Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (31 page)

The crowd pressed in on Larson. Panic clutched him, with a claustrophobia he had never experienced before Vietnam. Every instinct told him to flee, and the resolve he raised to combat impulse also brought determined rage. He elbowed through the masses, ignoring curses, shouts, and jabs.

A man grabbed Larson by the front of his shirt. Larson glared into a pair of eyes recessed in a fat, red face. The stranger’s gaze traveled up Larson’s brawny, six foot frame to his hard, ice-blue eyes. Backing down, the man faded into the crowd.

Larson scarcely hesitated. He rushed and shoved the spectators, clearing a path like a bulldozer through a herd of sheep. He saw police and fire vehicles and the flashing lights of Emergency Rescue Teams. Uniformed men perched atop the cars with binoculars. Police on foot or horseback cordoned the sidewalk, some ushering people leaving the building to safety beyond the barricades. A patrol supervisor with a bullhorn peered upward, his head cocked, listening to the radio at his belt. Other officers waited nearby. One elderly man in civilian clothes talked urgently with the supervisor.

Larson glanced upward. Men hung out most of the fifth floor windows, hurriedly trying to assemble a net. Several stories above them, a lone figure clung to the bricks with one hand. He used the other to shield his eyes from the sun as he scanned the crowd.

“Jump!” someone yelled nearby, his voice snapping clear over the hubbub. “Jump!”

Larson was seized by a sudden urge to rip out the stranger’s lungs without benefit of anesthesia. Instead, he rammed through the crowd with a violence and determination that many cursed but no one challenged.

As Larson reached the edge of the cordoned boundary, Taziar Medakan’s familiar voice wafted from beneath a blast of radio static. A louder voice followed in a Brooklyn accent so thick it sounded like a parody. “Did the translator get that, Captain?”

The supervisor glanced at the aging civilian, who wrung his manicured hands. “It’s gibberish. The accent’s German, but the words don’t mean a damned thing.”

“Gibberish my ass!” Larson shouted. “I heard him clear as day.”

The translator and the supervisor whirled. The elderly man flushed. The policeman looked skeptical and frustrated, but hopeful.

“Listen, young man.” The translator jabbed a finger at Larson. “I speak six languages....”

Larson ignored the translator, locking an urgent, sincere expression on his face and addressing the policeman directly. “The jumper said ‘I’m sorry ...’” He left out the expletive. “‘... but I don’t speak your language.’”

The translator snorted.

The supervisor shifted from foot to foot. A tense, crowd-drawing situation always dragged out the crazies, and he had to suspect Larson was fabricating. Yet the police officer seemed near his wits’ end. “What language is he speaking?”

Larson opened his mouth, instantly realizing archaic German would not work for an answer. Inadvertently, he hesitated just long enough to put his integrity into question. “He’s speaking perfect Perkanian.”

“Perkanian?” The translator threw up his hands. “What kind of nonsense... ? There’s no place called ...”

“Perkania.” Larson continued to hold the policeman’s gaze, trying to sound confident and matter-of-fact. “It’s a tiny country near Estonia.” The lie came easily.

Another policeman trotted to the supervisor’s side. “Captain, I’ve got Bellevue on the line.”

The captain waved his subordinate silent, but the translator seized the moment. “Captain, this man is wasting your time. Anyone could make up what the jumper might have said. And there’s no country called Perkania.”

Larson could no longer control his temper. “Look,” he snapped. “If you never learned your geography, that’s your own fucking problem. There’s a man up there who might slip and fall twelve stories if we don’t get him down. If you can’t talk him in, then move your fat butt aside and let someone do it who can.” Larson softened his tone, his focus returning to the captain. “May I try, sir?” He extended a hand for the radio.

Taziar’s voice crackled through the static again. “I’m looking for an elf named Allerum, or rather a man named Allerum.”

Oh, my God.
Realization smacked Larson.
He climbed the freaking building hoping to pick me out of seven and a half million people.
Larson choked back a laugh, turning it into a feigned sneeze. In tenth-century Germany, the strategy made sense.
From the roof of the tallest building in Cullinsb-erg, Shadow could probably view his city end to end.

Taziar hesitated in frustration, then finished in English so heavily accented, Larson felt certain he alone recognized the words. “Team player. Buddy Allerum. Stupid son of a bitch.”

Larson thumbed the button. “Shadow,” he said in the tongue of Cullinsberg’s barony. “It’s me. Allerum.”

