by Rick Riordan
Sam was dressed in his suit and tie, but looked like he’d been broiling in a hot car all afternoon. His face glistened. His expression was blank with pain. His hand appeared to be broken. He cradled it in his lap, the fingers purple and swollen.
At least he wasn’t covered in blood.
Stirman’s shoulder wound made him look like something out of a Jacobean tragedy. I tried to convince myself the amount of blood soaking through his makeshift bandages wasn’t as much as it appeared, but it looked pretty damn bad.
His feverish eyes studied me for a moment, then rested on Jem. “I see the child, but not the money. Why is that, Navarre?”
“You need a doctor, Stirman.”
He swayed back about five degrees. The guy had to be going into shock. If I could just wait for the right moment…
“Don’t get ideas,” Stirman warned. “Barrera got ideas. You can see they didn’t help him.”
“You okay, Sam?” I asked.
Barrera tried to move his swollen hand, winced. “Where’s Fred?”
“Dead, Sam. Dead eight years.”
Stirman threw his walkie-talkie against the window so hard the glass shuddered. Next to me, Jem flinched.
“The old man keeps yammering about Barrow like he’s still alive,” Stirman complained. “He looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am.”
“Barrera’s ill.” I tried to keep my voice even. “He’s losing his memory.”
I could tell from Stirman’s face that he didn’t want to believe me. He wanted to buy into Sam’s dementia-to think Fred Barrow really was coming back from the dead, that he would show up any minute to get his just deserts.
“He brought me this.” Stirman picked up the black duffel bag, tossed it toward me. “What the hell is this?”
The zipper split open when it hit the carpet. Paper spilled all over the skywalk.
Not money.
Photographs. Old yellowed photos. In some of them, I recognized Sam Barrera’s face-a much younger Sam, grinning with his arms around people I didn’t know. There hadn’t been a single photo in Sam Barrera’s house-but here they all were, a lifetime’s worth, stuffed in an old loot bag.
“More memory problems?” Stirman asked.
“It’s the right bag,” Barrera insisted. “Tell him, Fred.”
Stirman raised an eyebrow at me.
“Barrera spent his share of the loot years ago,” I said. “Used it to build up his company. He’s got nothing left.”
Stirman jabbed his gun to the back of Barrera’s head. “Too bad for him. Where’s Fred Barrow’s share?”
“You didn’t give me time to retrieve it.”
“But you know where it is.”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’ll take me there.”
“Look at yourself, Stirman. You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”
“You’ll take me there,” he repeated. “And if you’re lying, you will wish to God you weren’t.” He looked at Jem. “Come here, boy.”
“Jem, no,” I said.
Stirman blinked at me. He was swaying a little more now, his face blue in the walkway’s neon lights. “They took everything from me, Navarre. I mean to collect.”
“You’d take Jem from Erainya.”
“Yes.”
“You’d take revenge on a little boy-”
“It isn’t revenge.”
“-a single mother, and an old man who doesn’t even remember why you’re mad at him. Is that satisfying? Is that what Soledad would’ve wanted?”
For a moment, I thought I’d pushed him too far, misread him completely.
But then he looked at Jem, and Stirman’s face took on that same hunger I’d seen at the soccer field. Again, he forced himself to contain his anger. Stirman had been telling me the truth on the phone-he did need Jem here. The boy’s presence was the only thing keeping him sane.
Stirman told me, “I know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t lie to yourself,” I said. “This isn’t about what Barrow and Barrera took from you eight years ago. This is about what you ran away from. You failed Soledad. You stayed silent about her baby. All this time, you let the past stay buried. You can’t make that right now.”
Stirman’s jaw tightened. “Be careful telling me what I can and can’t do.”
“Listen to Jem,” I said. “Listen to what he wants.”
“I want my mother back,” Jem managed.
“Your mother…” Stirman’s eyes drifted, as if looking at Jem had suddenly become painful. “Boy, if you knew about your mother.. .”
