Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (36 page)

The patrolmen exchanged knowing glances. Detective Harrison frowned. “We’ll get back to your brother in a moment, Mr. Larson. I admit, I’ve heard of mothers lifting cars off their children. But panic doesn’t turn a nineteen-year-old college student into a crack marksman. Mr. Larson, where did you learn to shoot?”

You’ve obviously managed to obtain some information about me already. You tell me.
Larson choked back the words but did not manage to fully contain his sarcasm. “I was trained in the 101st anti-squirrel division.”

Harrison’s frown deepened. His knuckles blanched. “What are you saying, Mr. Larson?”

“I’m a hunter.” Larson wrestled down his temper, aware angering policemen could only hurt his case. “My father’s taken me to New Hampshire every deer season since I was legal to hold a gun.”

“You hunted game with a handgun?”

“Of course not.” Larson glanced between the uniformed officers, hoping to get some support against this lunacy. But the patrolmen kept their expressions unreadable. “But a gun is a gun. Once you’ve learned to quick-draw a rifle on a distant, moving target, how much training does it take to pull a trigger?”

“Mr. Larson, you want me to believe you’ve never handled a handgun? Yet you fired only two shots, one through a man’s heart and the other through a man’s brain. Two bullets. Two perfect, lethal shots. How do you explain that, Mr. Larson?”

Impressed with his own targeting, Larson took a moment to respond. When he did, it sounded lame. “Luck?”

Harrison jerked his head forward, flinging his face completely into darkness. “Luck, Mr. Larson? Is that the best you can do? Do you expect me to believe you attacked a gang of gunmen, unarmed, fired two shots, and killed three people without any training except matching wits with Thumper and Bambi?”

Larson’s control broke. “Damn it, Detective Harrison. I’m not trying to ‘get you to believe’ anything. I’m just telling the goddamned truth. What you choose to believe is your own business.” Fuming, he could not help adding, “And can the ‘Mr.’ Larson stuff. I know my name.” He clutched the arms of the chair, tensed to rise.

Detective Harrison retreated. The light strengthened, revealing flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes. “Mr. Larson, stay seated or we’ll have to cuff you again. And please calm down. I’m just trying to put the stories together.”

Larson remained rigid. “There must have been a dozen witnesses. Surely they’ve told you the same thing I did.”

“There’s a blonde woman who claims you saved her life,” Harrison admitted. “There’s others who give a story similar to yours.”

Larson said nothing, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“Some are saying you were part of the gang. At least one claims you boarded the subway with the gunmen.”

“That’s ludicrous!” Larson burrowed his nails into the chair seat. “Timmy and I were on that train for hours.” As soon as Larson spoke the words, he realized his mistake.

“For hours, Mr. Larson? For hours?” Harrison stared without blinking. “Do you realize how weird that is? What were you doing on the subway for hours?”

Larson shrugged. Finding no ready answer, he invented a lame one. “Cheap amusement. My little brother digs trains, okay?”

“Ah, back to your brother.” Harrison unclasped his hands, removed the pen from his pocket, and twiddled it. “To hear him tell it, you’re a cross between Elliot Ness and God Almighty. The kid needs to get away from the TV set. He kept babbling about witches and Robin Hood.”

Larson groaned. “What happens now?”

“Well, I’ve still got some details to work out.” Harrison flipped the pen, catching it by the cap. “I know you have an accomplice who made a break for it. We think he took the gun. That’s suspicious.” He stared at Larson.

Larson saw no need to answer a statement.
How the hell am I going to explain Shadow?
A more bewildering thought struck home.
His climbing Sears and Roebuck made the news. Surely, if we discuss the little sewer rat for long, they’ll connect this incident with the other. And my ass is toast.

Harrison continued, “If I can get enough answers to satisfy me, I’ll get you to the night court magistrate for an initial appearance tonight. Judge Stoffer’s fair. If we decide it’s self-defense, he might let you off on your own recognizance. If we decide it’s manslaughter, he’ll probably have you post bond. But if we draw up a first-degree murder charge, you’re in jail till the trial.”

Larson stiffened further, aware his life, his friends‘, and seven and a half million strangers’ might depend on how well he answered Harrison’s questions.

Apparently misinterpreting Larson’s discomfort, Harrison softened. “Don’t get too hyped up. You may never hit lockup. I’m guessing it’ll be a lesser charge. If Stoffer’s got a full docket, he might well clear it by giving you a choice between jail and the army.”

