Out of Time (33 page)

Simon saw a hulking figure at the end of the corridor. He was no more than a shadow backlit by the light of the elevator. The thug tried to lunge out of the way, and Simon fired again. This time, he hit his mark. The bullet tore into the man’s thigh. He lurched, but didn’t fall.

Just as Simon was about to fire again, another shot boomed from behind him. Simon spun back around and saw smoke drifting from the muzzle of Charlie’s gun, before it clattered out of his hand. Simon turned back toward the gunman, ready to fire again, but the shadowy figure jerked back and fell to the floor. His gun slipped from his lifeless fingers and skittered across the marble.

Simon stood frozen for a moment. The man didn’t move. He was dead. Finally, Simon broke from his fugue and turned to Charlie. “Are you all right?” he asked, as he knelt at his side.

Charlie grimaced and put his revolver in his pocket. “I was shot. What do you think?”

In spite of it all, Simon laughed.

“Sure, laugh at the bleeding man.”

“Can you stand?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, but he couldn’t make it without help.

Simon steadied him and then saw the elevator doors closing down the hall. “Hold on to something,” he said and ran forward. He sprinted down the corridor and through the foyer, managing to wedge his arm between the doors just before they closed. He shoved them open again and pointed his gun at the cowering elevator man. “I should shoot you right now. Don’t give me another reason.”

The little man tried to press himself into the wood paneling.

“Go and help my friend,” Simon barked and pulled the stop lever. “Now!”

The man scurried out of the elevator and down the hall. He tried to support Charlie’s bulk, and they shuffled back with excruciating slowness. They stepped over the dead thug sprawled at the mouth of the foyer. The man’s chest was bright crimson, a blossoming stain spreading out onto the cold floor beside him. Finally, they made it to the lift, and Simon waved his gun toward the controls. “Hurry it up. Is Mack awake?”

The man trembled as he shook his head.

“Is there anyone else down there?” Simon asked.

“No. Just Vic,” he said, nodding his head toward the dead man.

“Good. Now, get this thing moving.”

The trip down to the lobby seemed to take twice as long as the trip up. Charlie was bleeding badly, but gathered himself well enough to walk unassisted as they slipped out the back door.

Simon helped Charlie to the car. “We need to get you to hospital.”

The barkeep shook his head. “Not in the city. King’s men’ll be all over it.”

Simon put his gun back into his pocket, vaguely aware that he had four bullets left.

Charlie opened the driver’s side door and managed to heave himself up into the seat. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his gun. “You might need this.”

Simon nodded and took the gun. He slipped it into his waistband.

“Better make sure it’s not cocked,” Charlie said with a smirk.

Simon quickly pulled the gun out. It was uncocked. With a relieved sigh he put the gun back in his jacket pocket.

“Can’t be too careful.” The brief moment of levity faded and with it Charlie’s smile.

“I’ll be all right. I got some friends in Yonkers owe me a favor.”

Simon was torn. Charlie was in no shape to drive, but night had fallen and he was no closer to Elizabeth. If anything, he was further away.

Sensing his dilemma, Charlie shook his head. “You do what ya gotta do.”

Simon heaved a sigh. How could he ever possibly thank this man? No matter what he said, it would pale in comparison to the debt he owed. A debt he could never repay.

“Give Lizzy a hug for me,” Charlie said, and stuck out his hand, fingers drenched in his own blood.

“I will,” Simon vowed and gripped his hand tightly, moved as much by Charlie’s faith as his courage.

A wealth of understanding passed between the two men in the silence of the deserted alley. Charlie pulled his hand away and started the car with a grimace of pain. Simon stepped back and eased the door closed. Charlie put the car in gear, and with one last look, drove off into the night. The car turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Knowing he couldn’t linger there any longer, Simon headed back to Fifth Avenue.

The city moved on, oblivious to the drama that played at its very heart. In a little over forty-eight hours the eclipse would come. Simon patted his pants pocket. The watch was secure. The gun was loaded. But his last chance to find King and Elizabeth had evaporated with the empty room upstairs. Or had it? With a new purpose, he fell in with the foot traffic, shoved his bloody hand into his pocket and started for St. Patrick’s.

