A trio of uniformed policemen herded a dozen gawking office personnel out the front door; they filed through the cordoned area and into the crowd. While the supervisor waited for them to pass, Larson took a closer look at his surroundings. The ropes, barricades, and emergency vehicles formed a semicircle extending from the front of the building, directly beneath Taziar. The danger area included a single street around which mounted police diverted traffic. The back exit and at least one side door remained clear for shoppers to enter and leave Sears and Roebuck.
The patrol supervisor waved at a group of uniformed officers. “McCloskey. Johnston.”
A husky, middle-aged redhead and a willowy brunet disengaged from the others and obediently trotted over.
The captain took the two aside, talking in hushed tones.
Unable to hear the conversation, Larson continued to study the area. Cops and emergency personnel scurried in efficient patterns, exchanging messages and controlling the crowd with masterful cooperation. Taziar clung at the level of the tenth floor, his attention now turned toward the window. Apparently, he was staring at the policeman called Dixson.
“Mr. Smith.” The redhead touched Larson’s arm. His tone made it clear he had tried to get Larson’s attention at least once before.
Larson glanced up into a wide face with friendly, blue eyes.
“Mr. Smith, we’re going to accompany you upstairs to talk to the jumper and to help you decide what to say.” The redhead smiled, gesturing Larson through the door ahead of him. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone.”
That’s what worries me. Larson smiled nervously.
The policemen near the door moved aside to let Larson and his escort through it.
“Just call me Al.” Larson entered the building and waited for the officers to take the lead. His thoughts were spinning, and he saw no reason to further complicate the matter by needing to learn a new name. I had enough trouble remembering to answer to Allerum. And that starts with Al.
The door opened onto a squat entryway. Ahead, another set of steel-framed, glass doors led into the main store. To the left, a pair of elevators graced the wall. Directly opposite loomed a dark, metal door with a “1” stenciled on it in white paint.
Larson followed the policemen through the lobby to the elevator bank.
The redhead framed a wipe-lipped smile. “John McCloskey,” he said. “The quiet guy is Phil Johnston.”
“Ha ha.” Johnston punched the “up” elevator button. Resting a hand against the frame of the leftmost elevator, he turned to face Larson and McCloskey.
Larson watched the milling shoppers in Sears and Roebuck.
“What language did you say this jumper was speaking?” Johnston asked.
Larson drew a blank. The invented country near Estonia seemed to have disappeared from his mind as quickly as it had come. “What language is he speaking?” He stalled. “Urn, he’s speaking, um....”
The door ground open, revealing a drab, two-toned car and a row of black push buttons. Johnston stepped inside, trailed by Larson and McCloskey. The door rattled shut.
The seconds of reprieve gave Larson the time he needed to untangle his lies. “Perkanian.” That’s it. “He’s speaking Perkanian.”
Johnston pressed “10.” “Never heard of it.”
“Small country.” Larson shrugged.
McCloskey kept his chin tilted upward, watching the floor numbers light on the overhead monitor. “Not to be a wise guy or nothing, Al. But Perkanian doesn’t strike me as the type of language they teach in high school.”
Larson sighed, trying to concentrate on his next move and bothered by the need to make petty conversation. “My grandparents came from Perkania.” Or Queens. One of the two. “They used to talk Perkanian with my old man when they didn’t want me to understand what they were talking about. Things like sex and Christmas presents. Stuff like that. I’ve got a thing for picking up languages.” The ab-lib seemed plausible, and Larson impressed himself with his own quick alibi. Then another thought made him frown. Great. I’m becoming a good liar. Something to be proud of.
“Yeah?” McCloskey glanced away from the advancing numbers to look at Larson. “I had enough trouble just getting past ‘Oy Maddamoysal.’” His Bronx accent mangled the French.
It took Larson a moment to decipher. “I think you mean ‘Oui, Mademoiselle.’ ” Larson developed a sudden appreciation for freshman French. “I’ve got some advice for you, McCloskey. If you ever go to France, don’t go alone.”
The officers chuckled.
