She got to her feet, and over the roof of the Accord, sited down the men and the van.
Water streamed off the slide, the Glock’s polymer frame beaded with rain.
It was harder than she had imagined—much harder—summoning her voice.
“Stop! Seattle Police!”
The men didn’t flinch, didn’t react.
She yelled it again at the top of her voice.
They were almost to the van. In unison, they dropped to their knees and set the man in white on the wet pavement. One of their number rushed forward to the sliding door, fumbling with a set of keys.
His partners turned.
“Get on the ground!” Sophie yelled.
Never saw them draw.
A pair of muzzleflashes bloomed and the windows exploded.
She squeezed off six shots—no precision aiming, just panicked, general direction, not-wanting-to-die chaos fire—and then ducked behind the front passenger door.
The cold, wet pavement soaking through her pants.
Four gunshots echoed off the buildings, the rounds chinking into the metal of the Honda. Her ears still ringing, she peeked over the jagged range of glass sticking up out of the bottom of the door.
Grazer and Vincent had returned to the van where they were helping Talbert lift Moreton off the ground and stow him inside. She drew a bead on one of them, but she didn’t trust her aim with Moreton in the mix.
Two of the men disappeared with Moreton into the van and the last one—Grazer?—turned and fired three shots at the Accord. Sophie took cover behind the door again as air rushed out of the front tire on the other side, the car sagging forward and away from her.
She heard the van’s sliding passenger door ram shut.
Popped up, double-tapped at Grazer as he rushed around the hood of the van and piled in behind the wheel.
The engine started, and as Sophie ran out from behind the car, the tires spun on pavement for a split second, caught, and then launched the van across the parking lot.
Planting her feet shoulder-width apart, she aimed at the right, rear tire.
It was the only moment since rolling onto the hospital grounds that she’d possessed a shred of self-awareness. She made herself breathe. She saw that micron of space beyond the night sights that she knew was the tire. Saw the white puff of air as the bullet pierced the tread. Saw the van spin out of control. The cavalry arrive. Jim Moreton saved, his kidnappers in cuffs on the ground.
She fired.
She fired again.
And again.
And again and again and again.
The next time she squeezed the trigger, the slide locked back, smoke coiling off the exposed barrel of the Glock.
The van turned hard out of the parking lot, tires fully intact and squealing across the wet road. It straightened and accelerated, the engine winding up, RPMs maxed.
She’d missed.
Seven times.
And now Jim Moreton, father of the man she might possibly love, was going to die.
She stood in the rain, stunned by her failure.
Here came the sirens.
She started running toward her car.
Chapter 39
Grant started down the stairs, the blanket jostling in his arms. He could feel the creature wrapped inside vibrating like a tuning fork. It put out so much body heat that the blanket could have just come out of a dryer.
“What’s happening?” Paige asked, a few steps behind him.
“It’s ready to leave.”
“It told you that?”
He reached the bottom of the stairs and made his way across the foyer to the front door.
“Grant.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Talk to me.”
“I have to take it somewhere.”
“Where?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet.”
He turned and stepped into his boots. With his free hand, he grabbed the North Face jacket off the coat rack and draped it over his shoulder.
Paige arrived at the bottom of the staircase. She clutched the banister, panic and a profound sadness in her eyes.
“It’s in your head now,” she said. “You’re like the others.”
Grant shifted the weight from one arm to the other and looked back at her.
The blankets moved in his arms.
A translucent appendage emerged.
Paige recoiled, placed a foot on the step behind her as Grant covered it back with a loose fold.
“I don’t understand it all, but I’m still Grant,” he said, though he only half-believed.
“You went upstairs to kill that thing.”
“I have to go.”
“This is insane. You don’t even know what it’s telling you to do.”
“You’re right. But it won’t be in your house anymore. It’ll be out of your life.”
He saw the early shimmer of tears in her eyes.
“What happened in there?” Paige asked.
He looked at her. What could he possibly say? That even though he’d never been a father, he felt like he was holding his child in his arms? That with every passing second, that feeling was growing stronger? On the verge of eclipsing the protective instinct he’d felt toward his own sister when she was five years old and all he had in the world?
“It’s not something I can explain,” he said. “I just don’t have the words.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Me either.”
“So what now?”
“I put this thing in the car and start driving.”
Paige released her death-grip on the railing. She wiped her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed.
She went to the rack and grabbed her jacket—a charcoal gray peacoat with wooden toggles.
“We can take my car,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll drive. You navigate.”
“Paige, this is my thing now. My burden. You’ve carried it long enough. You don’t have to come.”
She put the coat on over her plaid pajamas, stepped into a pair of black Uggs.
“We’ve had enough of leaving each other, don’t you think?”
• • •
Excluding two brief excursions that had nearly killed him, it had been almost a day and a half since Grant had been outside, and the feeling of moving down the steps without an onslaught of debilitating pain bordered on surreal. Like walking out of prison. He didn’t entirely trust it, still half-expecting the blinding migraine to T-bone him at any moment.
The rain was torrential, huge drops smacking the flagstones beneath Grant’s and Paige’s feet as they headed toward the sidewalk.
“Where’d you park?” Grant yelled over the rain.
“Around the corner.”
They walked up the sidewalk, Grant holding the blanket tightly in his arms, grateful for the warmth.
Turning the corner, they moved alongside the wrought-iron fence.
Paige reached into her pocket.
Up ahead, the car alarm on a black CR-V chirped. Paige jogged ahead and opened the curbside rear passenger door.
Grant ducked in.
She shut him inside.
The car smelled new.
Rain pounding the roof and the windshield.
Paige climbed in behind the wheel, cranked the engine.
“Five-twenty,” Grant said.
“Across Lake Washington?”
“Yep.”
“That’s toward Kirkland. Toward Dad.”
“I know.”
Paige buckled herself in and put the car into gear. Pulled out of the parking space. There was no one on the street—pedestrian or vehicle. They cruised past rows of streetlamps, rain pouring through the spheres of light.
He blinked and Paige was accelerating up the I-5 onramp, merging onto the empty interstate.
He lost time again.
Falling inward.
Then they were several miles down the road, alone on 520, barreling east across the floating bridge as the toll cameras flashed blue above them.
Grant felt intensely purposeful. As zoned-out and deep as if he were under the influence of a psychotropic drug, and yet still in control of his faculties. The strangest paradox—complete self-ownership but on a new plain of awareness.
As if all his life had been leading toward this moment.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t think.
Just clutched the blanket to his chest—was this what it felt like to bring your newborn son home from the hospital?—and watched the sleeping city out his window.