Call After Midnight (28 page)

Nick and Potter stared at each other.

“Gunfire!” said Nick. “My God. Sarah…”

“Where's Van Dam?” Potter snapped.

“I don't know, sir. He still doesn't answer his hotel phone.”

“That's it. Let's go, O'Hara!” As the three men rode the elevator down to street level, Potter muttered to Nick, “I don't know why I should put my career on the line for you. I don't even like you. But you're right. We've gotta move in now. By the time Van Dam gives the okay, we'll all be in a damned nursing home.” He glanced sharply at Tarasoff. “And that comment's off the record. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Potter suddenly eyed Tarasoff's build. “What size are you?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Shirt size.”

“Uh…sixteen.”

“That'll do. Lend your shirt to Mr. O'Hara here. I'm sick of looking at his hairy chest. Don't worry, I'll see he doesn't get blood all over it.”

Tarasoff immediately complied, but he looked distinctly ill at ease in his undershirt and jacket. They headed for the parking garage.

“Get on the radio and have the team meet us at the Berkman building.”

“Shall I keep trying to get hold of Van Dam?”

Potter hesitated as he caught Nick's glance of warning. “No,” he said at last. “For now, let's keep this our own little secret.”

Tarasoff gave him a puzzled look as he opened the car door. “Yes, sir.”

Nick slid into the back seat. “You know, Potter,” he said, easing into Tarasoff's shirt, “maybe you're not as dumb as I thought.”

Potter shook his head grimly. “On the other hand, O'Hara, maybe I am,” he said. “Maybe I am.”

* * *

W
ITH A HOLLOW
thud, Sarah landed on her back.

The first thing she felt was wonderment. She was alive. By God, she was alive! For what seemed like hours, she lay there in the darkness, the breath knocked out of her, the sky spinning. Then she saw the gable window, not more than fifteen feet above her, and she realized she had fallen only a short distance. She was lying on an adjacent rooftop.

Kronen's shouts jolted her into action. He was standing above at the window, barking out commands. From somewhere in the darkness below, other voices responded. His men were searching the ground for her body. They wouldn't find it. Soon they'd turn their attention to the rooftop.

She scrambled to her feet. Already her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She could discern the faint outline of roof against sky. Then it suddenly struck her that it wasn't just her eyes; the sky had lightened. The difference was almost imperceptible; the significance was frightening. Dawn was coming. In minutes she'd be an easy target, scurrying across the tiles. Before the sun rose, she had to make her way to safety.

Flashlight beams streaked below. Footsteps circled the building, and then the men shouted again. They had not found her body.

Sarah was already crawling up the next slope of tiles. The angle was shallow, and she easily reached the apex. She slipped over the top and eased her way down toward the next roof. The mist seemed to close around her in a
thick, protective veil. Her dress was soaked from the wet tiles, and the satin clung to her like a freezing second skin. Her bare feet scraped across mortar, which rubbed them raw, but the cold had numbed them so completely she felt no pain. Terror had robbed her of every distraction; the unrelenting awareness of her own death blocked everything else from her mind.

She slid off the tiles onto a flat gravel surface and ran through the lifting darkness to a rooftop door. The knob was ice-cold. The door was locked. She beat it with her fists, beat it until her hands were bruised and she was weak and sobbing. The door did not open. Whirling around, she looked for another escape route—another door, a stairway. With every second the sky brightened. She had to get off this roof! Then a man's far-off shout told her she'd already been spotted.

The next roof loomed before her, a sheer wall of slate. Except for a gable window far above and an antenna at the top, the surface was smooth as ice. She could never climb it.

The shouts came again, closer. A loose tile clattered from the roof and smashed to the sidewalk. She spun around and saw Kronen lowering himself out the broken gable window. He was coming after her.

Like a trapped bird, she circled her rooftop cage, searching desperately for a way off. At the rear of the building, there was only a sheer drop to an alley. She dashed to the other side and stared down. Far below, through fingers of mist, she saw the street. There were no balconies, no stairways, to break her fall if she jumped. There was only the wet pavement, waiting to receive her body.

