Another man cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, the same voice Gage had heard speaking to the others in the church.
"Mister Gage," he said. "My name is Brother Evans. I do wish you would give yourself up quietly now. I can assure you, as the lead brother, that you will be treated fairly. This delaying—it is only reflecting badly on you. No matter your crime, if you behave like a good Christian, you will get a fair hearing. But if you wait much longer, I'm afraid I can't speak to the outcome that will necessitated by your actions."
Their utter madness would have made Gage laugh under other circumstances, but he couldn't afford as much as a squeak right now. He was fortunate that a thick wooden support beam blocked their view. Quietly as he could, he picked up the can. By the weight, it was about half full. He took a whiff from the spout; definitely gasoline inside.
Now the tough part—sticking in the rolled up newspaper without drawing too much attention to himself.
"All right," Gage said. "You're a mighty persuasive man, Brother Evans. I'll give myself up. No sense in prolonging this more than necessary." The newspaper was so old and dry that even touching it made a sound like a firecracker, but he talked as loud as he could to cover the noise. "How you want to do this then?"
"Just come on up, son," Brother Evans said.
"Just come on up?"'
"That's right."
"Okay. I have your word that nobody's going to shoot me as soon as I step into view?" Gage dunked the paper several times into the gasoline, so all but the very top was soaked. "I get that fair hearing, right?"
"That's right. You have my word."
"Your word as a good Christian man?"
"Yes," Brother Evans said, growing slightly exasperated, "as God is my witness."
Gage made sure the end of the rolled up newspaper was fully immersed in the gasoline. It was a pretty crude fuse, but it would have to do.
"You really promise, then?" Gage said.
"Mister Gage—"
"I'm just trying to make sure I'm not walking into a firing squad." He took out the lighter.
"I've already told you—"
"I know you told me. But as it says in the Bible, 'let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.'"
"Now I've had quite enough, sir!" He was truly bellowing now, his voice really booming in the basement, just as Gage had hoped. "You will not be quoting scripture to me, sir. You will give yourself up this instant or—"
"Or what?" Gage barked back, flicking the lighter. No luck. "What are you going to do, proselytize me to death?"
"How dare you—"
"I thought the smell in here was bad. It must be all that bullshit wafting down from you." The third try, he got a good flame. Steady.
"That's it!" Brother Evans cried. Gage could almost see the spittle flying from his mouth. "You had your chance! You've lost your chance to repent . . . repent . . ."
Brother Evans trailed off when he saw Gage. Once his makeshift fuse was on fire, Gage had wasted no time rushing toward the stairwell. He had to get close enough to toss it so that his chances of hitting them were reasonably good, without getting so close that they'd mow him down before he got a chance. Fortunately, when he saw the men at the top of the stairwell, they all seemed to be so mesmerized by their furious leader, gazes turned in his direction, that Gage was allowed that extra step he needed.
As Gage hurled the gas can, the flame and smoke trailed behind it like a rocket's exhaust, nearly the entire newspaper consumed by fire. Brother Evans, as pudgy and mean as Gage expected him to look, froze in terror. The other men dodged left and right.
When the gas can erupted, a ball of fire and a pulsing of wave of heat knocked Gage off his feet.
A window shattered. Gage fell hard on the concrete floor, a whump that knocked the wind out of him. Falling flat turned out to not be such a bad thing. Most of the heat whipped overhead, and for a moment, staring up at the swirl of orange and yellow flames, it was as if Gage was underwater staring up at the surface of a pool of oil.
The searing heat was so intense he couldn't even imagine what it might have felt like any closer. As quickly as the flames had swelled over him, they retracted. A cat was screaming—a high-pitched shriek that raised the hairs on the back of Gage's neck. The stairwell was on fire. Rolling onto his stomach, he saw a pudgy flaming form of a man tumble through the inferno that had engulfed the stairs. That's when Gage realized that the high-pitched shrieking wasn't coming from a cat. It was Brother Evans.
There were more screams and shouts, these at least human-sounding in their agony. He saw, through flickering blades of fire, the dark silhouettes of men passing by the doorway.
