by Gayle Lynds
When he arrived on the block where Redmond lived, he studied the area for Company muscle, but he saw none. He read street numbers. He'd been to Redmond's place once last year, right after Vince had taken over as DDI. It'd been one of those duty cocktail parties with designer canapés and a fountain of good booze. But now he wasn't sure which brownstone was Vince's—
He turned the corner, rounded the block, and headed back for the street. He boiled with outrage. Vince Redmond—the entire Redmond family—had a lot to answer for, no matter how much or little they were involved. As soon as he finished with Vince, he was going to go to the DCI and turn the whole lot of them in. He'd go all the way to the White House with this if he didn't get fast and satisfactory answers.
More anger shot fiery bolts into his brain. And then came the fear. He was afraid for Julia. For years the whole incident with Irini in East Berlin had filled him with guilt and melancholy. And a sense of love lost forever. But now he had to shake all that off. He had to forget it because it might interfere with his judgment. It was too easy for people you loved to die.
He turned again onto Redmond's street, watching all around. But he saw not even the most deeply undercover sentry on watch. The street was clean . . . except for the black Jaguar XKE that had just pulled up in front of a brownstone two-thirds of a block away to his right. He slowed to watch. The hulking, muscular form that emerged from the driver's side was unmistakable. Pink Pinkerton. His ally and trusted friend. What the hell was he doing here? Was he trying to help Sam? Was he—?
With a jolt he remembered how reluctant Pink had been to do the simple favor he'd asked—drive into Oyster Bay to check out the village service.
Sam hit his brakes. Creighton Redmond had come as close to claiming Julia was a killer as he could without actually saying it. Vince Redmond was his son. Either or both had the money and connections to hire Maya Stern and the Janitors. And Stern and the Janitors obviously intended to kill, or at least capture, Julia.
Fear rocked Sam. Had he made a mistake? He'd turned to Pink twice, trusted Pink. Given him the phone number at the theater. It could be traced.
Julia was alone.
In a frenzy he grabbed his cell phone and dialed—
4:05 PM, SUNDAY
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Tears spilled from Julia's eyes. Her heart went hollow. She was an empty vessel filled with loss. But before she could even fathom what it meant—blind again!—she heard sounds.
Someone was in the garage!
"Sam?" she called tentatively. She stumbled unseeing into the lobby, her hands outstretched. She fell. Got back up onto her feet. Without thinking, she pulled her new coat close. She could almost smell his wonderful scent on it. Everyone was dead. She'd been betrayed again and again. "Sam?"
There were quiet voices in the garage, and suddenly her brain reasserted itself.
Sam had said he'd call before he returned. It couldn't be Sam.
The voices in the garage were faint, but from where Julia stood she could hear them approaching the lobby door. Her heart thumped against her ribs. Their voices and footsteps reverberated in muffled clatters through the hardwood floor. They were too stealthy. If for some reason Sam had forgotten to call and simply arrived without announcing himself, she'd hear his usual confident gait, the bold rhythm of his steps—
She felt for the Walther in her pocket. Its hard shape was reassuring.
But she was blind. If she couldn't see, she couldn't aim.
In the garage the footsteps were wary, testing. Then they moved more quickly.
She stumbled in a dark circle. She told herself she knew how to do this. She'd been blind a long time, and she'd learned more than she could ever express. She paused to open her arms and extend her bandaged hands like radar. She calmed herself, her face testing the echo of surfaces. She stepped three paces to her right.
The candy counter. Quickly, she felt its surface and followed it to where the door to the unlighted auditorium had to be. With a burst of relief, she found the handle. Pulled it open—
The phone rang behind her. She jumped. Sam? But she couldn't stop—
She stepped into the cool void of the auditorium. As its door swung behind her, she heard them.
"That door!" It was Maya Stern's voice. "There!"
Julia couldn't take time to orient herself. She'd been down this aisle only a few hours ago. Everything she'd learned, everything she'd become, must help her now. In an act of utter faith and desperation, she hurled herself forward. She was terrified but determined. She must find the black, lightless stage where they'd be as blind as she. It was her only hope.
Behind her, the door blasted open. Warmth from the lobby swam toward her.
She ran faster, her feet high to avoid the bumps of the old floor.
"There she is!" Maya Stern again. "Stop her!"
Julia panted. Her face broke out in fresh sweat. She forced herself to increase speed. And a bullet sang past her and bit into wood. Slivers burst like needles into the air and cut into her scalp, and she pitched forward. She landed hard on her shoulder. A bolt of pain accelerated into her brain, but she hardly noticed. In a frenzy she scuttled on her hands and knees into a row of seats.
"You got her," one of the men crowed.
"Where did she go?" demanded a second one.
"I can't see anything," complained a third. "Where's the damn light switch!"
"We've got to find her!" ordered Maya Stern. "Spread out. Go!"
There were four sets of running feet. She slid downward on her belly under the seats, still heading for the stage. The feet pounded past her, divided, circled around. Half ran back up the other aisle, while the other half returned up the first. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She continued to slide and crawl, pulling and pushing herself across the worn hardwood.