“Mardain’s mercy.” Taziar swung around so suddenly, the crowd loosed a collective gasp. “How come I can hear you, but I can’t see you? Where are you?”

“I’m on the ground. I’ll explain later.”

“I’m coming down.”

“No, wait. Stay there. Whatever you do, don’t move.”

The supervisor made a gesture of impatience. “What’s he saying?”

Larson addressed Taziar first. “Hang on, buddy.” He turned to the policeman, suddenly recognizing the unintentional pun of his own words. He returned to English, knowing he could not relay the actual conversation without cornering himself into an unbelievable story.
I’ve got to get Shadow down and out of here without committing either of us to the loony bin.
“He said his name is Taz, and he has some demands. First, he wants me up there to talk to him directly. Through the window.”

The supervisor frowned. “Are you willing to do that?”

“Yes. Of course. A man’s life is at stake.” Larson handed back the radio, then ducked beneath the barricade.

The translator waved his hands wildly. “I can’t believe you’re wasting time with this imposter.”

The Brooklyn accent came over the radio again. “Captain?”

“Hang on Dixson,” the patrol supervisor said. He looked at Larson. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Al,” Larson started. Then, recognizing the danger of his mother hearing his name on television or radio news, he caught himself. “Smith. Al Smith.”
Oh, good going, Larson. Why didn’t you just say John Doe?
He changed the subject immediately. “And if it’ll make him feel better ...” He jerked a thumb at the translator. “... I can prove I’m really talking with this climber.” He reached for the speaker again.

The captain passed the radio.

Larson thumbed it on. “Dixson?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to tell your jumper to nod twice. Tell us when he does.”

“All right.”

Larson switched to archaic, dialectal German. “Shadow, listen. You can’t come down because the place is crawling with ...” The word “police” had no translation, so Larson used the closest one he could find. “... city guardsmen. Climbing buildings is illegal here. They’ll arrest you if you come down. Don’t do anything elusive, or I’ll never find you again. Just hold tight, and I’ll be up to get you.”
Somehow.
“Now, don’t ask any questions. Just nod your head two times.”

“He’s nodding,” Dixson confirmed. “Twice.”

The translator fell silent, utterly speechless.

“Come on.” The captain placed an arm around Larson’s shoulders and steered him across the concrete. “You got any experience talking down jumpers?”

None whatsoever, but I won’t need any.
Larson thought it better to lie. “Used to work a suicide hotline in high school.”

The patrol supervisor glanced upward, past Taziar’s clinging form, and silently mouthed, “Praise the Lord.”

A trio of uniformed policemen herded a dozen gawking office personnel out the front door; they filed through the cordoned area and into the crowd. While the supervisor waited for them to pass, Larson took a closer look at his surroundings. The ropes, barricades, and emergency vehicles formed a semicircle extending from the front of the building, directly beneath Taziar. The danger area included a single street around which mounted police diverted traffic. The back exit and at least one side door remained clear for shoppers to enter and leave Sears and Roebuck.

The patrol supervisor waved at a group of uniformed officers. “McCloskey. Johnston.”

A husky, middle-aged redhead and a willowy brunet disengaged from the others and obediently trotted over.

The captain took the two aside, talking in hushed tones.

Unable to hear the conversation, Larson continued to study the area. Cops and emergency personnel scurried in efficient patterns, exchanging messages and controlling the crowd with masterful cooperation. Taziar clung at the level of the tenth floor, his attention now turned toward the window. Apparently, he was staring at the policeman called Dixson.

“Mr. Smith.” The redhead touched Larson’s arm. His tone made it clear he had tried to get Larson’s attention at least once before.

Larson glanced up into a wide face with friendly, blue eyes.

“Mr. Smith, we’re going to accompany you upstairs to talk to the jumper and to help you decide what to say.” The redhead smiled, gesturing Larson through the door ahead of him. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone.”

That’s what worries me.
Larson smiled nervously.

The policemen near the door moved aside to let Larson and his escort through it.

“Just call me Al.” Larson entered the building and waited for the officers to take the lead. His thoughts were spinning, and he saw no reason to further complicate the matter by needing to learn a new name.
I had enough trouble remembering to answer to Allerum. And that starts with Al.

The door opened onto a squat entryway. Ahead, another set of steel-framed, glass doors led into the main store. To the left, a pair of elevators graced the wall. Directly opposite loomed a dark, metal door with a “1” stenciled on it in white paint.

Larson followed the policemen through the lobby to the elevator bank.

The redhead framed a wipe-lipped smile. “John McCloskey,” he said. “The quiet guy is Phil Johnston.”