Smoke clouded the air, burning in Gage's eyes. He immediately held his breath. The fire was growing by the second, spreading along the ceiling, creeping down the support beams. There was no way out up the stairs—the heat was just too intense. A rectangular crate, a big one that must have once been used to transport a refrigerator, was half on fire. It gave Gage an idea.
He grabbed it by the end that wasn't aflame and charged to the outside door, squeezing through and tossing it up over the sides of the concrete stairwell. It splintered on the grass, the flames leaping high. There were shouts. Gunshots. The fire in the basement hungrily devoured the room. Even if he'd wanted to stay, Gage couldn't; the heat was so intense, and the smoke so thick, that Gage was literally pushed out of the room and onto the outside staircase.
Up the stairs. Gun raised. He was praying for luck now. The smoke and flames from the crate obscured the night air. A shot rang out and he heard a loud hornet's buzz near his ears. A miss. A close one. Blinking away the stinging tears, he saw the shapes of three people—fired once, twice, not aiming for them, not seeing them well enough, just trying to give them notice he meant business.
It sent them scurrying. Five bullets left.
Fire spilled out of the building, the flames darting up the old wood, hissing and crackling, obliterating all in his path. Gage lurched around the back of the building, hoping to circle around and head up the pasture toward his car. Someone else took a shot at him, the wood siding next to his face shattering. This time he saw his assailant, a stocky fellow crouching ahead of him. Gage fired. With a cry, the man crumpled to the ground. Four bullets.
He heard shouts behind, around the building. His knee felt like a bag of crushed glass. Where was his cane when he needed it? It was just more wood for the fire, he supposed.
The moonless night gave him some cover, especially here, at the back of the building. He jumped at his own reflection in the windows. His heart pounded fiercely in his ears, and he felt the same pulsing beat on the back of his head, where he'd been hit earlier. The grass, sparse and frozen, crunched like dried bread underneath his shoes.
Gage heard the hiss of fire extinguishers, but glancing behind him, he saw that they were too late. That whole side of the buildimg was ablaze. He limped past the man who'd shot him, who lay motionless but moaning, and then doubled back and ripped the man's pistol from his hand—a .38 snubnose Smith and Wesson— and shoved it in his back pocket.
He peered around the building and saw the way was clear, no one crouching to take a shot at him. The pasture was as empty, but Gage knew he'd be easily spotted if he tried to cross it. Tall pines bordered the property on the other side of the wooden fence that enclosed the camp. He headed for them. It would take longer to cross through the dense woods, but would be a lot safer.
There were sirens in the distance—more than one. Help was on the way. A fire like this would bring both fire trucks and the police.
Unsure what they would make of his story, Gage still headed for his car. The evidence was burning up in the fire. The police might very well think he was just some crazy arsonist, one who targeted summer church camps. He needed to make a few calls. Karen Pantelli at the FBI was at the top of his list.
With some effort, Gage slipped over the fence. He crunched over pin
e needles and into the darkness. The fire was a rumbling monstrosity behind him. He heard gunshots. Did they think he was still back there? He heard cars and trucks roaring to life, the spinning of tires, the screech of brakes. So some were fleeing rather than face the music. Their bravery knew no bounds, it seemed.
The frigid air pricked at the inside of his lungs. Low, spindly branches scratched his face like claws. The poor light and the uneven ground were a bad combination— he stumbled several times, falling on his bare hands, the dirt as hard and as cold as ice. Something fluttered out of the trees ahead of him. He kept moving. Running. No time to let up now.
The sirens were so close that they must have been turning onto the camp's long driveway, but he couldn't know for certain—he couldn't sees through the trees. He skinned his shin on a jagged piece of bark protruding from a stump. The gash burned as if he'd been scalded by a branding iron.
Finally, he stumbled out of the forest into a clearing. What little starlight there was filtered down on the deeply rutted road. At the end, perhaps fifty yards off, he saw the silhouette of his Corolla—and just then a police car roared past, blue and red lights flashing across the white roof of his car. He heard the police car's brakes screech as it turned hard at the next driveway.
