Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed

by By Chaos Cursed (v1. 0)

  The woman lapsed into shocked silence. A sparkle appeared in the cabby’s eyes as he stared at the money. “You want me to chase down a police car?” The squad car turned a corner.

  Taziar could not catch all the cabby’s words, but he recognized police as the term Larson used for guards. “Police. Yeah. Follow that car!” He crooked his finger to indicate the turn. “Okeydokey?”

  The driver glanced at the money strewn across his seat. “Sure. Okeydokey, man. You got it.” He addressed the woman.

  She shouted something back at him, flinging her arms frantically. The cabby spoke, his voice becoming menacing.

  The woman pursed her lips, then clambered back outside. She slammed the door hard enough to shake the entire vehicle.

  The taxicab maneuvered into the road on the trail of the squad cars.

  A short circuit in the overhead socket caused the light bulb to flicker and sputter, dancing shadows over the four men in the police interrogation room. Seated in a folding chair, Al Larson kept his right hand clamped over the hastily bandaged gunshot wound in his shoulder. Across a metal and wooden table, a white-haired detective named Harrison tented his fingers over a sheaf of papers. A telephone graced the corner near his left elbow, and he sat in a cushioned swivel chair that seemed far more comfortable than the seats of Larson and his two police escorts.

  At least they took off the handcuffs. Larson knotted his free hand, keeping it draped in his lap. I hope that means they’re willing to listen.

  “What’s your name, kid?” Detective Harrison asked, staring at the papers as if to read and talk at the same time.

  Larson presumed they had recovered his wallet from the subway. If so, lying could only get him deeper into trouble. “Larson.”

  The detective glanced over at one of the officers who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Satisfied, Harrison looked back at his papers. “First name?”

  “Al,” Larson said.

  “Al?” The detective shuffled a page from the stack. “Al, what?”

  “Al, sir.” Larson supplied naturally.

  Detective Harrison looked directly at Larson for the first time. He squinted, apparently trying to read his captive’s intentions. Then, satisfied Larson was not trying to sound intentionally flippant, he clarified. “No, I meant Al-len, Al-bert, Al-exander?”

  “Just Al, sir.”

  A thoughtful silence fell. Harrison looked at the officer. This time, the patrolman shrugged.

  Larson felt a need to clarify. “My father didn’t like nicknames. He thought people should be named what they’re called. Hence my sister Pam, not Pamela, and my brother Tim, not Timothy.” He added quickly, “Though we do call Tim, ‘Timmy.’”

  “Right.” Detective Harrison flipped the paper across the desk. “If you’re going to answer any more questions, you’ll have to sign this first.”

  The page slid in front of Larson. Reaching out, he straightened it. A quick glance revealed it as a waiver, stating his constitutional rights. At the bottom, he was given the option of whether to sign it, thus proving he understood that he did not have to submit to questioning and had chosen to do so willingly.

  Harrison offered a black ballpoint.

  Taking it, Larson signed. He passed pen and waiver back to the detective.

  “You can read, I presume, Mr. Larson?”

  “Yes, sir.” Larson said.

  “You understand you are still under arrest. Nothing you say is going to change that. Even in extenuating circumstances, we can’t ... um ... ‘unarrest’ you until the District Attorney asks for a dismissal. You will go to jail until your appearance before a magistrate.”

  Larson bit his lip, not liking the sound of the detective’s explanation. “I’m willing to cooperate any way I can.” Anything else would be folly, an admission of guilt. Right now, that’s the last thing I need.

  “Very well, Mr. Larson. Your story of what happened this evening on the subway.” Harrison pocketed the pen and swept the waiver aside. He made a broad gesture indicating Larson should begin.

  Al Larson launched into his tale, starting with the moment the gunmen entered the train and ending with his arrest. He avoided all mention of Taziar or of their original purpose for taking the subway. He kept his tone casual, not daring to overplay his hand in the rescue of innocent passengers.

  As he spoke the last word, the interview room fell back into an unnerving hush. The patrol officer nearest the door fidgeted, chewing at a thumbnail. The other watched Larson.

  Detective Harrison leaned forward, fingers laced on the tabletop. “Mr. Larson, how many shots did you fire?”

  “Two, sir.”