Now the feet were slowing. Examining each row.
"We've got to have some light," one of the men urged. "The only place she could be is under these seats."
As the phone resumed ringing in the lobby, she felt a wall. The proscenium apron! Her fingers scrambled up its height. She could hear feet approaching, but they hadn't yet reached her. With a burst of relief, she hauled herself up and slithered across the lip of the stage.
Suddenly something bumped her foot and a hand quickly reached out, searching. "I've got her!"
She kicked hard. Connected. He grunted and lost his contact. His hands scurried over the stage floor, blindly searching again.
But she was up and hurrying forward, exploring for landmarks so she could orient herself in her endless, disorienting night. She could do this!
She sensed something large to her left. Overhead was the soft reverberation of the old velvet stage curtain. Behind her the phone continued to ring, promising help. But she couldn't think about that. There was something now to her right—low and flimsy like kitchen chairs. She remembered the chairs! As she hurried silently deeper into the stage, she frantically tried to come up with a plan. She couldn't see to shoot them. She was trapped back here without an unlocked door to the outside. Her only exit was through the garage. She must find some way to stop them, hold them—
She tried to visualize what she'd seen in the beam of the flashlight. That's when she remembered the storage room. Sam had left its door open.
They'd figured out she was on the stage. They must've heard her soft footfalls, and they were following. She could hear them bump into things and each other and curse. They were as blind as she, but she had no time for any sense of satisfaction.
She'd been here before, and she could rely on her proprioceptors. She quickly angled stage left into the wings. She searched her memory . . . she memorized so easily . . . the blind who are quick have extraordinary memories and spatial orientation. But now she had to recall instantly and accurately—
As she listened to them close in, the telephone again stopped in the lobby.
At last her foot hit the wall with a thud. Pain radiated up her toes. She slithered
rapidly along the wall, praying she was going in the right direction. Behind her they continued to follow, quieter and faster now. Her hands searched the wall like worried knitting needles, and then she sensed a tall object at a right angle to the wall.
The open storage room door.
With a burst of hope she found a steel bracket and the open padlock hanging free. Then she located the bar, which dangled down the front of the door. Quickly she decided what to do.
She reached out and swung the door closed and then open again.
The grinding rasp of the hinges echoed across the empty stage, alerting Maya Stern and her killers where she could be found.
38
4:16 PM, SUNDAY
Julia tried to calm herself. She told herself it was like preparing for one of her performances. On the edge of her brain she seemed to hear a few faint chords of reassuring music. She knew how to do this.
All her extra senses on high alert, she stepped softly away from the open door. Tension throbbed at her temples. Worry needled her stomach. She melted back into the total dark and waited flat against the wall beyond the door, panting with rising fear. Could she trust their bloodlust and instincts as hunters to bring them into her trap?
Then she heard their footsteps and soft voices. They were zeroing in on the sound of the door's creaking open. Coming to the sound as surely as death swung his scythe toward a victim. To cut her down. Kill her.
She stopped breathing.
"Here's a door," one voice murmured.
She ached from holding her breath and trying to distinguish every sound. Their body heat seemed to reach out like a burning hand.
Her pulse escalated.
Then they were inside the storage room. She heard them stumbling through the packed clutter of objects. They swore.
Lightly she returned across to the door and eased it closed. It made one loud creak. Inside shouts of alarm erupted. Her pulse sped with hope. Frantically she swung the heavy bar over, and it clanged safely into the brackets.
Almost simultaneously a hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder. Coarse male breath singed her face. In a frenzy of fear, she tried to wrench away. Instantly she understood: One of the men hadn't gone into the room. He'd stayed outside to wait, and because he hadn't moved, and she'd been so eager to be free, she'd grown careless. She'd missed him.
Terrified, she struggled, but he had muscles like steel. The hand spun her around, a hard forearm pressed across her throat, and the man pinned her to the wall like a prisoner facing torture. She choked.
"I've got her!" he shouted at the door. "Bitch," he muttered. "Bitch."
She pounded his chest. She fought for air, listened to the telephone ring far away again, and cursed herself. She'd been caught in the snare of the Janitors' training and experience. Bloodlust or not, they operated with deadly efficiency.
"You thought you'd escaped, didn't you?" he said. "Now you're going to die. Not this instant. But soon. You have to die a certain way. We'll tell you all about it." He dragged her aside and with one hand felt for the bar. She hadn't had time to padlock it. In a moment, Maya Stern and all her Janitors would be free. "You're a clever girl. You'll be interested in the clever death we have planned for you."
She gasped and tried to breathe against the forearm that was strangling her. In the faintness that threatened to engulf her, she felt a deepening rage.
She wasn't going to let the assholes kill her.
Her right hand searched for her pocket. Trembling, she found it.
Sure of her helplessness, the invisible man called through the door. "Stern? There's a steel bar holding the door. I've found it. I'll get you out in a second."
She had no time. Her hand dove into the pocket and grabbed the Walther. In a flash, Sam's words came back to her: If you have a chance, run. If you don't, fire to kill.
As the steel bar creaked upward to release the door, she frantically pulled out her Walther, rammed it into the man's chest, and fired twice.