At that moment, Stirman looked very much like Sam Barrera-like a man whose lifelong focus had started to unravel.
“Put down the gun,” I told him. “Surrender to the police.”
Stirman exhaled, a humorless laugh. “That’s your advice, huh? Death Row?”
“You won’t survive another day on the outside. If you want any time to make amends, if it’s really not about revenge, then prison’s your only choice. It’s the only place you belong now.”
Stirman’s face had gone clammy. His bandaged shoulder glistened with new blood. The simple act of holding the gun to Barrera’s head must’ve been torture for him.
“Tell me where the money is,” he said. “Maybe I’ll let you and Barrera go. But the boy comes with me.”
Sam Barrera said, “Like hell.”
He started to get up.
“Sit down, old man,” Stirman ordered, pushing Barrera’s collarbone with the gun.
Barrera ignored him. He got unsteadily to his feet. “I didn’t come this far to let him run, Fred.”
I said, “Sam-”
“Go ahead and shoot me,” Barrera told Stirman. “You think I don’t remember? I shot your wife. Don’t take it out on Fred and this little kid. You gonna shoot somebody, shoot me.”
Stirman stared at Barrera in disbelief. “But… it was Barrow. .. I saw him. Why are you-”
“Shoot me,” Barrera ordered. “Last chance. I got the whole goddamn FBI surrounding this place.”
Stirman took a step back-a deeply ingrained human instinct: Get away from the crazy person.
Barrera grabbed the gun.
It discharged, cracking the glass wall behind Barrera’s head.
I yelled, “Jem, run!”
He followed my orders too well. With perfect eight-year-old single-mindedness, he ran toward the nearest restroom, which happened to be the wrong way-directly past Stirman, in the East Tower.
“No!”
Another shot drowned out my voice. A tube of red neon exploded. Stirman shoved Sam Barrera against the glass, which buckled, shattered, and Sam Barrera went backward into the void.
Stirman turned as Jem brushed past him. He tried to catch the boy’s shirt. I tackled Stirman. The butt of his gun slammed into my ear.
The next thing I knew I was on the carpet. A photograph was stuck to my cheek.
I got up, my vision doubled. I leaned against the railing, now open to the wet night air, and I saw a pale human shape fifteen feet below, sprawled on the lower gallery roof. Sam Barrera’s body.
I didn’t have time to think about that. Stirman hadn’t stayed to finish me off.
He had gone after Jem.
23
Just as she heard the shot inside the warehouse, Ana DeLeon’s phone vibrated against her Kevlar vest.
The SWAT team was too well trained to react to gunfire, but they all looked at her to see what was rattling.
She ripped the phone out of her pocket and stared at the display.
Ralph Arguello.
He never called her at work. She imagined the baby in the emergency room, the house burning down-what would it take for him to call like this?
There was nothing she could do. She stuck the phone back in her pocket and took out her sidearm.
The lieutenant in charge waved the team forward. Four guys in body armor moved into the warehouse, DeLeon in the rear, the unwelcome guest.
She
wasn’t worried about her own safety, or about capturing Stirman.
SAPD had the whole area ringed with snipers, cordoned off with a double perimeter, two helicopters on standby. If Stirman was inside, he was screwed. The problem was getting Erainya out in one piece.
They secured the first floor in twenty seconds. Stairs led up, exactly where the schematics said they should. The shot had come from above-third or fourth floor, about where long-range mikes had zeroed in on voices.
Sixty-three seconds later, the team was in the fourth-floor corridor. DeLeon was melting from the heat and the Kevlar. She forgot about that when she heard Erainya’s voice-yelling for help.
There was an open doorway at the end of the hall.
Smaller voices-two men in conversation.
“In here!” Erainya yelled. “Anybody?”
It wasn’t the voice of a woman being held at gunpoint. But something felt wrong to DeLeon.