  “And are you aware where each of those bullets went?”

  “Yes, sir.” Larson wondered where the line of questioning was leading.

  “Mr. Larson.” A hard edge entered Harrison’s tone. He met and held Larson’s gaze. “Are you also aware we took four corpses off that train?”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” Larson admitted. He added belatedly, “Sir.”

  The detective’s cheek twitched, and Larson guessed he had come to a significant question. “Mr. Larson, how many of those men did you kill?”

  “Three, I think, sir.”

  “Three men, Mr. Larson, With two bullets.”

  “Right.”

  “How do you explain that?” Detective Harrison leaned back into his chair, his hands still threaded and clenched.

  Larson blinked, unable to guess what Harrison wanted. “I already told you the story. I accidentally crushed one guy’s windpipe.” Once spoken, the words sounded bad, and Larson felt the need to add, “While wrestling free a gun he was using to shoot down passengers.”

  The light splayed shadows over Harrison’s face, making him look camouflage-painted. “How’s exactly, Mr. Larson, does one accidentally crush a man’s windpipe?”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. The repetition and unwarranted suspicion wore at Larson’s patience. His shoulder ached, and his head throbbed. Every wasted second pulsed at his sensitivities. Surely Silme and Bolverkr have located us by now. I hope Timmy’s okay. And Shadow. “Look, Detective Harrison. I was scared. Things happened fast. Innocents were getting killed. I did what I thought was right. Stress can do some pretty impressive things to the human body, especially when loved ones are in danger. My baby brother was in that subway.”

  The patrolmen exchanged knowing glances. Detective Harrison frowned. “We’ll get back to your brother in a moment, Mr. Larson. I admit, I’ve heard of mothers lifting cars off their children. But panic doesn’t turn a nineteen-year-old college student into a crack marksman. Mr. Larson, where did you learn to shoot?”

  You’ve obviously managed to obtain some information about me already. You tell me. Larson choked back the words but did not manage to fully contain his sarcasm. “I was trained in the 101st anti-squirrel division.”

  Harrison’s frown deepened. His knuckles blanched. “What are you saying, Mr. Larson?”

  “I’m a hunter.” Larson wrestled down his temper, aware angering policemen could only hurt his case. “My father’s taken me to New Hampshire every deer season since I was legal to hold a gun.”

  “You hunted game with a handgun?”

  “Of course not.” Larson glanced between the uniformed officers, hoping to get some support against this lunacy. But the patrolmen kept their expressions unreadable. “But a gun is a gun. Once you’ve learned to quick-draw a rifle on a distant, moving target, how much training does it take to pull a trigger?”

  “Mr. Larson, you want me to believe you’ve never handled a handgun? Yet you fired only two shots, one through a man’s heart and the other through a man’s brain. Two bullets. Two perfect, lethal shots. How do you explain that, Mr. Larson?”

  Impressed with his own targeting, Larson took a moment to respond. When he did, it sounded lame. “Luck?”

  Harrison jerked his head forward, flinging his face completely into darkness. “Luck, Mr. Larson? Is
that the best you can do? Do you expect me to believe you attacked a gang of gunmen, unarmed, fired two shots, and killed three people without any training except matching wits with Thumper and Bambi?”

  Larson’s control broke. “Damn it, Detective Harrison. I’m not trying to ‘get you to believe’ anything. I’m just telling the goddamned truth. What you choose to believe is your own business.” Fuming, he could not help adding, “And can the ‘Mr.’ Larson stuff. I know my name.” He clutched the arms of the chair, tensed to rise.

  Detective Harrison retreated. The light strengthened, revealing flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes. “Mr. Larson, stay seated or we’ll have to cuff you again. And please calm down. I’m just trying to put the stories together.”

  Larson remained rigid. “There must have been a dozen witnesses. Surely they’ve told you the same thing I did.”

  “There’s a blonde woman who claims you saved her life,” Harrison admitted. “There’s others who give a story similar to yours.”

  Larson said nothing, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

  “Some are saying you were part of the gang. At least one claims you boarded the subway with the gunmen.”

  “That’s ludicrous!” Larson burrowed his nails into the chair seat. “Timmy and I were on that train for hours.” As soon as Larson spoke the words, he realized his mistake.

