Dead Birmingham (18 page)

Angel ran in and picked up a rope ladder that Scott had made weeks before, and threw it out of the paneless window. It unrolled down to the theater roof, four stories below.

“Oh you gotta be shitting me, Angel. You want me to climb down twenty floors on that thing?” Dextra asked incredulously.
 

“The fire escape doesn't come all the way up to the penthouse. Just go down this ladder four floors to the top of the fire escape, then take that down to the theater roof. There's another fire escape on the far side of the theater that goes down to the street. Scott figured it all out.”

“Scott again. I tell you, Angel, you and your boyfriend are a royal pain in the ass.”

“Oh, shut up and go already,” Yim shouted.

With a look that was half smirk, and half terror, Dextra swung a long leg out the window and started her climb down.

“So long, bitches,” she sang out as she started down.

* * *

Broom rolled over, and slowly rose to his feet. He was shot, he knew that much. There was a bullet somewhere under his lowest left rib. He wondered how bad he was hit, and if death was at hand. He didn't think he was dying, but he had heard of people bleeding to death internally who thought they were only slightly wounded. Broom reached slowly down to pick up his gun, and a sudden stab of blinding pain made the world go white.

Hold on, Broom!
He slowly, painfully retrieved his weapon and stood upright, gritting his teeth. He wasn't bleeding as much as he thought he would be; there was a spreading red spot above his hip. He put his left hand over the wound. Holding his gun in his right hand, he went unsteadily down the hall. He was pretty sure he had hit the Foreigner. The smaller man would have finished him off, otherwise.
 

Detective Lester Broom was a big man, and a strong one, but the bullet wound was slowly sapping his strength. He leaned against a wall and tried to steady himself and clear his head.
 

Losing blood, hope backup gets here soon. Feel sorry for the EMS guys, I know I'd hate to have to carry my big ass down all those stairs.

* * *

The Foreigner was bleeding, al right. He had been stunned when the giant detective had smashed through the doors; he had been standing directly in front of them. His shot had been quick and aimed by instinct. He knew he had hit the man, who was so large that he was difficult to miss, but he did not think he had killed him.
 

The detective's bullet, however, had hit him just between the shoulder and the breastbone. A rib was shattered, he was sure; it felt as if a fragment of bone was scraping his lung.

Not much time, now. Must finish the job.

Ahead he heard voices, female voices.
 

* * *

I came upon Broom leaning against the wall.
 

“Thank God, Roland,” the big man gasped as I came up to him.

“Les. How bad are you hit?”

“Don't know. Hurts like hell. Where's Mack?”

“Mack's dead, Les.”

For a second, the big man was silent. “Roland. The kids. They're all somewhere in the hotel. Go get the bastard. Save the ones that are still alive.”

 

Chapter 36

 

Yim and Angel watched as Dextra descended the rope ladder, then climb on the Cabana's fire escape, four floors below. She rapidly climbed down and dropped to the theater roof. Dextra crouched as her feet hit the roof, then rose to her feet. She gave the two of them the finger and ran toward the side of the old theater, where the fire escape led down to the street.

“I wonder if this is the last time we'll ever see her,” Yim asked aloud.

“Probably. I think our carefree days are over, honey,” Angel said. She sighed. “Okay, which one of us is next?”

Yim screamed suddenly. Angel turned and her eyes went wide with horror, for there was a pale man standing behind them. He had come upon them silently, gun in hand. He was glaring at them with eyes black as a shark's. Angel tried to scream but nothing would come. She saw that blood was trickling down the man's side, but this fact did not seem to concern him. He raised the gun, and nodded with a slight smile. He was pointing the gun directly at her, Angel realized.

* * *

Scott LaRue had heard the scream and turned immediately, rushing back to the room where he had devised the rope ladder escape. He still had the box in his hands when he rounded the corner, and saw the man standing there, menacing Angel and Yim with a pistol in his hand. Without thinking, he rushed forward and hit the man in the back with his shoulder, sending them both flying.

Scott rolled and came up, and sat the box to the side.

“Angel, Yim, get the hell out of here!” he screamed, and turned to the Foreigner. “It's me you want!” he yelled at the darkly clad man who was painfully getting to his feet before him.
 

The Foreigner stood for a moment, glaring at Scott. He glanced down, noticing the box on the floor beside Scott's feet. He nodded in satisfaction.

Scott noticed the glance and the nod. “You want it, take it! Take it and go!” He yelled and backed away, to the window where Angel and Yim still squatted in terror.

The Foreigner shook his head, almost sadly. “I'm afraid things are not that simple. First things first, young man.” He paused and his black eyes glittered.

“I must admit, you are not quite what I expected.”

He had dropped his pistol when Scott had barreled into him. These Americans and their football tackles, he mused. First the big detective, now this brash and callow boy. No matter. He had other guns. He pulled Mack's pistol from his belt and aimed carefully; but just as he pulled the trigger, the blond girl shoved the boy from in front of him. His bullet caught her neatly in the sternum.