The SWAT lieutenant looked back at the entry team-not a question, but a silent warning. He, too, sensed the wrongness of the situation, the team’s uneasiness. But his look made it clear they would be following the plan.
Their point man moved to the doorway, threw in the flash grenade.
The subsonic boom shook the plaster. Anyone within twenty feet would be knocked senseless.
The team moved in.
Their laser sites made a cluster of red dots on the source of the men’s voices-a portable radio.
Under the window, next to an overturned table, Erainya Manos lay stunned, her legs bound and a duct tape gag half peeled off her mouth. Her hands had been tied behind her, but one of them was partially free. That hand gripped a pistol.
DeLeon scanned the scene with disbelief. Erainya had crawled from the pile of filthy blankets in the corner, managed to kick over the table, where her captor had foolishly left a gun. She’d gotten her fingers free enough to grasp the pistol and fire a shot for help.
That was what had happened. No doubt. But where the hell was Stirman?
The team checked the rest of the floor. The rooms were empty. The lieutenant radioed the situation. Within thirty seconds Major Cooper was inside with a second team. He ordered a sweep of the roof.
By the time Erainya was coherent enough to speak, DeLeon knew there was no one else in the building.
“Left,” Erainya said. “About… I don’t remember.”
She was clearly confused, dehydrated, scared out of her wits. She said there had been two men, Will Stirman and a young Latino Stirman had called Pablo. Stirman had left to get ransom money. As soon as he was gone, Pablo disobeyed Stirman’s orders to guard her and fled. She didn’t know where either of them went. Her son was in danger. Stirman wanted to kill him. That’s all she cared about.
“Damn it,” the SWAT lieutenant said.
Major Cooper looked equally miffed. It was all fine and good to rescue a hostage, but with no capture, no blood, DeLeon knew it was a wasted evening for him. They had a whole city to search now. Their energy had been directed the wrong way. Sam Barrera and Tres Navarre. .. she would be having a serious conversation with both of them. She hated private eyes.
Her phone rattled again. She had completely forgotten about Ralph.
She stepped to the window and answered the call.
“I found him,” her husband said.
“What? Is Lucia okay?”
The baby was fine. Ralph told her about Tres’ visit earlier in the day.
She felt the old resentment building-the near-panic that fluttered in her chest whenever Ralph got close to his old life, his old habits.
She controlled her voice. “You went out looking for Stirman?”
“No, just some calls, mi amor. But that’s not the thing. I know where they’re supposed to deliver Stirman’s money.”
“We’re already at the warehouse. Stirman isn’t here.”
“You’re a couple of miles off. I called Tres-”
“You gave Navarre information first?”
“Just listen, will you? I called to tell him I’d had no luck tracking Stirman. I got Tres’ machine. I was worried, so I figured what the hell, I’d retrieve his messages, see if he’d gotten anything-”
“You can retrieve Navarre’s messages?”
“How long have I known him, Ana? Shit, yes. I could use his ATM card, if I wanted to.”
She fought back the bite of jealousy. “That doesn’t matter. He played us the message.”
“The second message?”
Time slowed. Ana said, “What second message?”
Ralph laughed appreciatively. “Shit-Tres don’t change. The meet’s at the Art Museum. It’s closed for repairs but Barrera runs security. He’s got the keys. And Ana?”
She was already moving, waving frantically at the SWAT lieutenant. “Yeah?”
“Try not to shoot Tres, okay? He can’t help himself.”
24
Somehow, the gun found its way into my hand.
It may have been the one smashed out of Barrera’s grip, or the one taken from the security guard’s holster. Maybe Barrera had hidden it at the bottom of the black duffel bag.
I figured there was some inverse property to the old statistic-carry a gun, and you are the most likely one to be shot with it. Perhaps if you didn’t carry a gun, you were likely to find one you could use to shoot someone else.
At any rate, the old-fashioned. 45 service revolver was lying there on the carpet. I scooped it up and ran into the gloom of the East Tower.
