Either way, he was on his own.
Desperately, he tried to sort out the situation and his options There was no way he could buy time by claiming the procedure was inaccurate.
Zimmermann was watching his every step. Could he somehow enlist Zimmermann's help in overpowering Nunes? Doubtful. No, worse than doubtful, impossible. Nunes had already shown him the money, packed neatly in a briefcase that now rested on the benchtop. Zimmermann's expression had been that of a starving wolf discovering a trapped hare.
"Anything the matter? " Zimmermann asked, indicating that once again Paquette was dawdling. "No! " Paquette snapped. "And I want you off my back. It's my responsibility to verify these formulas, and I'll take all the time I need to do the job right."
At the far end of the lab, Nunes adjusted his position to keep a better eye on the two of them. Suddenly he waved to get their attention and placed a silencing finger over his lips. With his other hand, he pointed to the door. Someone was outside. With the sure, fluid movements of a professional, he slid the revolver from its holster and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. Paquette decided that he had but one option-and not a very appealing one. He had been a wrestler during his freshman and sophomore years in high school, but had never been that good and, in fact, had been grateful when a neck injury forced him to quit. Since that times he had never had a fight in any physical sense with anyone. Nunes wvas taller than he by perhaps two inches and certainly more experienced but he had surprise and desperation on his side. Separated from the gunman by one of the spectrophotometers and a tangle of sophisticated glass distillation tubing, Paquette eased his1. way along the slate-topped work bench until he was no more than ten feet from him. For several seconds, all was quiet. Then he heard muffled voices, at least two of them, from the storage room beyond the door. He strained to pick up their conversation, but could make out only small snatches. Nunes, that much closer, was probably hearing more. Paquette wondered if those outside the door had mentioned his name. If so, and if Nunes had heard, it was the final nail in his coffin. The voices grew less distinct. Had they just moved away, or were they leaving, Paquette wondered. Even if they were to discover the door — and that was most unlikely-there was no way they could locate and activate the coded electronic key. Carefully, Paquette slid the final few feet to the end of the laboratory bench. Zimmermann was a good twenty-five feet away-far enough to keep him from interfering. Paquette gauged the distance and then focused on his two objectives, Nunes's gun and the electronic plate on the right side of the door. A single step, and he hurled himself at the man, grasping his gun arm at the wrist with both his hands and spinning against the metal plate. The door slid open, and Paquette caught a glimpse of a uniformed man fumbling for the pistol holstered at his hip. There was a second figure behind the man, whom he recognized as Kate Bennett's husband. In that moment, Nunes freed his hand and whipped Paquette viciously across the face with the barrel of his revolver. Paquette dropped to his knees, clutching at the pain and at the blood spurting from his cheek and temple. "All right, mister, drop it! Right now, right there!"
Walter Macfarlane stood in the doorway, his heavy service revolver leveled at Nunes, whose own gun was a foot or so out of position. Nunes froze, his head turned, ever so slightly, toward the intruder. From his position four feet behind and to the left of Macfarlane, Jared could see the gunman's expression clearly. He seemed placid, composed, and totally confident. Back up! Get away from him! Before Jared could verbalize the warning, the gunman was in action. He flicked his revolver far enough away to draw Macfarlane's eyes and then lunged out of the watchman's line of fire and up beneath his arm. Macfarlane's revolver discharged with a sharp report. The bullet splintered several glass beakers, ricocheted off a wall, and then impacted with a large can of ether on the shelf behind William Zimmermann. The can exploded, the blast shattering most of the glassware in the room. Jared watched in horror as Zimmermann's hair and the skin on the back of his scalp were instantly seared away, his clothes set ablaze. "Help! " he shrieked, reeling away-from the wall. "Oh, God, someone help me!"
He flailed impotently at the tongues of flame that were darting upward through the crotch of his trousers and igniting his shirt. His struggles sent a shelf of chemicals crashing to the floor. There was a second explosion. Zimmermann's right arm disappeared at the elbow.
