Chemical fumes.
The warehouse was a furnace, flames reaching to the ceiling, smoke thickening as it rolled toward us, a greasy tornado.
A black form emerged from the charcoal mass.
Ahlward, sooty and singed, jerking his head from side to side as if shaking off leeches.
Sighting us. Screaming. Lifting his big black gun.
I went for the largest hole in the shredded door, pulled Milo through it, slipping on the blood-slick floor, feeling the crunch of metal and bone beneath my shoes.
Outside. Fresh air. Gasoline-stink air.
The two of us lurched along the loading dock.
Fumes and flames poured out of the warehouse, out of shattered windows, the ravaged metal door. Shooting out of the gaping holes that had been blown in the wall.
Milo’s breathing was raw and labored. I pulled him down the stairs, into the parking lot.
An incoherent scream rose at our backs.
Ahlward out on the dock, highlighted by the burning building. Looking very small. Aiming. A true believer.
Gunfire.
A frog-song ratatat.
Didn’t know a pistol could make a sound like that.
Another burst. From our backs.
Trapped?
Frogs sang again.
I looked over my shoulder, saw Ahlward jerk and fall, saw the pistol go flying into the inferno.
The flames rolled out of the warehouse and ate him.
Dessert.
Then a voice, out of the darkness:
“You and your detective friend are safe, Dr. Delaware. I’ve saved you.”
35
He stepped forward, orange-lit by the fire, wearing a dark windbreaker and holding an assault rifle that looked too big for him. A complicated-looking scope had been mounted on the weapon. His thin hair was blowing. Embers fell all around him. There was a look of deep contentment on his face.
I said, “Mr. Burden-”
“Mahlon,” he said. “I’d say we’ve reached the appropriate degree of familiarity, wouldn’t you? Alex.”
Smile.
I saw Milo tense. I stood, rooted.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Burden. “I’m friend, not foe.”
He looked past me at the burning warehouse, gave the satisfied look of a Boy Scout who’d just rubbed two sticks together successfully. Over the roar and crackle I could still hear people screaming. Ashes fell onto my sweaty face, lacy, foul-smelling snowflakes.
Burden said, “You don’t look well, Detective Sturgis. Let’s get you to a hospital.”
Milo was working hard at taking in breath. In the shimmer of the firelight his bruises looked awful- congealed and livid as sloppy special effects.
Burden said, “Come on, Detective.”
Milo said, “Forget that.” Shaking his head and spreading his arms for balance. “Linda Overstreet. They’ve sent someone to her place. Gotta get to a phone, call it in.”
He took several lurching steps.
Burden said, “I’ll do you one better, Detective.” Snap of fingers. Another face out of the darkness. Early thirties, handsome, big walrus mustache over a clipped beard.
“Doctor, you’ve met Gregory Graff. Photographically. Here he is in the flesh. Gregory, help me with Detective Sturgis.”
Graff stepped forward, very big, very broad. A rifle similar to Burden’s was slung over his shoulder. He wore camouflage fatigues that looked as if they’d been French-laundered. His demeanor was pure concentration- a surgeon tying off a capillary.
He put one arm around Milo’s shoulder, the other on Milo’s elbow. Dwarfing Milo. Six five at least.
I took Milo’s other arm.
Milo tried to shake us off. “I’m okay, goddammit. Get me a phone!”
“This way,” said Burden. He turned his back on the inferno and began walking fast.
We followed him out of the parking lot, soot blowing in our eyes. Milo insisted on walking without assistance, but shakily, still breathing with effort. Graff and I stayed by his side. I kept looking at my friend. Finally his breathing regularized. For all the punishment Milo’d taken, he seemed in decent shape.
What shape was Linda in? I tried not to think of that, could think of nothing else.
Someone who knows how to bring out the best in a woman…
My own breathing grew clogged. I fought for composure. We made our way through the darkness. Then a hideous tidal wave of sound- monsters at feeding time- rose behind us, and the lot was engulfed in bloody light.
Still moving, I looked back. Flames had burst through the roof of the warehouse and were shooting into the sky, bloodying it.
A few people had made it out to the landing dock, engulfed in flames, arms flapping and throwing off sparks. One of them dropped to the ground and rolled.
More screams.
Burden turned nonchalantly, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and squeezed off a frog-burst.
Milo said, “Forget that, goddammit. Move!”
“Covering our tracks,” said Burden. “Always sound strategy in this type of mission.” But he lowered the rifle and sprinted ahead.
Milo cursed and tried to walk faster. His legs gave out. Graff lifted him, slung him over his shoulder as if he were a straw man, and kept going without breaking step.
Milo protested and cursed. Graff ignored him.
“And here we are,” said Burden.
The sheet-metal gate was propped open by a crowbar. Just beyond it, parked at the curb, was a van. Dark-gray, one blackened window on each side, the roof coiffured with antennas. Tongues of reflected fire from afar created the illusion of a low-rider mural along the slab sides. Dancing mural… hell on wheels…
I heard the shriek of sirens from somewhere in the distance. It reminded me of something… a crack alley… Dogs began howling.
Burden took something out of his pocket and pressed a button. Metallic click. The van’s rear doors swung open.
Milo looked up at the antennas. “You have a phone. Put me down and let me use the fucking thing!”
Burden said, “Gregory, see that the detective’s comfortable in the back.”
Graff lifted Milo, bride-over-the-threshold style, and slid him into the back of the van.
Milo disappeared from view, cursing. The doors slammed shut.
I grabbed Burden’s shoulder. “Stop playing games and let’s get to the phone!”
Burden smiled and peeled my fingers off. “Oh, this is no game, Doctor. I feel I’ve done a very fine job of saving your life. The least you could do would be to trust me.” He went around to the driver’s side and said, “Hop in.”
I opened the right-hand door. Two Recaro racing bucket seats in front; between them, a console bearing a mini computer and phone modem. I got in the passenger seat and lifted the phone. Dead.
Burden was behind the wheel.
I said, “Activate it, damn you!”
Burden was expressionless. He handed his rifle back to Graff and put a key in the ignition. I looked back; the rear of the vehicle was a carpeted shell. Milo lay on the floor, sharing space with several metal boxes and some electronic gear that I couldn’t identify. Graff knelt beside him, his big head brushing against the ceiling. A gun rack covered one wall of the shell. Semi-automatic handguns, rifles, something Uzi-like.
Milo forced himself up and grabbed the back of Burden’s seat. “You sadistic little asshole!”
Graff pulled him off and held his wrist.
Milo cursed.
Burden said, “Such gratitude,” and turned the key. The engine started and the dashboard became a light show: meters, dials, graphic displays, LED readouts. A row of circular dials on the front edge of the ceiling, parallel with the windshield. Still more dials on the console, on both sides of the computer, and surrounding the phone. Enough hardware to fill the cockpit of a 747.
Burden said, “Welcome to the official mobile testing lab of New Frontiers, Limited. Components come and go. I get free samples all the time, keep only the best.”
I thought of Linda. Now his narcissism was deadly. Fighting down the urge to strangle him, I said, “Please. It’s life and death.”
He touched dark space to the right of the steering wheel. A square yellow screen the size of a cocktail coaster appeared. Black numbers flashed: a two-digit combination followed by seven more numbers that kept changing. Below the screen a key pad. The light from the screen revealed two more phones, freehand, dash-mounted, their buttons banana-yellow.