ELIZABETH OPENED HER EYES. White hot pain pierced her head like railway spikes. She tried to think, but her mind was still wrapped in gauze. She blinked against an ungodly bright light that sliced through the louvered blinds. All she knew was she had to shut those damn things. But when she pushed herself up, the raging headache was joined by a wave of gagging nausea. She fought to keep from retching and the effort drove the ten penny nails deeper into her brain.

She took a deep breath to try and stem the upsurge of bile, but the stale odor of rotting fish and thick, salty air had other ideas. She coughed and cradled her head. Her tongue felt tacky with a thick paste, and she could barely manage to swallow.

Dying on the spot seemed like a good idea, but she settled for not moving. She stilled in mid-movement, caught in an awkward position, half upright, and one hand curled over the top of her head, pressing cool fingers against her throbbing temple.

Slowly the fog in her head began to lift, and she dared to sit up the rest of the way. Either this was the worst hangover in the history of man, or she…. Slowly, it came back to her. Memories swimming upstream. She had been washing her hands when the door opened behind her. Just when she was about to politely remind the woman that the room was occupied, two huge men filled the doorway. One clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth before she could scream. The other thug grabbed her legs, and they carried her down the hall. She’d fought as best she could, finally managing to get a leg free and kick the thug at her feet in the groin.

She’d flailed for a moment, getting in a few more shots, but he was too strong and had grabbed her ankle in a vice grip. She thought he’d torn her Achilles tendon. Looking down at her legs, she saw the red marks from his fingers just above her shoeless foot. Leaning down to massage her ankle, another wave of nausea made her reconsider the move.

They’d dragged her into a car. She vaguely remembered one of them muttering something about “getting the stuff and shutting her the hell up.” Then the world faded into darkness. Until she’d woken up here. Wherever here was.

The room was small but plush. A silk duvet covered the single bed. A small, mahogany vanity with an ornate, brass-framed mirror stood to the side. Two wingback chairs upholstered in midnight blue velvet sat on either side of a small table. A crystal carafe of water and a single glass sat waiting for her.

She pushed herself up from the bed and teetered on wobbly legs before the world settled uneasily into place. She limped over to the table, poured a glass of water and gratefully drank it down.

If only the ground would stop swaying like that. Leaning heavily on the table, she closed her eyes. The distant clang of metal and a soft scraping sound were strangely familiar, but her brain couldn’t find the answer.

Bleary eyed, but feeling closer to human again, she lifted one of the louvers and peered out the window. It was dark outside, save for that damnable light that hung outside her room. Squinting into the glare, her eyes slowly adjusted. A white railing stood a few feet away, beyond that, darkness. A fluttering streak of creamy white appeared then disappeared on the horizon. And then another.

The ocean.

A boat. It had to be King’s boat. There was no other explanation. How far out were they? Could she swim for shore?She tried to stem the tide of questions that flooded her brain and concentrate on facts. She was on a boat. Judging from the gentle, nauseating, rocking, they were still moored to the dock. Score one for the good guys.

She padded awkwardly across the carpet to the door and tried the handle. Locked. So much for one for the good guys.

She leaned against it, and the reality of her situation slowly sank in. She was King’s prisoner. Maybe she always had been. Only now, the cage had just gotten a whole lot smaller.

Elizabeth hobbled back over to the bed and sat down heavily. What was she supposed to do now? Wait to be rescued? Simon would…

Simon. Her heart clenched at the thought of him. Had King taken him too? No. He wouldn’t do that. But he would kill him.

“Oh God,” she gasped. What if Simon was dead? She flushed with panic. No, don’t think like that. Simon was alive, she told herself. He had to be.

Thunder rolled in the distance as Simon pulled open the doors to the church. He moved quickly down the center aisle, searching fervently for a glimpse of the old priest. All he saw was a dour looking woman mumbling a prayer and caressing the beads of her rosary and half a dozen people sat scattered about the pews. Then, in the shadows at the far end of the room, he saw a stirring of black robes.

“Father!” he called out, oblivious to propriety and the glare from the old woman. He dashed down the aisle, but stopped short when he saw it wasn’t Father Cavanaugh, but a young priest.