She heard something clatter across the tiles. Kronen cursed; his gun had fallen to the street. He was already over the top of the second roof. In seconds he'd be on her.

Her eyes darted back to the smooth slate roof, an impassable barrier between her and safety. Staring up, she felt a cold drizzle descend on her face and mingle with her tears.
If only I could fly!
she thought.
If only I could soar away!
Then, through her tears, she sighted a black wire running down the roof from the antenna. Was it strong enough to support her weight? If it broke she might tumble over the edge to the street.

The sound of Kronen's feet hitting the gravel rooftop tore away her last threads of hesitation. Reaching for the wire, she dragged herself up the slate roof. Her toes slid down a few inches, then held. As footsteps crunched across the gravel toward her, she clambered up the roof, out of Kronen's reach.

His curse echoed off the buildings. She didn't dare look back to see if he was following. Every ounce of her concentration was focused ahead, on the soaring surface of gray slate. Her fingers ached. Her feet were raw and swollen. The roof seemed to rise forever; at any moment she expected to hear gunfire from Kronen's men on the ground below, to feel a bullet slam into her back. All she heard was the wind and Kronen's angry shouts. Even without his gun, he could easily kill her. A toss of his knife would send her hurtling to the street. But she knew that Magus wanted her alive. For now.

She kept moving, unable to see her goal, unable to judge how much farther she had to climb. Surely it couldn't be far! she thought desperately. She couldn't hold on much longer.

Her feet gave way beneath her. With a cry she felt her legs swing free. Gravity was pulling her relentlessly downward, an unshakable force she couldn't fight. Her arms were exhausted. As she struggled for a foothold, her right calf twisted into a cramp. She felt the wire slipping through
her hands. Then, nudged aside by a sudden breath of wind, the mist faded and she saw, only inches away, the top of the roof.

Somehow she found the strength to drag herself upward. At last her fingers closed around the antenna. The metal felt so solid, so strong! She pulled herself those last few inches to the top. There she collapsed against the hard angle of slate, her arms hugging the sides of the roof. She had to rest, just for a few seconds. She had to let the cramp ease from her calf.

But when she raised her head and looked down at the other side, she saw there was nowhere else to go. She had reached the end of the line. No other rooftop lay below to catch her. There was only a drop to the street.

Tears of despair streamed down her face. She lowered her head and sobbed into the slate, sobbed like a terrified child at what she could not escape. The sound of her own cries drowned out everything else.

Then gradually she was aware of another sound, faint at first, but growing louder: two notes piercing the dawn, over and over. A siren.

Kronen heard it, too. He stared up at her like a man possessed. Pacing back and forth, he searched for some other way up. There was none. Cursing, he grabbed the wire and started up the roof. He was coming after her.

In disbelief she watched him climb. He was long and wiry; he moved like a monkey up the slate roof. Frantically she worked at the wire, trying in vain to disconnect it from the antenna. She'd never get it loose in time. With nowhere else to go, she backed away from the edge. She could already hear his breathing, loud and harsh, as he neared the top. She tried to stand. Tottering on bruised feet, she waited for him. The siren grew louder. Just a few moments more! That's all she needed!

Kronen's fingers closed over the top. Frozen, she watched as his head rose above the peak. His eyes locked on hers. She saw no anger or hatred; what she saw was infinitely more terrifying: anticipation. He was looking forward to her death.

“No!” she screamed, her voice piercing the mist.
“No!”

She lashed out at him. Her fingers clawed at his eyes, forcing him backward, toward the edge. He grabbed her wrist, twisting it so hard she cried out. Wrenching free, she stumbled and almost lost her balance. He scrambled onto the top. Slowly he came toward her.

For a moment they stood staring at each other, the wind making them sway uneasily on the wet slate. It had come to this—the two of them alone on a rooftop. One of them would not survive. She would not let him take her alive.

His hand slid into his jacket. A knife appeared. Even in the dull gray dawn, the blade seemed to glitter. He held it easily, almost casually, as if it were nothing more than a toy.

