A Barlow Lens (10 page)

Val nodded. “Catch the bastard.”

Wyatt smiled. “Here's what you do. Kevin sometimes carries a sidearm, but rarely uses it. They make too much noise. I suspect he doesn't have it or he wouldn't have used the Taser. Crawl out, make it look good, like you're dying and get clear of the door. If he sees only you, that'll draw him out into the open.”

“What about you? You can't stay in here.”

“Oh, hell no, I'm not staying in here.” Wyatt coughed, spitting phlegm and wiping his mouth. “But we want Kevin to think I'm dead or incapacitated. That I can't get out. When he sees just you, he'll come investigate. Trust me.” Before Val could argue or ask more questions he likely didn't want answers to, Wyatt shoved him to his knees and pushed him through the space at the bottom of the door.

 

 

Cleveland, Ohio—1927

 

“Y
OU
WON
'
T
get away. You said yourself the police are here and will be all over this school in minutes.” Tom's words were met with a hard hit across his face.

“Shut up, pretty boy. I need to get to the boiler room. Now which way?” Archie yanked on Tom's arm and shoved the shiv into the point just above Tom's hip. He felt moisture begin to trickle down his leg.

Tom sucked in a breath and winced, but refused to give Archie the satisfaction of crying out. He pointed out the direction and said, “The basement is that way. The boiler room is there, I think. I never have to go there.”

“Bullshit, college boy. I saw you and that other man outside, and you came back in through the basement door.”

This time Tom gasped and stifled a whimper when the shiv was twisted. He stumbled and would have fallen had it not been for Archie's grip on his arm.

“There.” Tom pointed again. “Why go there?”

Archie snorted a laugh. “Don't know, do ya? Ain't such a smarty, after all. Well, see…” Archie talked while he forced Tom to a faster pace. “This whole area was used to hide and move slaves. Part of that there Underground Railroad thing. Tunnels are still under this school. That's why I'm here.”

Tom had heard stories, but never found an access to the tunnels or hidden rooms and thought their existence was just that: rumor. Fanciful tales told by the people who'd grown up around this neighborhood for entertainment.

When they got to the boiler room, Archie dragged Tom to a corner with some tools. He took a shovel and rammed it into Tom's chest. “Bust the floor.” He picked up a second shovel and held it up like a shield. “Don't think I won't use this on your head if you do anything I don't like.”

“That's insane!”

Heat and smoke followed them into the boiler room. Flames wouldn't be far behind. Archie drew back his fist and delivered two quick, powerful punches. One hit to Tom's face, the other to his gut, doubling him over with a harsh grunt.

“Do what I say. I'll beat you until you're nothing but blood and snap you like a twig if you don't. Now dig!”

Tom braced one hand on his knee, pulled in a few deep breaths, and pushed himself straight. “Where?”

Archie stomped around the floor, and Tom heard the change in sound even before Archie pointed to a spot and growled out, “Dig, cocksucker.” He backed up, giving Tom room. Tom glared, and Archie laughed. “What? You thought it was a big secret? Bet you've been doing nuthin' but thinkin' 'bout sucking my cock.” Archie gave his crotch a jiggle, and Tom wanted to vomit.

He took the shovel and turned his back on Archie, mumbling, “Think again.”

Flames lapped along the top of the boiler room door, and as Tom beat the shovel on the floor boards, he refused to think what would happen if the boiler caught fire. “There's nothing under here. The floor isn't breaking.”

“Hey!” Philip shouted, and Tom nearly passed out with relief. He turned in time to see Philip charge like a deranged bull through the door at Archie. When Philip reached for his gun, Archie swung the shovel in an arc, barely missing Philip. He swore when the shovel slammed against the wall, cracking the handle. Archie dropped it and grabbed a pick axe, aiming at Philip. A glancing blow to Philip's wrist was enough to send the gun spinning from his grip.

It wasn't enough, however, to stop Philip. While smoke filled the room, making it difficult to see, Archie and Philip met each other head-on. Tom dropped the shovel so he could use both hands. He scrambled to the side, and began searching for a door he knew was there somewhere, but it was getting too hazy to see.

Philip blocked a punch from Archie with his arm and delivered a hit of his own, powerful enough to send Archie reeling away. Tom knew full well the strength Philip possessed, having been lifted and held many times. Philip lunged forward, but his assault was met with an equal one by Archie.

