Dead Birmingham (17 page)

Someone was coming up, one of the policemen, no doubt. The double doors down the hall, which he had closed ever so carefully behind him, creaked open. Someone was coming his way. A policeman would methodically check every room, he knew, just as he had done, to find the children's secret entrance. Fine, he thought, let him come. He knew that he was invisible in his current position, to anyone passing by down below.

* * *

Detective Francis Anthony McMahon was a thorough man. He went about everything he did systematically. If a case required him to read the telephone book, he was able to do so, taking meticulous mental notes as he went along. He could recall hundreds of numbers off the top of his head; license plates, addresses, and much more. He was a dogged cop, always starting at A and working his way down to Z, knowing that the answer to question lay somewhere in between.
 

So it was that his systematic nature led him to check all the rooms on the floor, looking for what he knew must be there—a hole in the ceiling that skinny kids could squirm through to reach the next floor. He made minimal use of his flashlight, even though every room he walked into brought out cold sweat. The old hotel was a tower of darkness, and any room could hide sudden, merciless death. He stopped to listen often. He heard nothing. He methodically checked the ceiling in every room in every suite. He felt for a draft of air, a drip of water. Nothing.
 

He came at last to the end of the hall. Only two suites left. He went to the one on the right, as he had done all the way down the hall.
 

Better make it quick; Roland's probably through with his sweep by now.

He stepped into the main room and glanced at the ceiling. There was enough light filtering in from across the street to show him that the ceiling was an unbroken plane.
 

Of course they wouldn't break through out here. They'd put it where there was something to step up on. Bet it's in the bathroom.

He looked into the hallway that led to the rear of the suite. For the tenth time he took a deep breath and walked into the black yawning mouth of an unlit hallway. There was a closet on either side of the hall. Both were open, empty black rectangles that yawned like upright graves. He shined his flashlight into the one on the right, and suddenly he felt a stabbing pain go through him, and he was just as suddenly aware that he was horizontal, his face buried in musty carpet a half inch deep in dust. It was very hard to breath. Now he heard the shot, somehow, echoing around the room.

Oh dammit, I'm shot!

Mack tried desperately to bring his gun up into a firing position, to turn over, to roll out of the killer's field of fire. He never heard the second shot, as it was aimed much too precisely.

 

Chapter 35

 

Broom was losing patience with this entire screwy case. He was getting winded. He was no spring chicken, of course, but he was also a very big man, and that fact was no asset on this long, vertical climb. Also, he was trying to be conservative with the use of his light, which might easily be seen from the hotel's east wing. This had caused him to stumble twice, once over a long abandoned mop bucket, and the second time over a roll of carpet. Both had been left in the middle of landings. Broom smiled to himself.
Probably to slow down big lumbering cops, should they ever come. Or maybe hired killers.

Broom had just mounted the twenty-first flight of stairs when he heard shots, above and to the left of where he was standing. The shots were muffled, but not silenced. Broom froze in his tracks.

He's here. He found them first.
God in Heaven, let me get to them before it's too late!

Broom whipped out his radio, cramming his light into the elbow of his right arm, gun in hand. He backed slowly into a corner.

“Mack come in. Mack, we have gunfire. What's your location?”

There was no answer. Mack was in trouble. Maybe Roland too. Broom pushed against the door, felt it give an inch or so and then he felt resistance.
 

“Detective Broom to Dispatch.”

“Dispatch, go ahead.”

“Be advised shots fired and possible officer down at 221 21st Street, abandoned structure, Name's going to be the Cabana Hotel. Cannot raise partner, have armed perpetrator in the building, advise responding units to proceed with all caution.”
 

“10-4. Units enroute.”

“10-4. Advise officers that they've got a long climb.”

“Will advise.”

Broom set his jaw. He had been one of the largest college halfbacks the American college system had ever seen, one of the strongest, too. He backed up to the end of the landing and ran at the door, low, shoulders squared.

Hang on guys, I'm coming.

* * *

The Foreigner listened to the police banter on the radio he had taken from the policeman he had just killed. So, there would be more on the way, and soon. That made his job very difficult, though not impossible by any means. He could use the radio against them. He had also taken the dead policeman's gun and badge, which might also prove useful.

Now he was moving swiftly through the rooms on the twenty-second floor. Just one last hidden door to find, and then the game must be brought to a swift end. No time for play. Regrettable, but expediency was the iron law by which he lived.

He finally came to a bedroom where there was something odd about the ceiling tile. He examined it closely for a couple of seconds, then let his light fall on the aged bureau beneath it. There were footprints there in the dust, quite recent ones. He looked at the ceiling tiles again. A repetition of the craftsmanship in the closet. Several tiles had been carefully removed and then replaced over a concealed trap door. They were arranged in such a way that when the door was pulled shut from the other side, they fit neatly back into the staggered pattern of the ceiling. Except that whomever had gone through last had been hasty, and had not shut the door all of the way. It hung open about a quarter of an inch. He smiled. At last, he was finally going to meet his young friends face to face.

* * *

I had heard the shots, and ran immediately down the hall to where the double doors separated the west and east wings of the Cabana. “Mack!” I shouted, my gun out. I flattened against the wall. “You okay?”

There was no answer. I grimaced, and went out into the darkness, running low, gun first. I scanned through the rooms quickly, a nightmarish run made slightly easier by the fact that Mack had left every door through which he had gone wide open. In the dim light, I could see that the door to the left at the end of the hall was still closed. Mack had never made it there. His methodical approach was showing me the way.