Larson felt as if an iced dagger had been thrust between his ribs.

The detective continued, apparently missing Larson’s sudden, deadly-coiled stillness. “I mean, war’s hell, but it’s better than a jail cell. As easily as you shot those punks and as little remorse as you’ve shown, I can’t imagine you’re a Conscientious Ob—”

Roused from his initial shock, Larson sprang to his feet. “No!” His fist crashed against the desktop. “I’m not going to Vietnam.” The telephone jumped, its bell clanging dully. “I’m not going back to ’Nam!”

As suddenly, light blasted through the interrogation room, aching through Larson’s eyes. Shadows spun, then fled like spiders. The patrol officers dove behind the desk, while the detective froze in blind confusion. In between Harrison and Larson, Silme and Bolverkr appeared in a misty wash of smoke.

Bolverkr’s arm arched. Lightning flashed down from the ceiling, striking the chair where Larson had sat a moment before. The seat splintered. The metal glowed, then warped into a twisted outline of legs and frame.

Bolverkr swore. He whirled toward Larson.

An officer peered over the desk, his handgun aimed at Bolverkr. “Police! Stand where you are!”

Larson snatched up another chair.

Gleaming strands of magic formed between Bolverkr’s hands.

Larson ducked, hurling the chair at the sorcerer. Wood shattered against an invisible shield, but the impact drove barrier and Dragonrank mage a step backward. The spell misfired to glittering slivers in his hand.

A gun roared as Larson leapt for the door. Without bothering to see the consequences, he seized the handle and wrenched.

Bolverkr cursed. “Don’t waste spells.”

A probe speared through Larson’s mind with an abruptness that sent him sprawling through the doorway. Silme’s voice filled his head. “You’re dead now, Allerum. You’re dead.” Her presence slammed into his skull.

Desperately, Larson threw up a mental wall. Magic crashed against the conjured barrier. For an instant, the imagined bricks wavered. Then the spell exploded to sparks, scattering in a backlash that again lit the room like day.

Silme screamed.

Larson staggered to his feet, taking in the outer room at a glance. Policemen huddled behind overturned desks and chairs, guns drawn. The precinct lockup facility contained a single drunkard who cowered in its farthest corner. Still dazed by Silme’s attack and weakened by his wound, Larson lurched against the bars, seizing the cold metal to steady himself.

“Don’t move!” one of the cops hollered. “Don’t anybody move.”

Ignoring the warning, Larson whirled. Bolverkr was now only a few steps away from him.

“Shit!” Larson tried to dodge the sorcerer’s charge, but Bolverkr’s shield slammed into his gut, driving him back against the bars. His skull banged into the steel. Consciousness receded before a rush of rising darkness. Larson struggled in blind panic.

Bolverkr pressed in, his shield crushing Larson against the cage. The bars branded impressions into Larson’s back, the pressure on his ribs quickly growing unbearable. He tried to drop to the floor, but Bolverkr pinned him like a moth beneath a cat’s paw. All breath was compressed from his lungs. His head felt as if it would rupture between the bars. Air-starved, Larson felt the darkness deepen, scarcely noticing Silme’s frantic search through his mind. His near unconsciousness gave her nothing concrete to manipulate.

Silme retreated. A moment later, a bullet bounced from Bolverkr’s shield, inches from Larson’s head. Realization penetrated Larson’s numb and dizzied mind.
Silme’s taken control of a cop. She’s making him fire at me.
Larson rallied. Bracing against the bars, he tried to fling Bolverkr backward.

Pain shuddered through Larson’s body. His empty lungs forced him to gasp in wild, uncontrollable bursts.

Another gunshot sounded. Then another.

Two more bullets ricocheted from Bolverkr’s magics. Then a slug passed through the unprotected back of his shield, tearing a line along his side.

Bolverkr shrieked in anguish. His face a scarlet mask of fury, he whirled toward the policemen, sorceries snapping between his fingers.

The pressure on Larson disappeared. He sucked a dire lungful of air, then leapt for the sorcerer’s unshielded back.

Fire erupted from Bolverkr’s fingers, a storm of savage flame as ugly as his rage swirled through with black smoke. Furniture and men disappeared, boiled away in the rush of magics. Stunned by the sudden loss of a huge volume of Chaos, Bolverkr pitched a step backward.