Still, he stayed on his feet, lurching in purposeless circles, staring at the bloody remains of his upper arm, and screaming again and again. A third blast, from just to his left, sent his body, now more corpse than man, hurtling across the slate tabletop, through what remained of the glassware. Zimmermann's screeching ended abruptly as he toppled over the edge of the table and onto Arlen Paquette. The chemist, though shielded from the force of the explosion by the counter, was far too dazed from the blow he had absorbed to react. Macfarlane and Nunes both went down before the blast of heat and flying glass. Jared, still outside the laboratory door, was knocked backward, but managed to keep his feet. He stumbled to the doorway, trying frantically to assess the situation.
Intensely colored flames were breaking out along the benchtops, filling the air with thick, fetid smoke. To his right, Walter Macfarlane and the gunman lay amidst shards of glass. The side of the watchman's face looked as if it had been mauled by a tiger. Both men were moving, though without much purpose. To his left there was also movement. The man he assumed was Arlen Paquette was trying, ineffectually, to extricate himself from beneath the charred body of William Zimmermann. Crawling to avoid the billows of toxic smoke, Jared made his way to Zimmermann, grabbed the corpse by its belt and the front of its smoldering shirt and heaved it onto its back. "Paquette? " Jared gasped. "Are you Paquette?"
The man nodded weakly and pawed at the blood-his and Zimmermann's-that was obscuring his vision. "Notebooks, " he said. "Get the notebooks."
Jared batted at the few spots on Paquette's clothing that were still burning, pulled him to a sitting position, and leaned him against the wall. The fumes and smoke were worsening around them "I've got to get you out of here. Can you understand that?"
Paquette's head lolled back. "Notebooks, " he said again Jared glanced about. On the floor beneath Zimmermann's heel was a black looseleaf notebook. He tucked the book under his arm and then began dragging Paquette toward the doorway. Several times, glass cut through Jared's pants and into his leg. Once he slipped, slicing a flap off n off the edge of his hand. The wooden cabinets and shelves had gun to blaze, making the room unbearably hot. Paquette was making the task of moving him from the room harder clawing at Jared, at one point getting his hand entangled in Jared's "For Christ's sake, let go of me, Paquette, " Jared shouted. "I'm trying to get you out of here. Can you understand that?
I'm trying to get The smoke was blinding. His eyes tearing and nearly closed, Jared hunched low, breathe through his parka, and with great effort, pulled Paquette's arm over his shoulder, hauling the man to his feet. Together they staggered from the lab. Jared was about to set Paquette down against a wall in order to return for Macfarlane when he remembered the oxygen. There were thirty or forty large green cylinders bunched in the far corner of the storage area. They possessed, he suspected, enough explosive potential to level a good portion of the building.
"Paquette, " he hollered, "I'm going to help you up the stairs. Then you've got to get down the tunnel and as far away from here as possible.
Do you understand? " Paquette nodded. "Can you support any more of your own weight?"
"I can tly." Paquette, his face a mask of blood, forced the words out between coughs. One arduous step at a time, the two made their way up to the landing on the basement level. Acrid chemical smoke, which had largely filled the storage area below, drifted up the stairway around them. "Okay, we're here, " Jared said loudly. "I've got to go back down there. You head that way, through the tunnel. Understand? Good.
Here, take your book with you and just keep going." He shoved the notebook into the man's hands. At that instant, from
below, there was a sharp explosion. Then another. Jared watched as Paquette lurched away from him and then pitched heavily to the floor, blood pouring from a wound on the side of his neck. Jared dropped to one knee beside the man, surprised and confused by what was happening. "Paquette!"