Larson stared at his feet, aware he had to get Taziar down without turning him over to the police, his head empty of ideas. It was too late for truth. Even if he could have convinced the police about a Chaos-crazed sorceress and a thief from ancient Germany, he would first have to admit to creating Perkania and using an alias. Knowing I lied once, why would they believe me? At best, they’d haul us both into the station. Or Bellevue. And every second Silme has to accustom herself to the city, locate us, and plot, the more dangerous she becomes. Larson shook his head, panicky about the only solution that sprang to mind. We’ve got to escape cleanly and quickly. Which means I have to ditch the escort.
The elevator pinged, slowing before it ground to a halt. Still uncertain, but aware he had to make a fast decision, Larson ushered the policemen ahead of him.
They stepped into the hallway.
Larson followed, taking an instant to get his bearings. Across from the elevators, the stairwell was marked with a painted “10.” The hallway led off to the left and right, broken only by doors, a water fountain, and the occasional recessed fire extinguishers. From his memory of Taziar’s position, Larson guessed Dixson and his team were stationed down the left hallway and inside one of the front offices.
As if to confirm Larson’s guess, McCloskey and Johnston turned left.
Here goes nothing. Calling on his boxing and martial arts training, Larson slammed the side of his hand into the back of McCloskey’s neck.
The redhead toppled without a sound.
Johnston whirled. “What the... ?”
Larson plunged a fist into Johnston’s face.
The cop crumpled, crashing awkwardly to the corridor.
Shit. Larson nursed his knuckles, cursing himself, and hating what urgency had forced him to do. Whirling, he ran to the stairwell, aware his attack would only buy him a few minutes. Shoving through the door, he took the concrete steps two at a time. I punched out a pair of cops. If Nam and Gaelinar taught me nothing else, they made me one hell of a dirty fighter. I can’t believe I sucker-punched a cop. Oddly, his attack against New York City’s finest raised more doubt and guilt than shooting soldiers in the jungle or slaughtering guardsmen in Cullinsberg’s streets. There was something sacred, something magically innocent about the world of his childhood, a memory-protected sanctuary from the hard, cold realities thrust at him since the day his plane had touched down in Vietnam. Still, for all its familiarity, New York City had changed. The events that had once composed his life faded to trivia beneath the atrocities of war and the threat of a Dragonrank mage. Even with live mythology, dragons, and wizards, the warped ancient Europe he’d just come from seemed less of a fantasy world than the New York City he used to know.
At the next landing, Larson burst through the door. He raced down the left hallway, nearly trampling a young secretary juggling three styrofoam cups. She gasped, dodging so abruptly she sent coffee sloshing over herself and Larson.
Without wasting time on apologies, Larson sprinted past. Finding an office he believed was directly above Taziar, he shoved through the door without knocking. He found himself facing a wide, wooden desk with a matching leather chair. There was no one in the room. Thank God. Larson careened around the desk to the window beyond it. He slammed his hands against the frame. The window jolted ajar, one pane shattering beneath the blow. Larson crammed his head through the opening just in time to see glass rain down on Taziar. Shit. Still don’t know my own st
rength. Larson ducked back inside hating the seconds lost but knowing the sprinkle of glass on pavement would draw every eye. He counted to himself, wasting a full twenty seconds for the shards to land and the crowd to glance up, see no one, and refocus on Taziar.
Larson eased the window farther open, poked his face through it, and glanced downward. He caught a solid glimpse of Taziar’s black mop of hair and small, callused hands. The Climber gripped the bricks with a lax ease. “Shadow,” Larson whispered.
Taziar did not move.
Larson raised his voice slightly. “Shadow.”
Taziar looked up, staring blankly.
Expecting a welcoming grin and not receiving so much as a glimmer of recognition from his friend, Larson hesitated. Then he remembered how different he looked from the tall, skinny elf Taziar Medakan had come to know. “It’s Allerum.” He gestured Taziar to him.
The Shadow Climber remained still, clearly doubtful.
Those cops will be awake and alerting everyone any moment. Larson’s patience evaporated. “Taz, you stupid little bastard! Get the hell up here!”