He limped his way to the car. There were other sirens approaching, far in the distance. If he timed it just right, he could get out of this place without drawing attention to himself. Still a dozen paces away, he reached into his jacket for his keys. Still there. They hadn't taken them.
That's when Monahan stepped out of the trees.
His face was full of shadows, but there was no doubt the slender man holding the Glock pistol was Monahan. He was jacketless and breathing hard, the gun seemingly too big for such a slight person. Gage was still holding the Beretta in his right hand. Before he could even move it, Monahan shook his head and stepped closer.
"Drop it," he said.
Gage dropped it, the gun thudding to the dirt. What choice did he have? Besides, there was still the snubnose in his back pocket. All he needed was a chance to go for it.
"Kick it away from you," Monahan said.
Gage kicked it. The sirens surrounded them—some close, at the camp, others still in the distance but approaching.
"There's cops all over the place," Gage said. "You really think you can get out of here?"
"In your car, sure. Toss me the keys. Nice and easy now. Hold your jacket open so I can see what you're doing."
"Isn't it a little cold to be getting kinky?"
"What?"
Gage opened the jacket. He retrieved the keys with his left hand, holding them up so Monahan could see them. His right hand drifted to his side—slow now, very slow, not drawing attention to it. He felt the reassuring presence of the pistol in his back pocket. The timing was crucial. He knew there was no way Monahan was going to leave him alive. Gage had no option other than to go for it. His biggest advantage was that people always underestimated his speed. It may have been the cane, or his general lethargic demeanor, but he was almost always faster than they thought.
"Toss 'em," Monahan said. "No tricks."
"Okay."
The sirens were close. One police car—an SUV, actually—streaked past, lights flashing, followed by the screech of the brakes. If only the cops had glanced this way . . . But it was all on Gage now. He tossed the keys, making it seem nonchalant, a real gentle toss, but made sure he aimed just slightly to Monahan's left. The two keys jangled, metal glinting in the darkness. Gage's right hand was almost to his back pocket. He wanted Monahan to have to lean across his own gun arm—which is what he did, taking his eyes off of Gage just for moment.
Gage went for his gun.
In the end, Monahan still got off the first shot, but the awkwardness of his stance impaired his aim. Instead of hitting Gage full bore in the chest, the bullet grazed Gage's right shoulder, tearing through his skin and blowing off a big piece of his jacket. The shot rang out in the trees.
Gage had his own pistol up and firing before he registered the pain from his shoulder. Unlike Monahan, he made no mistake with his aim, targeting his opponent dead center. A second boom rang through the forest, then Monahan staggered, groaned, and went down.
It was over in less than a second, and it was then that Gage felt the first white hot wave of pain cascading up from his shoulder. Monahan, who'd tucked himself into a ball, groaned. Gage pried the Glock from his fingers, keeping his own gun trained on Monahan the entire time. It was probably unnecessary. Monahan was a vivid portrait in exquisite pain, groaning and writhing about, both hands grabbing his chest where the blood was blooming.
"That's for Angela," Gage said.
Quickly, he searched Monahan for another weapon. Didn't find one. He did find a cell phone. The blood was really flowing. So much for Gage getting out of this place without being noticed. He flipped open the cell phone, dialed 911, told the operator where he was and what they'd find when they sent a cop car, then snapped it closed before answering her rapid fire questions. There was no point in telling the story twice.
"Cold," Monahan said, his teeth chattering.
"You don't deserve it," Gage said, "but help's on the way."
In the end, it didn't matter. Monahan's shaking ceased, then his breathing. When the police cruiser turned onto the road, lights flashing and siren blaring, the man's body was growing cold. With Monahan's hairy assistant dying in the fire, now both of Angela's killers were dead. Strangely, it didn't make Gage feel any better. Maybe he needed a sidekick who did all the dirty work. Maybe that would help.
It was this thought that finally triggered something in Gage's memory. The kid at the top of the stairs, the freckled kid with curly hair he'd seen when he'd been trapped in the basement—Gage knew where he'd seen him before.