"Notebook… Kate…" were all Paquette could manage before a torrent of blood sealed his words and closed his eyes. It was then Jared realized the man had been shot, that the explosions he had heard were from a gun, not from the lab. He turned at the moment Nunes fired at him from the base of the stairs. The bullet tore through his right thigh and caromed off the floor and wall behind him. The man, blackened by smoke and bleeding from cuts about his face, leveled the revolver for another shot. Distracted by the burning pain in his leg, Jared barely reacted in time to drop out of the line of fire. Behind him and from the mouth of the tunnel, alarms had begun to wail. Below him, the man had started up the stairs through the billowing smoke. Notebook… Kate… Jared plucked the black notebook from beside Arlen Paquette's body, tucked it under his arm like a footba and in a gait that was half hop and half sprint, raced down the tunnel toward the main hospital. Zimmermann, Paquette, and probably Walter Macfarlane as well, all dead, quite possibly because he had gone to the subbasement rendezvous without enough help. The distressing thought took his mind off the pain as he pushed on past the security gate. Paquette had promised answers for Kate, and now he was dead. Silently, Jared cursed himself. A gunshot echoed through the tunnel. Hunching over to diminish himself as a target, Jared limped on, weaving from side to side across the tunnel, and wondering if the evasive maneuver was worth the ground he was losing. The main tunnel was less than thirty yards away. There would be people there-help-if only he could make it. Another shot rang out, louder than the last. The bullet, fired, Jared realized now, from Macfarlane's heavy service revolver, snapped through the sleeve of his parka and clattered off the cement floor. He stumbled, nearly falling, and slammed into the far wall of the main tunnel "Help, " he screamed.
"Somebody help! " The dim tunnel was deserted. A moment later he was shot again, the bullet impacting just above his left buttock, spinning him a full three hundred and sixty degrees, and sending white pain lancing down his leg and up toward his shoulder blade. He tumbled to one knee, but just as quickly pulled himself up again, clutching the notebook to his chest and rolling along the wall of the tunnel.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear another series of alarms, then sirens, and finally a muffled explosion. He was, for the moment at least, out of the killer's line of fire stumbling in the direction away from the main hospital and toward the boiler room and laundry. Despite the pain in his leg and back, he was determined that nothing short of a killing shot was going to bring him down. With Paquette and Zimmermann dead, the black notebook, whatever it was, might well represent Kate's only chance. The gunman, crouching low and poised to fire, slid around the corner of the Omnicenter tunnel just as Jared reached the spur to the laundry Jared sensed the man about to shoot, but there was no explosion, no noise. Or was there? As he pushed on into the darkened laundry, he could swear he had heard a sound of some sort. Then he understood. The killer had fired. Macfarlane's revolver was out of bullets, tapped dry. Now, even wounded, he had a chance. The room he had entered was filled with dozens of rolling industrial hampers, some empty, some piled high with linen. Beyond the crowded hamper lot, Jared could just discern the outlines of rows of huge steam pressers He gave momentary consideration to diving into one of the hampers, but rejected the notion, partly because of the helpless, passive situation in which he would be and partly because his pursuer had already turned into the tunnel and was making his way, though cautiously, toward the laundry.
Ignoring the pain in his back, Jared dropped to all fours and inched amp; his way between two rows of hampers toward the enormous, cluttered! X hall housing the laundry itself. Pressers, washers, dryers, shelves and stacks of linens, more hampers-if he could make it, there would be dozens of places to hide… if he could make it. There were twenty feet separating the last of the canvas hampers from the first of the steam pressers. Twenty open feet. He had to cross them unnoticed. Kneeling in the darkness, he listened. There was not a sound-not a breath, not the shuffle of a footstep, nothing. Where in hell was the man? Was the chance of catching a glimpse of him worth the risk of looking? The aching in his back was in crescendo, dulling his concentration and his judgment. Again he listened. Again there was nothing. Slowly, he brought his head up and turned. The killer, moving with the control and feline calm of a professional, was less than five feet away, preparing to hammer him with the butt of Macfarlane's heavy revolver. Jared spun away, but still absorbed a glancing blow just above his left ear.
Stunned, he stumbled backward, pulling first one, then another hamper between him and the man, who paused to pick up the notebook and set it on the corner of a hamper before matter-of-factly advancing on him again. "It's no use, pal, " he said, shoving the hampers aside as quickly as Jared could pull them in his way, "but go ahead and make it interesting if you want."