Abruptly closer to his target than anticipated, Larson struck Bolverkr’s back with his forearms instead of his fists.

Without bothering to assess the threat behind him, Bolverkr grabbed Silme and waved an arm. The air snapped open, swallowing the mages, leaving only an oily smoke that paled against the streaming, tarry residue of Bolverkr’s magical fire.

The room fell horribly quiet. Lacy black smoke veiled Larson’s vision. Evil drummed at his sensibilities, goading him to vengeance and violence. For an instant, the idea seized him to find the startled survivors and slaughter them one by one. But morality rose to beat the thought aside.
It’s Chaos. It’s the damned Chaos.
He coughed, choking on smoke and the dusty heat of cinders.
Got to get out of here while it’s still possible.
He dropped, crawling to the front door.

Larson had just reached the panel when a sound clicked through the smoky darkness. A hand reached out of nowhere and wrapped around his neck. A gun’s barrel gouged into his temple.

Larson froze, heart thumping. “Don’t shoot,” he rasped. “Please, don’t shoot.”

No reply. The gun remained in place.

Slowly, without threat, Larson rolled his eyes to a soot-and sweat-streaked face. Hazel eyes stared wildly back at him from beneath a patrolman’s cap.

“Easy.” Larson spoke soothingly, resorting to horror film cliches to make his point. “That smoke is a ... an evil being possessing you. Think about what you’re doing. Think, buddy, think!”

The arm tightened around Larson’s throat. The gun dug into his scalp.

Larson’s mind raced.
Gotta fight.
He gritted his teeth.
But I can’t outmaneuver a bullet.

The officer tensed suddenly.

Understanding flashed through Larson’s mind.
He’s going to shoot me whether I move or not.
Without time for strategy, he let his body go limp, collapsing suddenly to the ground.

The gun blast shattered Larson’s hearing. Pain tore through his scalp.

Shot in the head. He shot me in the goddamned head. I’m dead.
Larson rolled onto concrete, the paradox of his movement reviving a survival instinct that seemed ridiculous and impossible.

The gun roared again, the sound muffled to Larson’s near-deafened ears. Chips of floor tile stung his arm and face.

Catching a moving, sideways glimpse of the officer’s legs, Larson dove for them. His shoulder crashed against a knee. His fingers curled around a shin, yanking.

The cop tumbled, his gun careening into the raging inferno behind them. He clawed for Larson, driving an elbow into his face.

Larson fought through pain. Sweat trickled into his eyes, thickened with blood. Half-blinded, he wrapped his fingers around the officer’s neck, driving his thumbs into the man’s windpipe.

Now the policeman’s struggles became more violent and less directed. He heaved at Larson’s chest, arching to get his feet beneath him.

Larson released his choke hold with one hand. He drove his fist into the other man’s forehead. The officer’s head slammed against tile, and he went limp beneath Larson.

Larson clambered to his feet, not daring to check for a pulse. Sound filtered back to his ears, the whoosh of passing traffic and the distant blast of a car horn. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his brow. Snatching the unconscious officer’s hat, he ducked through the door. Once outside, he prodded the wound in his scalp with a finger. The touch hurt, and sweat stung the wound; but he felt certain the bullet had only grazed him. Stars winked down at Larson through a thin blanket of smog, broken in patches by the New York skyline. A stubby yard of grass surrounded the three-story precinct, interrupted by a concrete path leading from the front door to a sidewalk parallel to the street. Another stripe of tree-lined yard separated the walk from the road.

Though tainted with factory contaminants, the cool, crisp air seemed a welcome relief after the heated smoke and rank discharge of Chaos. Still, the change in atmosphere came with a suddenness Larson’s lungs could not accept. He coughed twice, then doubled over into a racking fit.

A hand dropped to Larson’s shoulder.

Gripped by sudden panic, Larson whirled, striking at the presence. His arm swirled through air. The abruptness of his movement sent him into another bout of coughing. “Still a little excitable, I see.” Taziar crouched just beyond Larson’s reach, near the building’s corner.

“Shit.” Larson managed between coughs, his voice strained. “Don’t sneak up on me.” He loosed another series of rasping coughs. “I might hurt you.”

Taziar’s blue eyes caught the light from an upper window, twinkling with childish mischief. “You’d never catch me.” He handed Larson a bandage from his jeans pocket.