Then Rychman's imagination went into overdrive, sending him into a panic. Suppose he's not answering his beeper because he's out of range? he asked himself. Suppose he was on a plane for D.C.? Suppose he was afraid of Jessica, knowing she wouldn't let it rest? Suppose he'd decided to get rid of her?
Rychman tore for the airport, radioing ahead that he was on police business and that he must have a seat on the next flight to the Virginia/D.C. area.
That had been several hours before. Now he was in Quantico, in the company of Quantico police and FBI men, all of whom had their orders. Rychman wanted Jessica safe at all costs; he also wanted Simon Archer alive, if possible, but he would be the first to blow his head away if he had harmed Jess.
The chopper now put down with a jarring thud, its rotor blades sending a cascade of debris in all directions around the bubble. The men jumped from their seats, and even as he raced for the waiting car, Rychman kept damning himself for not having trusted Jessica's instincts earlier. He prayed she was safe and unharmed, but Archer had had a long head start on him.
Why hadn't I been listening sooner? he silently berated himself as he and the others now sped for the nearby Quantico labs. Like everyone else in New York at the time, he had wanted to wrap up the case of the Claw as quickly as possible, get a conviction, smile for the damned press, one of whose members had also mysteriously died.
Little smoke clouds, one upon another, rose off the wet pavement that had earlier been heated by a baking sun and was now being doused with a weak, intermittent drizzle. The car, leading a motorcade of others, fishtailed along the slick street and out of the compound.
It was only a matter of minutes before they came to a gate and a guardpost. Here they found the phone off the hook and the guard's throat cut. “The bastard's here!” Rychman shouted, and behind them they heard the sirens of an ambulance.
They raced forward, circling one of the taller structures on the FBI Academy grounds, shattering the usual calm of the campuslike setting, lights going on at the academy dorms nearby. Rychman held his breath, his heart beating a mad chant against his chest, afraid for Jessica with every fiber of his being.
Jessica debated her options before leaving the relative safety of the hallway for the roof, almost certain that the perverted Dr. Archer had gone in the direction she had hoped he would take. He must surely now feel safe, she thought, safe and out of range of her deadly gunfire. It was exactly what she wanted him to believe.
The roof was black with night and wind that whipped around her, tearing at the bloodied lab coat where Frakley's and the security guard's blood had soaked her. She went to the north ledge of the building, cautious of the blacker shadows that crossed and fed upon one another here, fearing that Archer could leap out at her at any moment. But the silence and the darkness were total. There was no human soul here save hers. The weasel had scurried exactly as she had believed he would, possibly thinking that if he escaped now he would have another chance at her another time.
She shivered at the thought of his invading her home, of defiling it. It was the one place she had always felt safe.
She looked out over the edge feeling a bit dizzy, seeing the stable of security vehicles at the rear of the building, sensing that Archer would go for one of these. She also saw the distance from here, twenty-nine stories up; the distance between herself and her target would be great. Suppose she missed? Had she made a foolish choice in coming up here, rather than giving close pursuit? Fearing she might miss, she tried desperately to adjust her eyes on the aim required. She had to take into consideration the wind factor as well as the distance and the trajectory of the bullet as it would wend its way down. Her largest target would be his skull from this angle. She had four shots left. She must make each count.
Where the hell was he? Had he decided to double back? Had he remained in the building? Where was he?
“ Show yourself, dammit,” she muttered, her eyes never veering from the area below where she expected to see him streak for the security vehicles.
Then she saw the lights and faint scream of sirens. An ambulance was approaching. Audrey had gotten help for Robertson, thank God. The noise and lights distracted her for a moment, and as if waiting for the confusion to begin, Archer chose this same moment to dash for the safety of the security vehicle he had selected.
He was running at top speed. She aimed, drew a bead and fired, anticipating his step. The bullet blew up smoke at his ankles. She drew another bead, sent the second shot just ahead of him, and it struck him in the shoulder, sending him reeling into the truck he latched onto. She fired a third shot that hit the cab, sending paint shards into his eyes, but he threw himself into the truck before she could get off a last shot.
Police below were suddenly firing up at her, their bullets going far wide, but making her leap back. “Dammit, I'm FBI! He's getting away!” she shouted, but only the wind up here could hear her.
She leaned out over the ledge and saw the truck moving off, veering down a loping lane that would take Archer to the gate. In a few minutes, he would be out of range.
She was suddenly hit by flying debris from a bullet that impacted the ledge in front of her. She screamed with pain, tore away from the north wall to the west wall, where she leaned out over the edge, aimed and drew a bead on the cab of the truck. She couldn't make the shot at anything resembling a horizontal through the window, as the truck was almost straight below her. If she waited for a horizontal shot, he'd be out of range.
The police and FBI below, understandably thinking her a sniper, were gauging her new position and readying to open fire on her again at any moment. In the distance, she could hear a helicopter and knew that shaipshooters would be aboard. Soon its searchlight and airborne guns would be trained on her.
She had but one shot left if she was to stop Archer. She concentrated with every fiber in her being, remembering all the years of practice since childhood, everything her father had taught her, all that she had learned at the academy and on the firing range. She guessed at what point below the square of the cab Archer's head would be if he were sitting in an upright, driving position. She drew a bead on the imaginary cranium below the metal rooftop. Her finger was steady, her reasoning good, her eyesight perfect when she pulled hard on the trigger and the clap of the bullet's response came seconds later.
She'd fired through the roof of the moving truck but it remained on the road, moving easily off. She'd missed.
More bullets rained around her, and the helicopter was now within range. Her own people were about to kill her. She stood up, holding the weapon high above her head, her white coat flapping about her like a flag of truce.
For one horrible moment, she feared the men in the flying machine were going to open fire, fillet her with their automatics, but they held as the helicopter put down on the roof and she
tossed away the. 38.
She then relaxed and leaned back against the ledge, turning to stare down at the brown and beige security truck. Suddenly it toppled like a dying elephant off the roadbed and into a ditch.
“ Christ,” she said to herself, “I did it… I got him.”
The euphoria she felt wasn't dampened even by the rough handling she was suddenly receiving and the handcuffs that locked her arms behind her. As she was being searched for other weapons, Alan Rychman rushed out onto the rooftop and pushed people from her, shouting, “It's Dr. Coran, you fools! Step aside! Let her go!”
He took her in his arms, holding on firmly, her hands still cuffed behind her back. She thought he would crush her. “Jess, oh, Jess! I thought… I thought that he… that he got to you.”