She took another step backward. How far did she have left? How far until retreat took her to the other edge? The blade moved closer. Taking her alive was no longer his goal. He was going to kill her. Through a curtain of mist, she saw him coil for the spring. She saw the blade, thrusting toward her. Her arms crossed in front of her, an automatic gesture of protection. Pain shot through her forearm as the blade came down on naked flesh. She crumpled to her knees. His shoes creaked as he came to stand over her. His heel planted itself heavily on a fold of her dress, trapping her against the roof. She could not escape now. She couldn't even stand. In silent dread she watched the blade rise again in a deadly arc.

All her feral instincts rose to a last, desperate act of survival. With a cry she hurled herself at his knees. He
staggered backward, tottering on one leg, struggling for balance. She didn't let him regain it. She lunged at his foot.

The blow swept his ankle out from under him. He twisted, clawing to hold on. The knife clattered down the slate. As he started to drop toward the street, he caught the top of the roof, but only for a second. His eyes met Sarah's; it was a look of infinite surprise. He slid away, his eyes still staring upward, his arms reaching toward the sky. She shut her eyes. Long after he hit the street below, his scream was still echoing in her ears.

She was going to be sick. The world seemed to spin around her. Dropping her head, she pressed her cheek against the cold, wet slate and fought off the nausea. There she huddled, shivering, as the sound of sirens and voices rose up from the street. She was too cold, too exhausted, to move. Only when she heard Nick's shout did she stir.

It's not possible,
she thought.
I'm imagining things. I saw him die....

Yet there he was, standing on the street, waving wildly at her. Tears sprang to her eyes. She wanted to shout that she loved him, that she would always love him, but she was crying too hard for anything sensible to come out.

“Don't move, Sarah!” shouted Nick. “We're calling for a fire truck to get you down!”

She wiped the tears away and nodded.
It's all over,
she thought, watching three more police cars pull up with sirens blaring.
It's all over....

But she had forgotten about Magus.

A loud slam made her turn and look down. A door had opened and closed. Magus emerged on the graveled roof just below. He carried a rifle. Only she could see him. From the street where Nick and the police stood, Magus was invisible. He was a lone man, trapped on a rooftop. A man about to make one last gesture in the name of vengeance.
For a moment he stood staring at her, like a man longing for the one thing he cannot have. Then slowly he raised his rifle. She watched the barrel point up at her and waited for the fatal blast.

The rifle's crack thundered over the rooftops.
Where is the pain?
she thought,
Why don't I feel the pain…?

Then, in wonderment, she saw Magus stagger backward, his shirt splattered brightly with blood. The rifle thudded to the gravel. He made a sound, a death cry that might have been only a name. With his eyes wide open, he collapsed on his back. He didn't move.

On another rooftop something glittered. It drew Sarah's attention away from the bloodied body, beckoning her gaze with the brightness of spun gold. The sun burst through the last veil of mist. It fell in a brilliant beam upon the head and shoulders of a man standing on a high roof two buildings away. The man lowered his rifle. The wind whipped his shirt and hair. He was looking at her. She could not see his face, but she knew, in that instant, who he was. In a trance she tried to stand up. As he faded from view, she tried to reach out to him, to call him back, to thank him before he disappeared forever.

“Geoffrey!” she screamed.

The wind swept her voice up and carried it away. “No, come back! Come back!” she screamed, over and over. But all she saw was a last glimpse of golden hair, and then there was only a wet, empty roof, sparkling beneath the morning sun.

* * *

O
N THE STREET
below Sarah, the rifle crack echoed like thunder over the rooftops. A half dozen cops immediately dived for cover. Nick froze in alarm. “What's going on?” he cried.

Potter turned and barked to Tarasoff, “Who the hell's shooting up there?”

“Not one of ours, sir. Maybe the cops—”

“That was a rifle, dammit!”

“It was not my men,” said a Dutch police officer, peering out from the safety of a nearby doorway.

Nick looked up and saw immediately that Sarah was still alive. Frantically his eyes searched the surrounding windows. Who had fired the shot? Was Sarah the target? Down here, on the street, he was totally helpless to save her. Panicking, he shouted at Potter, “For God's sake,
do something
!”