True love, he mused. No matter, she would have died hereafter.

“You son of a bitch!” Scott yelled and threw himself at the Foreigner. The two men went down in a tangle. Scott was lithe and wiry, and they were almost the same weight, but the Foreigner possessed a strength that his frame belied. He also had considerable training in hand-to-hand combat, which Scott now learned. The Foreigner swung his left leg in a wide arc, and used the momentum to swing over and on top of the boy. From his waist he quickly pulled a long, slender knife, a stiletto blade, which he had honed down until it was one long, razor sharp talon. He was in tremendous pain from the bullet wound and the pummelings he had taken. He knew that he had to act decisively before the pain overwhelmed him. He plunged the knife into Scott's side, once, twice. Then he stood, swaying slightly, and turned to face the Asian girl who stood petrified before him, framed against the window.

He blinked his eyes, not believing what he saw. It was the mother in the doorway, from Dresden, many years ago . . . his first assignment.

“
Was ist los?
” he asked, and shook his head. Never mind, the box was here. The job was all but done. “Now I must kill you again,” he said.

Yim was too terrified to move. She had just watched Angel die, and now Scott was on the floor, writhing and gasping. The man had stabbed him, leaving a long silver knife buried in his side, and then the pale man had stepped over Scott like he was a piece of garbage. Now he was coming toward her, blood dripping down his arm and over the hand that held the gun.

“
Da bist du,
” his hoarse voice croaked.

* * *

I heard the Foreigner speaking to the girl through the door, and knew I had very little time to act. I rammed the door and exploded into the room, gun out. The thin man spun toward me. He grabbed my gun hand with astonishing speed and pushed it up; we both staggered backwards toward Yim. The smaller man swept at my feet, and I fell against the wall. He brought up his pistol and fired once. There was a searing pain in my side.

No!
I was gasping with exhaustion and pain.
Killer's coming to finish the job
.

Face down on the floor, I heard the man walking toward me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him stumble, then steady himself, his eyes shining with an unmistakable purpose.

I searched around on the floor with both hands.
My gun where in hell is my gun?
I heard sirens outside, a lot of them. But I knew they'd never get up here in time.

I turned over, despite the pain that tore at my side, and looked up at the thin man who stood over me. I tried to speak, but only managed a sibilant whisper. “So I get to see you at last.”

The Foreigner, battered and bloody, managed something like a smile. “You were curious?”

“I just wondered what in the hell you would look like.”

The thin smile widened the narrow, pale face. “So? Here I am. What do you think?”
 

Suddenly there was an explosion that seemed to fill the universe. A burning brand lanced through the Foreigner's body. He stood for a moment, an amazed look on his face. Then he turned slowly and stared at the girl who sat trembling on the dirty carpet, gun clutched tightly in her small hands.

The Foreigner smiled.
So this is why I love you so.

And that was his last thought as Yim, her hands shaking, fired again, the bullet striking him in the heart. The Foreigner's world sank into gray, then black, then nothing.
 

I watched the thin, ghostly man die. With a great deal of effort, I sat up, then managed to stagger to my feet. I shuffled over to the girl and took the gun from her hands. She sat, silently, staring at the man she had just killed. Then she started to cry.
 

I sat down heavily on the floor. My side was bleeding, and the pain was a pounding fist in my ribs. I shook my head to try to clear it.

Broom stumbled into the room, and collapsed heavily against the wall, sliding to the floor. We sat looking at each other, panting. Broom looked at the bodies of the children, and the other body that lay in the middle of the room. Then he nodded slowly to me, neither of us speaking.

With a supreme effort, I managed to drag myself over to Scott's body. Awkwardly, painfully, I lifted the box from him. It was very heavy in my hands.

We could hear shouts far below us, and the tramp of feet rushing up stairs.

“Roland,” Broom fairly croaked at me. “What is that damned thing?”

“A box. Just some fancy box.” But it was dense, and as I turned it upright, something shifted inside. “Wait. There's something inside.”

“What?”

“It's locked.” I looked at the intricate lock. It looked ancient, and extremely valuable.

“Bust the lock. I want to know what's in there.”

I nodded, because I had to know, too, what could possibly be worth so much death, so much ruin. I grabbed my .45 by the barrel and smashed the ornate lock to pieces.

I slowly raised the heavy lid. Looking inside, my eyes grew wide. I gasped in awe.

“Roland . . . what is it? What's in there?”

I looked up at Broom, and there were tears welling in my eyes.

My face broke into a bitter smile. My voice was a hushed whisper.

“The stuff dreams are made of.”

 

– THE END –

Timothy C. Phillips was born in a small town at the foot of the Appalachians. Youngest of seven children, he attended colleges in Alabama and Louisiana, and holds degrees in English, Forensics and Political Science. He lives in Alabama, where he writes and dabbles in music.

 

To date there are seven titles in the

Roland Longville Mystery Series:

Season of the Witch
•
Magician

Dead Birmingham
•
Medusa

Lady Midnight
•
The Burning Day

The Devil's Highway