Good man, Mack.

I went down the hall at a gallop, and flattened against the jam the way they had taught me in the police academy, all those years ago. “Mack! You all right?” Still no answer. “Birmingham Police, put down your weapon and come on out!” I may have felt a little guilty. I hadn't been a cop for years, but the gunman wouldn't know that.

Of course no one came out. I heard a vague thud above me, somewhere. I went around the corner, gun out again, and quickly squared the room, gun hitting every cardinal direction. Nothing. Then I was in the hallway, where I found Mack. He was on his side, and there was a lot of blood.

“Aw, Mack . . . no,” I whispered to myself. I felt for a pulse, and found none. His face was already cool to the touch. I found his flashlight and scanned the closets on either side. Steeling myself, I looked Mack's body over. The shot that had clipped him had come from above, angling down into his back. The second had made a mess of his right temple. Also from above, as he would have been down from the first shot. I looked up into the left closet. There appeared to be no opening there.
 

I reached up and pushed on the ceiling tiles. I felt them give. I started to climb up, but then knelt back down and felt along Mack's belt for his radio. It wasn't there. I also noted that his badge was missing. The radio was a problem, in that now I had no way to communicate with Broom. But it also meant that the killer could listen in on police movements. I looked down at Mack one last time before I began my climb, and a great surge of rage and grief overwhelmed m.

Well you won't know my movements, baby, and that's too bad for you, because here I come
.

I tucked the light into my belt, and pushed up on the ceiling tiles. A makeshift door opened upward. Taking a deep breath, I found a purchase for my hands, and, grunting, pulled myself up into that yawning darkness.

* * *

Scott LaRue was rushing now, rushing because he had heard the shots that killed Detective McMahon, and could not guess who had fired them, or who they were shooting at, but he knew he was the cause of it all, and only he could bring it all to an end.
 

Oh, Angel, be all right!
He rushed along toward his hiding place, almost by memory alone, through the darkened halls of the ancient hotel, where once his dead friend Mule had discovered him staring at an antique box, trying to wish it open. And they had concocted a foolish mission to recover the key that had sent Mule to his doom, and now that same doom was upon them all, because he, Scott had done nothing to halt its progress.

Scott turned the corner and almost ran into Angel, Yim and Dextra. Angel screamed in fear and then her eyes widened in recognition. She rushed to hug Scott, then pushed him away in sudden anger. Dextra reached past Angel and grabbed the front of his shirt. “You bastard! Mule's dead.”

Scott put his hands up and shook his head sadly. “It's all my fault. But listen, you have to get out of here. The man who killed Mule is in this building.”

“Why don't you just give him back what you stole, Mr. Super Shoplifter?” Dextra hissed. “Then he'd just go away!”

“No, he won't. He's come to kill us all. That's why I am going to give him the item back, while you girls get away.”

“Scott, no! He'll kill you, won't he?” Angel pleaded.
 

“Maybe. But Dextra's right. It's my fault, so you guys get out of here, and let me handle it. Go down the east side of the hotel and out to the theater roof.” Scott stopped for a second. “Where's Bone?”

“He and Yim went boosting a couple of days ago, and he never made it back. Yim says a man was tailing them.”

“Dear god. Not him, too. Go, go now, there's no time left.”

He hugged Angel. “I'm sorry Angel. I love you.”

“How will I find you?” she asked, hurt and anger and a million other things in her eyes.
 

“I'll find you. I love you. I have to go.”

Scott turned and ran down the hallway, with just one last look behind him. The girls had turned and were leaving in the other direction. Good. Just one thing left to do, Scott thought, and with a deep breath he ran to his secret hiding place, and the source of all his sorrows.

Why didn't you just give it back when Mule disappeared, now look what you've done, it's all ruined, everything, you damned idiot!
Scott cursed himself even as he reached the wall recess and tore the wallpaper aside. He reached inside and pulled the box free. The lacquer gleamed red in the faint light that shone through a window, and for a second he thought wildly, this is Pandora's Box, or something made in hell, but then it was time to run again, to run toward the shots, something no one in their right mind would do, unless of course they were trying desperately to save the ones they love.

* * *

Lester Broom burst into the room like a rhino, sending furniture and rolls of carpet flying. His gun was in his hand, but his shoulder was down, his eyes toward the floor after his headlong charge against the double doors. As Broom stood turned to look around the room, he saw that he had bowled over a slim man in a dark suit who had been standing in front of the doors as he exploded through them.

The Foreigner,
Broom realized with horror and surprise. The little man was agile as a cat. He sprang almost immediately to his feet, weapon in hand. Both men pointed their guns at each other. Their eyes met for one split second, and each man knew they had only a split second to react. Almost the same moment, they fired.

* * *

“The room with the rope ladder Scott made is down this way,” Angel was saying, just as they heard the gunfire ahead of them.
 

“God no! They're in our way.”
 

Dextra halted Angel by grabbing her shoulder. “Look, Angel, don't freak out. There are cops in this building, too. Maybe we should wait until the cops nail the killer. I mean, he can't beat them all.”

Yim shook her head. “No, let's get out of this place. I don't want to talk to cops, or anybody else.”

“Where are we going to go?” Dextra cracked. “Back to our folks?”

“Suddenly that doesn't seem like such a bad idea,” Yim said quietly.

“Come on you guys, it's right down here,” Angel said in a heavy whisper, and fairly ran to a door that was ajar.