“Ha ha.” Johnston punched the “up” elevator button. Resting a hand against the frame of the leftmost elevator, he turned to face Larson and McCloskey.

Larson watched the milling shoppers in Sears and Roebuck.

“What language did you say this jumper was speaking?” Johnston asked.

Larson drew a blank. The invented country near Estonia seemed to have disappeared from his mind as quickly as it had come. “What language is he speaking?” He stalled. “Urn, he’s speaking, um....”

The door ground open, revealing a drab, two-toned car and a row of black push buttons. Johnston stepped inside, trailed by Larson and McCloskey. The door rattled shut.

The seconds of reprieve gave Larson the time he needed to untangle his lies. “Perkanian.”
That’s it.
“He’s speaking Perkanian.”

Johnston pressed “10.” “Never heard of it.”

“Small country.” Larson shrugged.

McCloskey kept his chin tilted upward, watching the floor numbers light on the overhead monitor. “Not to be a wise guy or nothing, Al. But Perkanian doesn’t strike me as the type of language they teach in high school.”

Larson sighed, trying to concentrate on his next move and bothered by the need to make petty conversation. “My grandparents came from Perkania.”
Or Queens. One of the two.
“They used to talk Perkanian with my old man when they didn’t want me to understand what they were talking about. Things like sex and Christmas presents. Stuff like that. I’ve got a thing for picking up languages.” The ab-lib seemed plausible, and Larson impressed himself with his own quick alibi. Then another thought made him frown.
Great. I’m becoming a good liar. Something to be proud of.

“Yeah?” McCloskey glanced away from the advancing numbers to look at Larson. “I had enough trouble just getting past ‘Oy Maddamoysal.’” His Bronx accent mangled the French.

It took Larson a moment to decipher. “I think you mean ‘Oui, Mademoiselle.’ ” Larson developed a sudden appreciation for freshman French. “I’ve got some advice for you, McCloskey. If you ever go to France, don’t go alone.”

The officers chuckled.

Larson stared at his feet, aware he had to get Taziar down without turning him over to the police, his head empty of ideas. It was too late for truth. Even if he could have convinced the police about a Chaos-crazed sorceress and a thief from ancient Germany, he would first have to admit to creating Perkania and using an alias.
Knowing I lied once, why would they believe me? At best, they’d haul us both into the station. Or Bellevue. And every second Silme has to accustom herself to the city, locate us, and plot, the more dangerous she becomes.
Larson shook his head, panicky about the only solution that sprang to mind.
We’ve got to escape cleanly and quickly. Which means I have to ditch the escort.

The elevator pinged, slowing before it ground to a halt. Still uncertain, but aware he had to make a fast decision, Larson ushered the policemen ahead of him.

They stepped into the hallway.

Larson followed, taking an instant to get his bearings. Across from the elevators, the stairwell was marked with a painted “10.” The hallway led off to the left and right, broken only by doors, a water fountain, and the occasional recessed fire extinguishers. From his memory of Taziar’s position, Larson guessed Dixson and his team were stationed down the left hallway and inside one of the front offices.

As if to confirm Larson’s guess, McCloskey and Johnston turned left.

Here goes nothing.
Calling on his boxing and martial arts training, Larson slammed the side of his hand into the back of McCloskey’s neck.

The redhead toppled without a sound.

Johnston whirled. “What the... ?”

Larson plunged a fist into Johnston’s face.

The cop crumpled, crashing awkwardly to the corridor.

Shit.
Larson nursed his knuckles, cursing himself, and hating what urgency had forced him to do. Whirling, he ran to the stairwell, aware his attack would only buy him a few minutes. Shoving through the door, he took the concrete steps two at a time.
I punched out a pair of cops. If Nam and Gaelinar taught me nothing else, they made me one hell of a dirty fighter. I can’t believe I sucker-punched a cop.
Oddly, his attack against New York City’s finest raised more doubt and guilt than shooting soldiers in the jungle or slaughtering guardsmen in Cullinsberg’s streets. There was something sacred, something magically innocent about the world of his childhood, a memory-protected sanctuary from the hard, cold realities thrust at him since the day his plane had touched down in Vietnam. Still, for all its familiarity, New York City had changed. The events that had once composed his life faded to trivia beneath the atrocities of war and the threat of a Dragonrank mage. Even with live mythology, dragons, and wizards, the warped ancient Europe he’d just come from seemed less of a fantasy world than the New York City he used to know.