He grunted. Blood exploded everywhere. The metal bar clanged back into place. The horrible scent of the hot blood filled her head. Nausea surged into her throat, and she struggled to take a full breath. The hand that had gripped her shoulder went limp. Shaking, she pushed it off, and the body slid down the door to the floor.
Inside the room Maya Stern was already calling out. "Riordan? What's happening out there? Riordan!" The Janitors were crashing into objects and swearing as they made their way back to the door.
Relief flooded Julia. She was still alive. She couldn't believe it. Thank God she'd had the gun. Now she had to get out of here fast. Maybe there were more Janitors out there someplace. But she was still blind—
Instantly her mind fought against her fears. It didn't matter. If you have a chance, run. She fell forward onto the door and felt frantically around until she found the steel bar. With sweating hands, she snapped the padlock into place.
Breathing hard, she turned and quickly felt her way across the stage. She had it pretty well memorized by now, and using her proprioceptors she stumbled down toward the auditorium. Her throat was raw, but she drew in the welcome air. She felt nausea rise in her throat again, but she steeled herself. She didn't care if she vomited. She'd done what she'd had to do. A cold feeling of calm possessed her.
Behind her she could hear them yelling in the storage room. And then low, sharp explosions. They were trying to shoot their way out with their silenced pistols.
She smiled grimly. They weren't going to shoot through the iron bar or a loose-hanging padlock they couldn't see that easily. But they'd still break out—one of the steel brackets was anchored inside, and if they used their hands, they'd find it and shoot it out.
She located the first row of seats, then the aisle, and ran up it, her feet again high to avoid tripping on the bumps in the old floor. At last she sensed the door and wall of the auditorium ahead—a great hard, flat surface against which the sound waves of her feet came back fast and smart.
She slowed. Reached the door. And pushed.
The air was suddenly warmer. Even artificial light warmed a room. She was in the lobby. She found the candy counter. Using it as a landmark, she moved past the big glass doors that had been the movie theater's grand entrance but were now covered by plywood sheets. Counting her steps wouldn't be reliable, so she rotated her face in a slow arc from left to right and back again. In that way she could keep herself in the center of the lobby.
Finally she reached the far wall and the door that led into the garage. Behind her she could hear the enraged shouts of the three killers. She had to get away from here.
But she was still blind.
She needed to find a way to get back her sight. She put a hand on the fender of Sam's mother's car and followed it toward the garage doors. She pushed them open, praying no Janitor waited outside. Waiting for another attack, she swiftly felt her way back and crawled behind the driver's wheel.
Suddenly she was shaking again, like an ice cube in an empty glass. She was colder than she'd ever been. Her teeth rattled. Fear erupted in her like poison. She'd barely escaped. She'd killed a man. She'd shot him, and his chest had exploded, and her body had felt the life in him stop. It was like electricity going out—abrupt, surprising. Irrevocable.
Then she heard a dull thumping as if they were trying to hammer their way out of the storage room. Terror rattled her. They'd do it sooner or later. But no one had come running into the garage from the alley. Maybe they hadn't left anyone outside—
She had to think. She had to see.
She fumbled until she found the keys. She'd driven before she'd lost her sight. She turned the ignition on, and the large motor turned over and hummed.
She hadn't been able to retrieve her sight by walking to her Steinway that night after her mother had been killed. The only method that had worked was Orion's. She tried to remember her session with him. The first thing he'd asked her to do was relax. . . . We will start with some basic relaxation exercises and an
invitation for you to go with it. It is very easy. It is something you can do for yourself. . . .
But her heart was thundering. Her veins raced with terror. And her music—the longtime source to which she went for tranquility—was gone.
She told herself it didn't have to be. She reminded herself that Orion had told her she could learn to bring back her vision by herself.
She could do it. She rested her hands in her lap and concentrated. Soon the sweet, lilting strains of Brahms's "Lullaby" appeared on the edge of her brain. Softly at first, but as she encouraged them, the notes swelled.
She felt herself quiet. Felt the music take her over.
Now she risked thinking again about the session with Orion. As she kept the music singing within, and the car's motor hummed, she turned her well-trained memory to what he'd said—
"In your heart is the word 'and. 'Your heart is circulating blood through your whole body, not just to a few parts. It doesn't choose sides. . . ."
She breathed deeply and nodded to herself. "Who I am doesn't depend on one decision." As if a great burden had been lifted, she smiled. She could run. She could fight. She could do whatever she needed. All were acceptable.
As he'd reassured and explained, she'd felt titanic shifts inside. She'd told him in vivid detail what she remembered about the night of her debut, and in the retelling she'd emerged tentatively feeling a strange inner peace. The rusty brake that had controlled her seemed to evaporate, and. . .
Suddenly it all made sense, and not just with her brain but with her whole body and all her emotions. The lullaby drifted to the side of her consciousness, no longer needed. A thrill rushed through her, because—
Physically her vision was working fine. It was just her mind that refused to see.
But the truth was . . . she didn't need to know what had happened that had traumatized her so much that she'd gone blind.
She didn't need to know anything.
Didn't need. . .