Jared, needing the hampers as much for support as for protection, knew the man was right. Wounded and without a weapon, Jared had no chance against him. "Who are you? " he asked. Nunes smiled and shrugged. "Just a man doing a job, " he said. "You work for Redding Pharmaceuticals, don't you."
"I think this little dance of ours has gone on long enough, pal. Don't you?"
In that instant, Jared thought about Kate and all she had been through, he thought about Paquette and the aging watchman, Macfarlane. If he was going to die, then, dammit, it wouldn't be while backing away. With no more plan in mind than that, he grabbed another hamper, feigned pulling it in front of him, and instead drove it forward as hard as he could, catching the surprised gunman just below the waist. Nunes lurched backward, colliding with another hamper and very nearly going down.
Jared moved as quickly as he could, but the advantage he had gained with surprise was lost in the breathtaking pain of trying to push off his left foot. The killer, his expression one of placid amusement, parried the lunge with one hand, and with the other, brought the barrel of the revolver slicing across Jared's head, opening a gash just above his temple. Jared staggered backward a step, then came on again, this time leading with a kick which connected, though not powerfully, with the man's groin. Again Nunes lashed out with the gun, landing a solid blow to Jaredss forearm and then another to the back of his neck. Jared dropped to one knee. As he did, Nunes stepped behind him and locked one arm expertly beneath his chin. "Sorry, pal, " he said, tightening his grip. Jared flailed with his arms and shoulders and tried to stand, but the man's leverage was far too good. The pressure against his larynx was excruciating His chest throbbed with the futile effort of trying to breathe. Blood pounded in his head and the killer's grunting breaths grew louder in his ear. Then the sound began to fade. Jared knew he was dying. Every ounce of his strength vanished, and he felt the warmth of his bladder letting go. I'm sorry, Kate. I'm sorry. The words tumbled over and over in his mind. I'm sorry. Through closed eyes, he sensed, more than saw, a bright, blue-white light. From far, far away, he heard a muffled explosion. Then another. Suddenly the pressure against his neck diminished. The killer's forearm shook uncontrollably and then slid away. Jared fell to one side, but looked up in time to see the man totter and then, in grotesque slow motion, topple over into a hamper.
Jared struggled to sort out what was happening. The first thing he saw clearly was that the overhead lights had been turned on, the second thing was the stubbled, slightly jowled face of Martin Finn "I was halfway back to the station when I decided there was no way you would have chanced popping me like you did unless the situation was really desperate, " Finn said. "How bad are you hurt?"
Jared coughed twice and wasn't sure he was able to speak until he heard his own voice. "I've been shot twice, " he rasped, "once just above my butt and once in my thigh. My legs are all cut up from broken glass.
That lunatic b
eat the shit out of me with his gun."
"The emergency people are on their way, " Finn said, kneeling down. "It may be a few minutes. As you might guess, there's a lot of commotion going on around here right now. Is Zimmermann dead?"
Jared nodded. Then he remembered Macfarlane. "Finn, " he said urgently,
"there's a man, Macfarlane, a night watchman. He was-" ',You mean him?
" The detective motioned to his left. Walter Macfarlane, one eye swollen shut and the side of his face a mass of dried and oozing blood, stood braced against a hamper. "Thank God, " Jared whispered. "We would never have known what direction to go in without him," inn explained. At that moment a team of nurses and residents arrived with two stretchers They helped Macfarlane onto one and then gingerly hoisted her onto the other.
"As soon as these people get you fixed up, Counselor, you're going to have a little explaining to do. You know that, don't you?"
"I know. I'll tell you as much as I can. And Finn… I appreciate your coming back."
"I think I might owe you an apology, but I'll save it until someone explains to me what the fuck has been going on around here."
"Okay, " one of the residents announced. "We're all set."
"Wait. Please, " Jared said. "Finn, there's a notebook around here somewhere. A black, looseleaf notebook."
The detective searched for a few moments and then brought it over.
"Yours? " he asked. "Actually, no." Jared tucked the notebook beneath his arm. Then he smiled. "It belongs to my wife."
Jared brought his left hand up and gingerly touched the area about his left eye.
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