  “For hours, Mr. Larson? For hours?” Harrison stared without blinking. “Do you realize how weird that is? What were you doing on the subway for hours?”

  Larson shrugged. Finding no ready answer, he invented a lame one. “Cheap amusement. My little brother digs trains, okay?”

  “Ah, back to your brother.” Harrison unclasped his hands, removed the pen from his pocket, and twiddled it. “To hear him tell it, you’re a cross between Elliot Ness and God Almighty. The kid needs to get away from the TV set. He kept babbling about witches and Robin Hood.”

  Larson groaned. “What happens now?”

  “Well, I’ve still got some details to work out.” Harrison flipped the pen, catching it by the cap. “I know you have an accomplice who made a break for it. We think he took the gun. That’s suspicious.” He stared at Larson.

  Larson saw no need to answer a statement. How the hell am I going to explain Shadow? A more bewildering thought struck home. His climbing Sears and Roebuck made the news. Surely, if we discuss the little sewer rat for long, they’ll connect this incident with the other. And my ass is toast.

  Harrison continued, “If I can get enough answers to satisfy me, I’ll get you to the night court magistrate for an initial appearance tonight. Judge Stoffer’s fair. If we decide it’s self-defense, he might let you off on your own recognizance. If we decide it’s manslaughter, he’ll probably have you post bond. But if we draw up a first-degree murder charge, you’re in jail till the trial.”

  Larson stiffened further, aware his life, his friends‘, and seven and a half million strangers’ might depend on how well he answered Harrison’s questions.

  Apparently misinterpreting Larson’s discomfort, Harrison softened. “Don’t get too hyped up. You may never hit lockup. I’m guessing it’ll be a lesser charge. If Stoffer’s got a full docket, he might well clear it by giving you a choice between jail and the army.”

  Larson felt as if an iced dagger had been thrust between his ribs.

  The detective continued, apparently missing Larson’s sudden, deadly-coiled stillness. “I mean, war’s hell, but it’s better than a jail cell. As easily as you shot those punks and as little remorse as you’ve shown, I can’t imagine you’re a Conscientious Ob—”

  Roused from his initial shock, Larson sprang to his feet. “No!” His fist crashed against the desktop. “I’m not going to Vietnam.” The telephone jumped, its bell clanging dully. “I’m not going back to ’Nam!”

  As suddenly, light blasted through the interrogation room, aching through Larson’s eyes. Shadows spun, then fled like spiders. The patrol officers dove behind the desk, while the detective froze in blind confusion. In between Harrison and Larson, Silme and Bolverkr appeared in a misty wash of smoke.

  Bolverkr’s arm arched. Lightning flashed down from the ceiling, striking the chair where Larson had sat a moment before. The seat splintered. The metal glowed, then warped into a twisted outline of legs and frame.

  Bolverkr swore. He whirled toward Larson.

  An officer peered over the desk, his handgun aimed at Bolverkr. “Police! Stand where you are!”

  Larson snatched up another chair.

  Gleaming strands of magic formed between Bolverkr’s hands.

  Larson ducked, hurling the chair at the sorcerer. Wood shattered against an invisible shield, but the impact drove barrier and Dragonrank mage a step backward. The spell misfired to glittering slivers in his hand.

  A gun roared as Larson leapt for the door. Without bothering to see the consequences, he seized the handle and wrenched.

  Bolverkr cursed. “Don’t waste spells.”

  A probe speared through Larson’s mind with an abruptness that sent him sprawling through the doorway. Silme’s voice filled his head. “You’re dead now, Allerum. You’re dead.” Her presence slammed into his skull.

  Desperately, Larson threw up a mental wall. Magic crashed against the conjured barrier. For an instant, the imagined bricks wavered. Then the spell exploded to sparks, scattering in a backlash that again lit the room like day.

  Silme screamed.

  Larson staggered to his feet, taking in the outer room at a glance. Policemen huddled behind overturned desks and chairs, guns drawn. The precinct lockup facility contained a single drunkard who cowered in its farthest corner. Still dazed by Silme’s attack and weakened by his wound, Larson lurched against the bars, seizing the cold metal to steady himself.

  “Don’t move!” one of the cops hollered. “Don’t anybody move.”