Apparently, the words and voice were enough identification for Taziar. He scrambled to the ledge.
Larson retreated, leaving Taziar space to clamber inside.
Taziar leapt lightly to the floor, studying this friend in the body of a stranger. “Allerum, you’ve changed.”
“Hurry!” Larson whirled, charging for the door. His hip struck a corner of the desk, jarring pain through his leg and knocking the desk askew. Papers scattered to the floor, spiraling in the breeze from the window. “We’ve got to get out of here, and we can’t get grabbed.”
“Relax.” Taziar caught up to Larson at the door. “I do this for a living, remember?”
Larson grabbed Taziar by the arms. “No, listen. You don’t understand. I don’t do this climb, dodge, and leap around buildings thing. If we get separated, we’ll never find each other again.”
“It’s not a problem.”
Larson blinked, stunned. “There’s seven and a half million people in New York. Finding one would be like finding a needle in a haystack. A big haystack.”
“I found you this time, didn’t I?”
Larson groaned, unwilling to go into a long explanation now. “Luck. If we get separated, I’ll meet you....” He trailed off, realizing he could never explain city blocks and taxicabs in a reasonable amount of time. “Never mind. Just stay with me.” Releasing Taziar, he pulled open the door, emerging into an empty hallway. Contradicting his last command, he raised a hand to still Taziar. “Wait right here. I need to check something.” Larson crept down the hallway to the right, retracing his earlier route.
Seconds ticked by in silence while Larson’s mind raced, trying to relate the corridors to his memory of the building’s outside.
Suddenly, pounding footsteps echoed from the stairwell. The elevator whirred. Its display clicked from “3” to “4.”
Here they come. Larson spun back toward Taziar. Even as he moved, an ear-piercing hiss split the air, followed by a crash that shook the hallway.
Larson’s heart leapt. He dove for cover, rolling flat against the wall.
A fire extinguisher rocked hollowly on the floor. A pool of white powder settled around Taziar’s feet. Dust swam crazily through air.
The stairwell door clicked.
“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” Larson ran. Grabbing Taziar as he passed, he bolted up the corridor, skidding around a corner into a perpendicular hallway.
“This way!” someone shouted. Footfalls thudded through the hall they had just left.
“What... were you doing?” Larson whispered as he ran.
“Just looking for something to help us get away.” Taziar kept pace, his arm mashed in Larson’s desperate grasp.
“That wasn’t it. That only works on fires.” Larson careened around the next corner, coming suddenly upon a second bank of elevators. He hammered at the down button. The numbers changed with maddening slowness. The footsteps drew closer.
Larson slammed the button repeatedly with his fist. “You better know this. Silme’s trying to kill me.”
Taziar studied the chemical residue on his hand. “I know. I saw her league with Bolverkr.”
“Bolverkr? Oh, shit! He’s here, too?” Suddenly, running from the cops seemed a miniscule annoyance.
The pursuit grew louder. Larson could pick out at least six separate sets of footsteps. Damn it! That elevator’s going to get here just in time for them to use it. Nice work, Larson. “Come on.” He charged for the stairwell, turning the knob with one hand while his shoulder struck the door at a dead run.
The panel swung open, revealing concrete steps. Larson shoved Taziar, sending the Climber hurtling down the stairs, the little man’s agility all that saved him from a fatal fall. Not bothering to silence the door, Larson plunged after his companion. “Move! Move! Move!”
Taziar and Larson whipped headlong down several flights. On the seventh floor landing, Larson ripped open the metal door. “Follow me.” Surging through, he fled back in the direction they had come, now four floors lower.
As they whipped around the corner, Larson and Taziar discovered a cluster of four milling, chatting office personnel in the center of the corridor.
Larson did not slow.
The group scattered to the walls. Larson raced through, Taziar swerving between the people behind him. “Excuse me,” he said in heavily accented English.