They scrambled for a few seconds, ending up rolling on the floor. Archie attained the upper hand by head-butting Philip. The blow seemed to stun Philip and lasted long enough for Archie to grab him by his collar and hold him at arm's length. Three fast punches to Philip's head and Tom saw blood everywhere. Archie threw him to the ground and pounced on him, both hands around his neck, pressing his full weight down on Philip's throat. Philip beat Archie's back and kicked his legs, but the angle was wrong and his efforts were futile.

Tom didn't think about what he was doing. Fire coursed along the ceiling. They had to get out. Archie was killing Philip. Tom grabbed the pick axe, lifted it over his head, and slammed it into Archie's skull.

Archie's entire body jerked as blood immediately covered the top of his head. He gurgled, but it didn't make sense. Philip pushed him away, and Archie staggered a step or two, then dropped to his knees before going face-first onto the floor. It seemed like forever before the hideous flailing of his arms and legs stopped.

Philip climbed to his feet and rushed forward. Tom stared down at Archie; his entire body trembled and quaked. Smoke filled his lungs and burnt his throat. “I… k-killed….”

“Shh… shh… it'll be okay. Self-defense.” Philip's voice was thick and raspy, and he coughed between words.

Tom was wrapped in Philip's strong, sure arms. He stepped as close to Philip as he could, squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed his head to Philip's shoulder. The scent of soap and fresh laundry combined with one that was uniquely Philip. It sent a rush of comfort through Tom.

Still holding him tight, Philip turned them and said, “We need to get out.”

The floor under Tom's feet cracked and groaned. He heard wood split and snap, then something sounding like thunder rolled through the floor. The ceiling above started to disintegrate. Bits of flaming wood dropped around them and embers flew like fireflies. Tom had a momentary sensation of weightlessness followed by euphoria and the thought he was always safe in Philip's arms.

 

Cleveland, Ohio—Present Day

 

W
YATT
WATCHED
as Val crawled on hands and knees away from the storage unit and to the middle of the road. He could see Val's entire torso move up and down and knew his coughing wasn't an exaggeration. A minute later Val collapsed onto the ground and rolled to his back, arms flopping at his sides.

Kevin did exactly as Wyatt had hoped. He appeared from a vehicle parked alongside the far row of storage units and crept toward Val. A nudge against Val's arm with one foot got no response, and Wyatt said a silent prayer that Val was faking.

Smoke billowed around him, and when Kevin neared the door, Wyatt had to hold his breath and bite his lip to keep quiet. Kevin inched close enough to the unbalanced door to hear Wyatt if he coughed, but not close enough to look through the space created. Kevin reached inside his jacket, turned, and stepped toward Val again.

“Shit,” Wyatt hissed. He waited for Kevin to take a few more steps before shimmying through the door. Rolling to his feet, he yanked his jacket off as he ran.

Kevin's handgun was trained on Val's forehead. He turned around when Wyatt's shoes crunched over the gravel drive. Wyatt swung his jacket and flung it at Kevin, hitting him across the face.

Wyatt launched himself at Kevin, tackling him to the ground. The gun discharged as Val rolled away with a yelp. As he and Kevin struggled, Wyatt saw Val grab his jacket and retrieve the phone pieces with shaking hands. Grabbing Kevin's wrist, Wyatt slammed it against the ground until he let go of the gun.

Through the ringing in Wyatt's ears, he heard Val shouting into the phone, “I don't know the address! How many damned storage places are there on this road?”

Kevin tossed Wyatt with a heave of his body, leapt to his feet, and immediately charged Wyatt, who was still on his knees. The punch Kevin threw knocked Wyatt backward, stunning him. Kevin dropped on top of Wyatt, hands reaching for Wyatt's throat. He managed to block Kevin's grab and retaliated with his own punch to Kevin's jaw. Using that momentum to flip them, he proceeded to pummel Kevin's face.

Val was yelling, “You're killing him!”

Wyatt couldn't help thinking,
good
!

Kevin's legs locked around Wyatt's waist, and he twisted. Wyatt slammed into the ground on his back so hard all the air left his lungs in a loud whoosh. Kevin's hands targeted Wyatt's neck, his fingers closing around his throat, squeezing. Within seconds, Wyatt's lungs were screaming for air and his ears were ringing. His hands scrabbled uselessly at Kevin's fingers.