“Please, sir. A little restraint—”

“Where’s Father Cavanaugh?” Simon demanded.

The young priest clasped his hands in front of him. “I’m Father Fitzpatrick. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Is he in his office?” Simon asked and started toward the side door.

“Please, sir. He’s resting,” the priest said trailing along behind. “Perhaps I can help you.”

Simon ignored him and yanked open the office door.

“Sir, I have to insist…”

Father Cavanaugh was lying on the small couch.

“You see,” Father Fitzpatrick whispered. “Come, let’s…”

Again, Simon ignored him and made his way into the room. Even before he reached Father Cavanaugh’s side, he knew something was wrong. A palpable presence of something malevolent lingered in the air. The way the priest was laid out was familiar. Hands clasped over his chest, a crucifix resting underneath. Then it struck him. He wasn’t sleeping, he was lying-in-state.

Dead.

Simon stood over him for a moment, waiting, hoping to see the rise and fall of his chest, but knowing it would never come. Father Cavanaugh’s lips were already tinged with blue. His head wasn’t settled properly on his shoulders; it was shifted, unnaturally, just off-center. Simon knelt down and saw the tell-tale garish, purple bruise bulging beneath the stark white of his collar. His neck had been broken. It had to be King. He’d killed him and then posed him in this mockery of respect.

“Father?” Father Fitzpatrick said, fear and uncertainty making his voice quiver.

“He’s dead.” Uttering the words cut the final thread Simon had clung to. Without Father Cavanaugh, he had nothing to go on. No leads. No way to find Elizabeth.

The young priest cried out and fell to his knees. Crossing himself, he mumbled a litany that faded with Simon’s hopes.

Was it just this morning life seemed to be open before him? Elizabeth at his side, the future waiting to take them. And now, he’d seen death. Twice in the last hour, like a ghoulish specter nipping at his heels, lurking behind every corner, suffocating him.

Hearing Father Fitzpatrick’s cry, parishioners crowded the doorway. Simon couldn’t breathe. He had to get out of that room. Desperate to escape the sobs and cries of dismay slowly filling the cathedral, he shouldered past the onlookers and stumbled down the aisle.

He threw his weight against the heavy doors and staggered into the night. A bolt of lightning burst overhead, illuminating the street like a photographer’s flash, capturing a moment, stopping time.

A single rain drop spattered the sidewalk. Then another and another. Soon, a sheet of despairing rain cascaded down. Umbrellas blossomed like black flowers in a potter’s field.

Simon made his way down the street, needing to get as far away as he could from the church and the shadow of death. Carried on a tide of anger and desperation, he pushed ruthlessly through the crowd.

And the heavens above raged.

Elizabeth paced the short length of her quarters, feeling absurdly like a peg-legged pirate. She didn’t want to take off her one remaining shoe. It was silly. Even if she did manage to escape, there was no way she could run away wearing only one shoe. But there was something too vulnerable about being completely barefoot, so she limped back and forth across the Berber carpet. If nothing else, maybe she could wear a hole in the deck.

She’d already canvassed the room for anything she might use as a weapon. Simon had taught her well, and the diversion kept her mind off things. They’d taken her hidden stake, but there were a few things that might come in handy. She wrapped the silver, handheld mirror in a pillowcase and broke the glass. The jagged pieces would be as good as a knife, if she didn’t manage to slice her own hand in the bargain. She tore the hem off the sheet and bound one of the ends. The remaining blade was painfully small. Better than nothing, she thought, as she slipped it under the pillow.

The water carafe was heavy enough to be a decent bludgeon, but she doubted she’d get the chance to use it. That left the hurricane lamp, a ready-made Molotov cocktail. The wick cast a deceptively warm glow around the room.

Quite the cozy little prison.

She heard men’s voices outside her window and peered through the slats. The two men she recognized as the ones who’d taken her from the diner maneuvered a dolly across the deck. A large barrel with Spanish lettering nearly skidded off its perch. Rain had started to fall, and the wooden planks were slippery.

“Boss’ll kill us if we lose this rum,” one of them said.

“Shut up and help me.” They struggled to right the huge cask and trollied it down the deck out of view.