The bullhorn blared, unattended, as the inspector’s body slumped through the half-open window and Miriam, seeing her chance, ducked and darted across the room, avoiding the lit spaces on the floor, to fetch up beside Burgeson.
“I think they want you alive,” he said, a death’s-head grin spreading across his gaunt cheekbones. “Can you get yourself out of here?”
“I can get us both out—” She fumbled with the top button of her blouse, hunting for the locket chain.
“After how you were last time?”
Miriam was still looking for a cutting reply when the bullhorn started up again. “If you come out with your hands up we won’t use you for target practice! That’s official, boys, don’t shoot them if they’ve got their hands up! We want to ask you some questions, and then it’s off to the Great Lakes with you if you cooperate. That’s also a promise. What it’s to be is up to you. Full cooperation and your lives! Hurry, folks, this is a bargain, never to be repeated. Because you’re on my manor, and Gentleman Jim Reese prides himself on his hospitality, I’ll give you a minute to think about it before we shoot you. Use it carefully.”
“Were you serious about waiting around for your friends?” Burgeson asked ironically. “Is a minute long enough?”
“But—” Miriam took a deep breath. “Brace yourself.” She put her arms around Erasmus, hugging him closely. His breath on her cheek smelled faintly stale. “Hang on.” She dug her heels into the floor and lifted, staring over his shoulder into the enigmatic depths of the open locket she had wrapped around her left wrist. The knot writhed like chain lightning, sucking her vision into its contortions—then it spat her out. She gasped involuntarily, her head pulsing with a terrible, sudden tension. She focused again, and her stomach clenched. Then she was dizzy, unsure where she was. I’m standing up, she realized. That’s funny. Her feet weren’t taking her weight. There was something propping her up. A shoulder. Erasmus’s shoulder. “Hey, it didn’t—”
She let go of him and slumped, doubling over at his feet as her stomach clenched painfully. “I know,” he said sadly, above her. “You’re having difficulty, aren’t you?”
The bullhorn: “Thirty seconds! Make ’em count!”
“Do you think you can escape on your own?” Burgeson asked.
“Don’t—know.” The nausea and the migraine were blocking out her vision, making thought impossible. “N-not.”
“Then I see no alternative to—” Erasmus laid one hand on the doorknob “—this.”
Miriam tried to roll over as he yanked, hard, raising the pistol in his right hand and ducking low. He squeezed off a shot just as Gentleman Jim, or one of his brute squad, opened fire: clearly the Polis did things differently here. Then there was a staccato burst of fire and Erasmus flopped over, like a discarded hand puppet.
Miriam screamed. A ghastly sense of déjà vu tugged at her: Erasmus, what have you done? She rose to her knees and began to raise her gun, black despairing fury tugging her forward.
There was another burp of fire, ominously rapid and regular, like a modern automatic weapon. That’s funny, she thought vacantly, tensing in anticipation. She managed to unkink her left hand, but even a brief glance at the locket told her that it was hopeless. The design swum in her vision like a poisonous toadstool, impossible to stomach.
Erasmus rolled over and squeezed off two more shots methodically. Miriam shook her head incredulously: You can’t do that, you’re dead! Someone screamed hoarsely, continuously, out behind the station. Shouts and curses battered at her ears. The hammering of the machine gun started up again. Someone else screamed, and the sound was cut short. What’s going on? she wondered, almost dazed.
The shots petered out with a final rattle from the machine gun. The silence rang in her ears like a tapped crystal wineglass. Her head ached and her stomach was a hot fist clenched below her ribs. “Erasmus,” she called hoarsely.
“Miriam. My lady, are you hurt?”
The familiar, crystal-clear voice shattered the bell of glass that surrounded her. “Brill!” she cried.
“My lady, are you alone in there?”
Urgency. Miriam tried to take stock. “I think so,” she managed. “I’m with Erasmus.”
“She’s not hurt, but she’s sick,” Burgeson called out. He shuffled backwards, into the shadowy interior of the waiting room, still clutching his pistol in his hand. He focused on Miriam. “It’s your girl, Brill, isn’t it?” he hissed.
“Yes,” she choked out, almost overwhelmed with emotion. He’s not dead! More than half a year had passed since that terrible moment in Fort Lofstrom, waiting beside Roland’s loose-limbed body, hoping against hope. And Brill—
“Then I suggest we move out of here at once!” Brilliana called. “I’m going to stand up. Hold your fire.”
“I’m holding,” Erasmus called hoarsely.
“Good. I’m coming in now.”
Another wild goose chase, Judith told herself gloomily. No sooner had she gotten back to the serious job of shadowing Mike Fleming like he was the president or something, no sooner had she managed to breathe a series of extended gasps of relief at the news—that Source GREENSLEEVES fingerprints had been all over the casing and it was missing from inventory and Dr. Rand had punched in the PAL code and switched it off without any drama, and all the other weapons in its class were present and accounted for—than the colonel came down with his tail on fire and a drop everything order of the day: absolutely typical. “Leave a skeleton team on site and get everyone else up here now,” he said, all trace of his usually friendly exterior gone. Crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there the week before. Something’s eating him, she’d realized, and left it to Rich Hall to ask what the rush job was and get his head bitten off.
Which was why, four hours later, she was sitting in the back seat of an unmarked police car behind officers O’Grady and Pike, keeping an eye on a strip mall and a field with a big top in it and a sign saying HISTORY FAIRE outside.
“What is it we’re supposed to be looking for, ma’am?” Pike asked, mildly enough.
“I’ll tell you when I see it.” The waiting was getting to her. She glanced once more at the laptop with the cellular modem and the GPS receiver sitting next to her. Seven red dots pocked the map of Concord like a disease. Updated in real time by the colonel’s spooky friends Bob and Alice, no less, the laptop could locate a phone to within a given GSM cell…but that took in the mall, the field, and a couple of streets on either side. “There are tricks we can play with differential signal strength analysis to pin down exactly where a phone is,” Smith had told her, “but it takes time. So go and sit there and keep your eyes peeled while we try to locate it.”
The mall was about as busy—or as quiet—as you’d expect on any weekday around noon. Cars came, cars went. A couple of trucks rumbled past, close enough to the parked police car to rock it gently on its suspension. O’Grady had parallel-parked in front of a hardware store just beside the highway, ready to move.
“We could be here a while,” she said quietly. “Just as long as it isn’t a wild goose chase.”
“I didn’t think you people went on wild goose chases,” said Pike. Then she caught his eye in the rearview mirror. He reddened.
“We try not to,” she said dryly, keeping her face still. Her FBI credentials were still valid, and if anyone checked them out they’d get something approximating the truth: on long-term assignment to Homeland Security, do not mess with this woman. “We’re expecting company.”