My ears were ringing. I was pretty sure the left side of my face was bleeding. Two blurry sets of steps kaleidoscoped in front of me, then two bathroom doors, then I was inside the men’s room, staring at a bloody handprint on the stall door, but no Jem.
I ran back into the gallery. An alarm went off-bells in the distance; the floor lights dimming red.
I wondered what kind of stupid alarm system sounds only when you try to escape the bathroom. Then I noticed the open glass doors leading to the rooftop, the stenciled warning: EMERGENCY
EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND.
I stepped outside, sinking to a crouch. The rooftop space was L-shaped-a railed patio with a walkway that ran along the back side of the tower. Rain made the tar shingles soft under my feet.
I crept around the corner and could just make out Jem’s shape toward the end of the walkway.
His back was to me. He stood frozen, looking at something-perhaps Sam Barrera’s body below.
As quietly as I could, I called, “Jem.”
No reply.
Stirman must have missed him. Stirman had given up when he heard the alarms. The police cars would be heading this way. It couldn’t take them long.
“Jem,” I said. “Come on-I’ll get you out of here.”
I stepped closer and froze.
Jem wasn’t staring over the edge. He was staring at Will Stirman, who was crouching in front of him at the edge of the walkway.
He was telling Jem something, pointing his gun at the boy’s feet. I could’ve sworn he was giving Jem a lecture.
Stirman saw me. He rose, calmly. We leveled our guns at each other.
I could hear police cars now. Tires slashing through water, turning onto Jones. They were running without sirens, but I knew they were cops. There is something unmistakable about the sound of police engines.
“It’s over,” I told Stirman. “Let Jem go back to his mother.”
Stirman blinked slowly. He seemed to be losing his grip on consciousness.
A single police light flashed-circling once across the neon skywalk and the face of the West Tower. An officer must have hit the switch accidentally while getting out of his car.
The light snapped Stirman back to his senses. He looked around. He was backed into a corner, forty feet in the air.
“Tell me where the money is,” he said.
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “You’ll never get out of the building.”
“I owe Soledad. I can’t give up.”
“It isn’t giving up. It’s deciding to live. If you run, you’ll die.”
Down in front of the museum, car doors were opening.
I had to get Jem away from Stirman. I had to get him out of the line of fire.
Stirman held my eyes. He seemed to understand what I was thinking.
He put his hand on Jem’s shoulder, gently pushed him toward me. “Go on, boy.”
Jem dug in his heels. His hand was closed, as if he were holding something small. “But…”
“Go on,” Stirman ordered.
Jem shook his head stubbornly. “But you told me-”
“It’s all right.” Stirman’s voice cracked. “Just go on, now.”
When Jem was finally safe behind me, Stirman said, “Now tell me about the cash. Quick.”
I didn’t see what difference it would make. I told him where the money was.
Understanding dawned on Stirman’s face-the sense that what I said had to be true. “Goddamn Fred Barrow.”
I imagined the police inside the building, the slow pulse of the glass elevator as it rose through the galleries, filled with heavily armed men.
Stirman took one last look at Jem-hesitating long enough to erase any chance of escape.
“Bear witness, Jem,” he said. “Be good to your mother, hear?”
Then he jumped. The drop should have been enough to break his legs, but he hit the roof of the lower gallery on solid footing and cleared the other side, dropping into the darkness behind the museum. There was at least a square mile of woods and flooded riverbanks back there. The police would have to search it on foot. But they would find him. I was sure of that.
Jem stared at the spot where Stirman had disappeared-wet treetops hissing in the rain.
I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, but I sensed the barrier he was putting up. He wanted no more hand-holding, no comforting.
“He won’t come back,” I said.
“I know.”
His tone wasn’t what I expected from an eight-year-old who’d just had a conversation with evil. He sounded wistful. He wore the same expression he’d worn the night we watched his mother’s van go floating away down Rosillio Creek.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, depositing whatever he was holding.