  Ignoring the warning, Larson whirled. Bolverkr was now only a few steps away from him.

  “Shit!” Larson tried to dodge the sorcerer’s charge, but Bolverkr’s shield slammed into his gut, driving him back against the bars. His skull banged into the steel. Consciousness receded before a rush of rising darkness. Larson struggled in blind panic.

  Bolverkr pressed in, his shield crushing Larson against the cage. The bars branded impressions into Larson’s back, the pressure on his ribs quickly growing unbearable. He tried to drop to the floor, but Bolverkr pinned him like a moth beneath a cat’s paw. All breath was compressed from his lungs. His head felt as if it would rupture between the bars. Air-starved, Larson felt the darkness deepen, scarcely noticing Silme’s frantic search through his mind. His near unconsciousness gave her nothing concrete to manipulate.

  Silme retreated. A moment later, a bullet bounced from Bolverkr’s shield, inches from Larson’s head. Realization penetrated Larson’s numb and dizzied mind. Silme’s taken control of a cop. She’s making him fire at me. Larson rallied. Bracing against the bars, he tried to fling Bolverkr backward.

  Pain shuddered through Larson’s body. His empty lungs forced him to gasp in wild, uncontrollable bursts.

  Another gunshot sounded. Then another.

  Two more bullets ricocheted from Bolverkr’s magics. Then a slug passed through the unprotected back of his shield, tearing a line along his side.

  Bolverkr shrieked in anguish. His face a scarlet mask of fury, he whirled toward the policemen, sorceries snapping between his fingers.

  The pressure on Larson disappeared. He sucked a dire lungful of air, then leapt for the sorcerer’s unshielded back.

  Fire erupted from Bolverkr’s fingers, a storm of savage flame as ugly as his rage swirled through with black smoke. Furniture and men disappeared, boiled away in the rush of magics. Stunned by the sudden loss of a huge volume of Chaos, Bolverkr pitched a step backward.

  Abruptly closer to his target than anticipated, Larson struck Bolverkr’s back with his forearms instead of his fists.

  Without bothering to assess the threat behind hi
m, Bolverkr grabbed Silme and waved an arm. The air snapped open, swallowing the mages, leaving only an oily smoke that paled against the streaming, tarry residue of Bolverkr’s magical fire.

  The room fell horribly quiet. Lacy black smoke veiled Larson’s vision. Evil drummed at his sensibilities, goading him to vengeance and violence. For an instant, the idea seized him to find the startled survivors and slaughter them one by one. But morality rose to beat the thought aside. It’s Chaos. It’s the damned Chaos. He coughed, choking on smoke and the dusty heat of cinders. Got to get out of here while it’s still possible. He dropped, crawling to the front door.

  Larson had just reached the panel when a sound clicked through the smoky darkness. A hand reached out of nowhere and wrapped around his neck. A gun’s barrel gouged into his temple.

  Larson froze, heart thumping. “Don’t shoot,” he rasped. “Please, don’t shoot.”

  No reply. The gun remained in place.

  Slowly, without threat, Larson rolled his eyes to a soot-and sweat-streaked face. Hazel eyes stared wildly back at him from beneath a patrolman’s cap.

  “Easy.” Larson spoke soothingly, resorting to horror film cliches to make his point. “That smoke is a ... an evil being possessing you. Think about what you’re doing. Think, buddy, think!”

  The arm tightened around Larson’s throat. The gun dug into his scalp.

  Larson’s mind raced. Gotta fight. He gritted his teeth. But I can’t outmaneuver a bullet.

  The officer tensed suddenly.

  Understanding flashed through Larson’s mind. He’s going to shoot me whether I move or not. Without time for strategy, he let his body go limp, collapsing suddenly to the ground.

  The gun blast shattered Larson’s hearing. Pain tore through his scalp.

  Shot in the head. He shot me in the goddamned head. I’m dead. Larson rolled onto concrete, the paradox of his movement reviving a survival instinct that seemed ridiculous and impossible.

  The gun roared again, the sound muffled to Larson’s near-deafened ears. Chips of floor tile stung his arm and face.

  Catching a moving, sideways glimpse of the officer’s legs, Larson dove for them. His shoulder crashed against a knee. His fingers curled around a shin, yanking.