Through darkening vision, Wyatt saw Val loom behind Kevin. There was a dull thunk, and Kevin pitched sideways, falling into a heap.

“What the hell did you do?” Wyatt wheezed. “And thanks for doing it.” Clutching his throat, coughing, Wyatt let Val help him sit up.

Val shrugged and held the gun up. “Looks like I can kick ass after all. I just needed proper motivation.”

Sirens were wailing around them, and flames were pouring out of the storage unit. The place went from mostly deserted to surrounded by uniformed men and women, barking orders and pointing guns at Val.

Val looked confused. “I didn't—” His gaze shifted from his gun to Kevin.

“Val, put down the gun slowly and do what they say,” Wyatt croaked out.

Val stepped back and carefully lowered the gun to the ground. He put his hands behind his head and dropped to his knees. Cops swarmed him, pulling him to his feet. Wyatt saw Val's arm was bleeding. When one of the cops started cuffing Val, Wyatt finally got his head and mouth to function somewhat together. “I'm Wyatt Harig. He's with me, and I'm with Homeland Security, working as a consultant for the US Marshals' Office in Cleveland. That's my jacket over there.” Wyatt pointed to the pile of cloth on the ground a few feet away. “ID is in the pocket. I'm not armed. My wallet's in my back pocket.”

Wyatt was helped to his feet and lightly patted down. His wallet was dug out of his pocket while another of the cops grabbed the jacket. A quick search produced Wyatt's weathered leather card wallet, flipping it open to reveal his badge and ID. Val was searched next, his wallet also confiscated.

The cop took all their forms of ID and showed it to the officer next to him, saying, “I'll check this out.” He moved off to one of the squad cars.

“Until we verify you're who you say you are, you'll both remained restrained,” the other cop said. He nodded to one of the others, who bent down, taking Wyatt's arm and helping him up.

Wyatt gave Val a reassuring smile. “It'll be okay.” Val didn't look convinced as he was led to an ambulance along with Wyatt. Kevin was loaded onto a stretcher and cuffed to it.

Val was cuffed to a stretcher in the ambulance. Wyatt went into the back of a police car. As they all pulled away, Wyatt could see the storage unit being sprayed with water, but it was a lost cause and he knew it. Everything Lily had saved was destroyed except the box in the back of Wyatt's car.

Wyatt was left with one wrist secured with a zip tie to a bed in the emergency room of the hospital. That move didn't surprise him. Until they talked to either someone from Homeland Security or Griff, they'd want to be sure he stayed where they put him. He asked repeatedly about Val to no avail. He knew there were uniformed cops just outside the curtains around his bed. Where Val was, he had no idea. Kevin's whereabouts were of no concern.

He had been scanned and examined and questioned by two doctors and three nurses. They'd finally, begrudgingly, Wyatt thought, given him a clean bill of health. His throat hurt like hell, but the doctor cheerfully told Wyatt he'd live. He was given a written list of what he should watch out for in the way of adverse physical reactions and warnings about alcohol and medications. Wyatt decided not to burst their collective bubbles by telling them he had had that list and instructions memorized years ago.

Once the poking, prodding, and scanning segment of his day was complete Wyatt's only real choice of action was to do nothing and be patient. The local police still had Wyatt's personal ID and professional ones. The first thing they'd do would be to contact Griff, whose card was paper-clipped to Wyatt's driver's license.

It seemed forever until the curtain moved aside and Griff stepped through. “Well, you've had a fun day.” He cut the nylon cuff away, freeing Wyatt. “Come on, I'll take you to Val. I'm sure the two of you want to get out of here.” Griff held Wyatt's arm while he eased off the bed.

“Thanks. Have you seen him? How is he?” Wyatt rubbed the back of his neck.

“He's shaken up. A bullet grazed his arm, and he has a nice collection of bumps and bruises, but otherwise he's doing all right,” Griff said.

“Got any idea what will happen?”

Griff nodded. “That's what took me so long. I wanted to sort out as much of this as I could.” He carried a clear plastic bag in one hand. “This was the phone Val had on him, and this one was recovered from your car. I thought you'd like them back.”