While J. D. was distracted, the cops on the front steps had somehow opened one door — the one at the far left, as they faced it, the one that was designed for wheelchair access; perhaps the ROM security guard had given them the key. Two cops, safe behind riot shields, were now inside the vestibule. The inner doors didn’t lock — there was no need for that. One of the officers reached forward and must have touched the red button that operated the door for handicapped patrons. It swung slowly open. The cops were silhouetted by streetlamps and the revolving red lights of their vehicles out on the street.
“Stop where you are,” shouted J. D. across the Rotunda, its wide diameter separating our motley group from the cops. “We have hostages.”
The cop with the bullhorn was one of those now inside, and he felt compelled to keep using it. “We know the aliens aren’t real,” he said, his words reverberating in the darkened, domed Rotunda. “Put your hands up and come out.”
J. D. jerked his large gun at me. “Tell them who you are.”
With the shape my lungs were in, it was hard for me to shout, but I cupped my hands around my mouth and did the best I could. “I’m Thomas Jericho,” I said. “I’m a curator here.” I pointed at Christine. “This is Christine Dorati. She’s the museum’s director and president.”
J. D. shouted. “We get safe passage out of here, or these two die.”
The two cops hunkered down behind their riot shields. After a few moments of consultation, the bullhorn erupted again. “What are your terms?”
Even I knew he was stalling. Cooter looked first at the southern staircase, which led up, and then at the northern staircase, which led both up and down. He must have thought he saw something move — it could have been a mouse; a giant, old building like the museum has plenty of them. He fired a shot down the northern staircase. It hit the stone steps, jagged shards went flying, and —
And one of them hit Barbulkan, the second Forhilnor —
And Barbulkan’s left mouth made a sound like “Ooof!” and his right mouth went “Hup!”
And a carnation of bright-red blood exploded from one of his legs, and a flap of bubble-wrap skin hung loose from where the stone fragment had hit —
And Cooter said, “Holy God!”
And J. D. turned around, and he said, “Sweet Jesus.”
And they both apparently realized it at the same moment. The aliens weren’t projections; they weren’t holograms.
They were real.
And suddenly they knew they had the most valuable hostages in the history of the world.
J. D. stepped backward, moving behind the group; he’d apparently realized he’d been insufficiently covering the four aliens. “Are you all real?” he said.
The aliens were silent. My heart was jumping. J. D. aimed his submachine gun at the left leg of one of the Wreeds. “One burst from this gun will blow your leg right off.” He let this sink in for a moment. “I ask again, are you real?”
Hollus spoke up. “They” “are” “real.” “We” “all” “are.” A satisfied smile spread across J. D.’s face. He shouted to the police. “The aliens aren’t projections,” he said. “They’re real. We’ve got six hostages here. I want all of you cops to withdraw. At the first sign of any trick, I will kill one of the hostages — and it won’t be a human.”
“You don’t want to be a murderer,” called the cop over the megaphone.
“I won’t be a murderer,” J. D. shouted back. “Murder is the killing of another human being. You won’t be able to find anything to charge me with. Now, withdraw fully and completely, or these aliens die.”
“One hostage will do as well as six,” called the same cop. “Let five of them go, and we’ll talk.”
J. D. and Cooter looked at each other. Six hostages was an unwieldy group; they might have an easier time controlling the situation if they didn’t have to worry about so many. On the other hand, by having the six form a circle, with J. D. and Cooter at the center, they could be protected from sharpshooters firing from just about any direction.
“No way,” shouted J. D. “You guys — you’re like a SWAT team, right? So you must have come here in a van or truck. We want you to back off, far away from the museum, leaving that van with its motor running and the keys in it. We’ll drive it to the airport, along with as many of the aliens as will fit, and we want a plane waiting there to take us” — he faltered “well, to take us wherever we decide to go.”
“We can’t do that,” said the cop through his megaphone.
J. D. shrugged a little. “I will kill one hostage sixty seconds from now, if y’all are still here.” He turned to the man with the crew cut. “Cooter?”
Cooter nodded, looked at his watch, and started counting down. “Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.”
The cop with the bullhorn turned around and spoke to someone behind him. I could see him pointing, presumable indicating the direction to which his force should withdraw on foot.
“Fifty-six. Fifty-five. Fifty-four.”
Hollus’s eyestalks had stopped weaving in and out and had instead locked at their maximum separation. I’d seen her do that before when she had heard something that interested her. Whatever it was, I hadn’t heard it yet.
“Fifty-two. Fifty-one. Fifty.”
The cops were moving out of the glass vestibule, but they were making a lot of noise about it. The one with the bullhorn kept speaking. “All right,” he said. “All right. We’re withdrawing.” His magnified voice echoed through the Rotunda. “We’re backing away.”
It seemed to me he was talking unnecessarily, but —
But then I heard the sound Hollus had heard: a faint rumbling. The elevator, to our left, was descending in its shaft; someone had called it down to the lower level. The cop with the bullhorn was deliberately trying to drown out the sound.
“Forty-one. Forty. Thirty-nine.”
It would be suicide, I thought, for whoever would get in the car; J. D. could blow away the occupant as soon as the metal doors split down the middle and started to slide away.
“Thirty-one. Thirty. Twenty-nine.”
“We’re leaving,” shouted the cop. “We’re going.”
The elevator was coming back up now. Above the doors was a row of square indicator lights — B, 1, 2, 3 — indicating which floor the car was currently on. I dared steal a glance at it. The “1” had just winked out, and, a moment later, the “2” lit up. Brilliant! Either whoever was in the elevator had known about the balconies on the second floor, overlooking the Rotunda, or else the ROM’s own security guard, who must have let the police in, had told him.
“Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen.”
As the “2” lit up, I did my part to muffle the sound of the elevator doors opening by coughing loudly; if there was one thing I did well these days, it was cough.
The “2” was staying lit; the doors must have opened by now, but J. D. and Cooter hadn’t heard them. Still, presumably one or more armed cops had now exited onto the second floor — the one that housed the Dinosaur and Discovery Galleries.
“Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven.”
“All right,” called the ETF officer with the megaphone. “All right. We’re leaving.” At this distance I couldn’t tell if he was making eye contact with the officers on the darkened balcony. We were still by the elevator; I didn’t dare tip my eyes up, lest I give away the presence of the people on the floor above.
“Nine. Eight. Seven.”
The cops moved out of the vestibule, exiting into the dark night. I watched them sink from view as they headed down the stone steps to the sidewalk.
“Six. Five. Four.”
The red lights from the roofs of the cruisers that had been sweeping through the Rotunda started to pull away; one set of lights — presumably from the ETF van — continued to rotate.
“Three. Two. One.”
I looked at Christine. She nodded almost imperceptibly; she knew what was happening, too.