Without looking back, Larson tore around the next corner. Finding the stairwell across from the elevators that he and his police escort had used, he again hit the door, running and turning the knob simultaneously. Taziar balked, apparently not wanting to get thrown down the steps again. But this time, Larson did not hesitate. He galloped down the concrete steps, hearing no sound beneath the slap of his own sneakers, yet certain Taziar had followed.
As Larson rounded the third floor landing, he heard the click of a door opening below. Uh-oh! Leaping the last half flight to the landing, he ripped open the door and exited onto the second floor. Finding the corridor empty, he waited for Taziar to dart in, then took the time to ease the door closed quietly. Letting them know our location after all that maneuvering would be stupid.
Taziar waited, breathing softly but deeply.
Larson realized he was panting and tried to control each breath. He made a throwing motion to indicate the need to travel up the corridor and back around the first corner. There, he knew from his memory of Sears and Roebuck, they would find a set of escalators. Hopefully unguarded. Larson shook his head, aware New York City’s police force would mobilize swiftly. But it’s only been a few minutes since I punched the cops. Most of what’s out there is rescue forces and crowd controllers. They had no reason to expect violence, especially from a translator. Larson headed for the corner at a brisk walk.
“What now?” Taziar said in the barony’s tongue, pawing his hair from his eyes and pulling his cloak more securely over his mangled climbing outfit.
Larson answered in the same language. “We’re going to join the crowd in the shop. Try to blend in as best as you can, but be ready to turn and leave if the area’s crawling with ... city guardsmen. Follow my lead.”
Braced for action, Larson started around the corner. The area opened into a central lobby with soda and candy machines. Several people lounged on chairs arranged in clusters, smoking, talking, and eating. They paid no heed as Taziar and Larson walked past and onto the down escalator.
Taziar stared at his feet, hands well away from the conveyor belt railings.
“It’s an escalator,” Larson explained, gaze playing over the people in the store below, trying to pick out police officers. “Careful when we get to the bottom. The steps sort of disappear, and you have to watch your balance.”
Taziar cast his glance to the bottom of the flight. “Are we safe now?”
“I wish.” Larson searched his memory for the location of the men’s rest room.
I need a secure place to think. “We’ve got to get out of the building, at least. Even then, they’ll hunt us all over the city.”
“Mardain,” Taziar muttered a curt blasphemy. “I never would have guessed climbing was that serious an offense.”
Larson flushed, anticipating the end of the escalator ride, still seeing no policemen in the store. “Climbing’s not that serious. Just a city ordinance thing. A misdemeanor probably.” He stepped down, turning to help Taziar do the same.
But the Climber took the sudden flattening of the mechanical steps in stride.
“Unfortunately, assault and battery is a felony. It’s me they’ll mostly be chasing.” Through the doorway to the main entryway, Larson could see milling policemen. He slipped through the aisles in the opposite direction. “All right, we have to sneak out of here without being seen. Or at least without being recognized.”
Taziar gawked at the rows and shelves of merchandise.
“Most of them won’t know you.” Larson thought aloud. “Some of them had binoculars. But most of those people were probably the fire rescue crew, not cops.”
Taziar shrugged. “I’m not understanding you.”
Larson switched to the barony’s tongue. “I’m just saying you were too high for many of the city guards to get a good look at you. You might be able to walk out right under their noses.” Larson studied Taziar doubtfully. “If you weren’t wearing that burned, shredded, crudely-sewn, centuries out of date, black outfit that practically has ‘weirdo’ stitched in neon.”
Taziar fell easily into Larson’s sarcastic rhythm. “Oh, well. Excuse me for not dressing for the occasion. What is the proper attire for being attacked by a dragon, hit by an exploding bone, tortured, and flung through time?”
Larson continued toward the rest room.
Taziar asked the obvious. “Why don’t we just change clothes?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Larson discarded the idea, threading through the sporting goods section. “I’m a foot taller than you and twice your weight. We couldn’t switch.”
“Switch? Who said anything about switch?” Taziar stared at the equipment, gaze sweeping up to the fluorescent lighting. “Now, I admit I’m a bit confused about your customs, but I do know what to do in a shop. I saw some racks back there that looked like clothes. Why not buy some?”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 23