hustlers looking to deal. The scenes back in the house kept flashing in his mind. The bangers holding Teresa on the table. He was furious and ashamed, and he wished he had killed them all. It wasn't his fault this happened, he told himself. It was this guy Ramsey's fault-and Foster's fault, too, the seedy federal bastard who'd set him up. But it didn't matter what he told himself. He felt as if it was his fault anyway. He felt he had come to Teresa and her family and brought this down on them. It didn't matter how it happened. He felt as if it was all because of him.
"Where are we going, Mommy?" said the boy faintly in the back seat.
"Shh," she said. "Henry is taking us someplace safe."
"I want them to see a doctor," Applebee told Shannon.
Shannon nodded. He drove in silence.
He came onto a street of brooding darkness, old office buildings rising on either side. Most of their big, arched windows were dark, but here and there a light shone through thin curtains. Here and there, firelight flickered, too, as squatters on some abandoned floor huddled around a flame.
Shannon pulled the car to the curb and switched off the engine. Applebee glanced at him.
"I gotta go see someone," Shannon told him. "You all better come with me."
"Where are we, Mommy?" said the boy.
"Shh. I don't know."
Shannon got out and came around the rear of the car, scanning the street's shadows. The old man climbed out more slowly. Shannon opened the door for Teresa and held it as she slid out with the boy in her arms. When she set the child down on his own and straightened up, she faced Shannon and looked at him. It was not a hard look-or a soft look either. It was neither angry nor kind. She was just searching his face for an explanation.
He wanted to explain. He wanted to tell her it wasn't his fault. He wanted to tell her he was sorry because he felt like it was his fault even if it wasn't. There was no time to tell her everything he wanted to.
"My name is John Shannon," he said finally.
Teresa nodded, as if that were enough for now.
The lock on the building's front door was long broken. Inside, there were no lights working. It was nearly pitch black. Shannon had to feel his way to the stairs and whisper at the others to come to him. The little boy kept asking questions: "Where are we going, Mommy?" Teresa kept answering, "Shh. I don't know."
They climbed the stairs slowly in the dark, clinging to the rutted banister. It was eerily silent. When they reached the fourth-floor landing, they went down the hall, brushing their fingertips against the rough, pitted wall to feel their way. Shannon could see a dim light gleaming under the door at the end.
He reached the door. He remembered the coded knock and rapped it out with his knuckles. There was an instant response from the other side. A chair shifting. Quick, soft footsteps approaching. A whisper from within: "Who is it?"
"Shannon."
He heard the locks turn. Foster opened the door. He looked at Shannon. He looked at Teresa and her family.
He laughed and stood back to let them in.
At the far end of the stakeout loft, there was a small enclosure formed by plywood dividers. There was a card table in the enclosure and a couple of folding metal chairs. Shannon sat on one of the chairs and waited there alone, leaning forward, his hands clasped together between his knees. He could hear the voices on the other side of the dividers: Foster and one of his men-only the slick agent was in the loft tonight-talking to Teresa and to Applebee and the boy. After a while, he heard footsteps. He sat straight as Foster stepped into the opening between the dividers and came into the little room with him.
The small, narrow man was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened. His gun was in a shoulder holster. He was fidgeting, shifting his neck in his collar.
"We're going to take them to a doctor," he said. "We have a car coming to pick them up. They'll be safe."
Shannon nodded. "Thanks. I wasn't sure you'd still be here."
"We were going to close up shop first thing tomorrow."
"Well, happy days then. You're back in business."
Foster gave a series of quick, nervous expressions and gestures: smiles, shrugs, winces. Then he settled into the chair across from Shannon. After that, for once, he seemed to stop moving. He became unusually focused, his features unusually still.
"Okay," he said. "Let's hear it."
"I sent Ramsey a message," Shannon said. "I told him I'd deal."
Foster's eyes shifted once, away and back, as he took this in. Then he was still and attentive again. "Okay. You figure he'll get the message?"