Chapter 20
When Loren Sparrow took his final bow—many hands still raised, his eager listeners still bright-eyed and wide awake despite the midnight hour —the applause was long and thunderous. Scanning the packed audience, situated in a shadowy alcove of the Pacific Civic Auditorium, Gage estimated there had to be nearly three thousand people present—of all ages, types, and persuasions. And the vast majority were now on their feet.
More than anything, that standing ovation really caught Gage's attention. If Sparrow could get that kind of reception from a laid-back Los Angeles audience, who probably wouldn't have stood if Jimmy Stewart had been on the stage holding hands with Jesus himself, then he could get that reaction anywhere.
If he wasn't already, Loren Sparrow had become a rock star.
Despite the late December date, the cavernous room was hot and stuffy, though directly above Gage a vent hummed cool air directly on his head. Sparrow, dressed in a dapper, cream-colored suit and a bright red bowtie, waved appreciatively to the audience and disappeared behind the lavender curtain. Leaning more than usual on his new cane, Gage departed for the lobby, crossing the emerald-patterned carpet, passing the snack bar and the restrooms, until he finally came to a door marked STAFF ONLY. He could still hear the audience cheering lustily. They really loved Sparrow, no doubt about it.
Gage rapped on the door with his cane, making the mistake of lifting it with his right hand. Monahan's bullet may have only grazed his shoulder, but even now, a week later, it still throbbed painfully.
A woman with snowy hair answered, her rosy face quizzical. Gage handed her the note he'd prepared and asked her to give it Sparrow. She took it with a prim expression and closed the door. He had no idea if she was going to give it Sparrow or not, but less than two minutes later she returned and asked Gage to follow. Mutely, they proceeded through the underbelly of the auditorium, zigzagging through long, narrow halls with bare concrete floors and low-lying pipes until they emerged into a nicer, though still narrow hall with lavender carpet that matched the curtain in the auditorium itself. The air was cool but dry.
The woman knocked softly on a door marked PERFORMER, Sparrow's muffled voice replied,
and then they entered a surprisingly large dressing room, equipped with posh leather couches, multiple mirrors, a kitchenette, and a wet bar. Sparrow was emerging from a separate bathroom, dressed in a V-neck t-shirt and his cream-colored pants, a towel slung around his neck, his thinning silver hair gleaming. Steam wafted out of the bathroom.
"Gage," Sparrow said, smiling brightly, "what a pleasant surprise. If I'd have known you were in the audience, I would have made sure to point you out. I'm sure you would have gotten a standing ovation all by yourself."
"That's what I was trying to avoid," Gage said.
Sparrow nodded to the woman and she left. In the room, with just the two of them, it was so quiet they could have been holed up in a survivalist shelter. The humming refrigerator was the loudest sound. Even the dripping of the shower head inside the bathroom drew attention to itself. There was no sense that ten feet above them thousands of people were flocking to the exits.
"Drink?" Sparrow said, drifting to the wet bar.
"I won't refuse," Gage said.
"You look like you could use one. That's a nasty bruise you have there on your forehead. Bourbon on the rocks, right?"
"Ah. You saw the MSNBC interview."
"I think everyone saw the MSNBC interview," Sparrow said.
Against his better judgment, Gage had done the interview with MSNBC for one reason only—Carmen. There was nothing else in the world, and certainly no one else in the world, who could have made him part with what little remained of his privacy and his anonymity.
She hadn't even really asked. She'd just mentioned, after he'd finally made it back to Barnacle Bluffs, the FBI debriefed, his shoulder stitched up and bandaged, that she'd love to write the exclusive on how things went down in Idaho. He one-upped her by offering to do a television interview. She seemed both surprised and grateful at the offer, and it was her gratefulness in particular that confirmed to him that he'd made the right decision—even if he came to regret the extra attention in the days ahead.
He picked a couch in the center of the room, placing his cane on the area rug beneath his feet, one that pictured the Hollywood Hills at sunset. Sparrow, eyeing him like a specimen under a microscope, handed him his drink.
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