by Bill Fawcett
"Hey! Hey!" Their voices chased him, followed by slamming footfalls. "Hey! You can't go up there. It's dangerous. Hey!"
Larson thundered upward, paying the men no heed.
The policemen stationed every few landings had more important matters to attend than one lunatic hero wannabe attempting to defy the gravity of a greater than a thousand-foot climb. Even in his excellent athletic shape, Larson found himself panting by level ten, breathless by twenty. Oh, great, Larson. Maybe you can crawl out the top in a wheezing frenzy and demand their surrender.
The thought sparked a realization that desperate concern for his family had not allowed him to consider. How am I going to handle these crazies? Larson shook aside the thought, focusing fully on simply making it to the top. Crazy, yes; but these guys aren't dumb. He slowed his pace, continuing his climb.
Where are you? Silme sent, with a clear hint of suspicion.
Larson borrowed Taziar's line. You don't want to know.
Probably not, but I need to.
Larson did not oblige. What's happening up there?
The three are spending a lot of time together. They're not sure they believe it's too windy for helicopters.
Larson did not like the sound of that. He focussed intently on the mental conversation, attempting to use it as a distraction for his aching legs and lungs as he forced himself upward. Can you convince them?
Not without taking a big risk. Don't know how they'll react to a mind intrusion.
Can't you just make some comment about how it's so much windier today than the last few times you came?
They've demanded silence. Threatened to throw a scared young boy over the rail. Tossed an old man's wheelchair off.
Larson's heart seemed to slam against his chest, driven by worry as much as exertion. At least, they seem to be avoiding actually harming civilians. He added to himself, Except whoever on the ground got smashed by wheelchair wreckage. He did not long concern himself with the bystanders massed beyond danger by the police.
Silme's discomfort radiated clearly, even unaccompanied by words.
What?
What what? Silme sent, too innocently.
Irritable from the growing pain of his ascent, Larson refused to give quarter. You know something you're not telling me.
Many things, I'd warrant. Though a good joke at his expense, Silme took no joy from it, a clear sign that he had hit on or near the truth.
Larson kept climbing at a swift, steady pace, no longer finding policemen on the landings. What are you hiding?
I told you about the security guards.
Larson winced. He had not forgotten. Is the second one . . .
Still alive, Silme confirmed. But not conscious. She added uncomfortably, Al, they're contemplating some . . . evil things.
Air wheezed through Larson's lungs. Go on. He appreciated the ephemeral quality of their conversation. In his current state, he could not have spoken.
The security men go first, then they plan to work their way down by age.
Distracted by his body, it took Larson's mind inordinately long to grasp the meaning of Silme's description. "Go first" as in—
Thrown over the side.
My god!
One by one over a certain period of time. Until their demands are met.
My god! Larson repeated, no other words coming to mind.
They figure they're already murderers, so they have nothing to lose.
Aside from the lives of innocent people.
A sliver of fear slipped through Silme's carefully controlled facade. They feel their cause is more important.
Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Kill innocents to protest the killing of innocents. Knowing better than to seek logic in the actions of fanatical true-believers, Larson glanced at a door to discover he had reached the forty-ninth floor. He groaned. Still thirty-seven to go.
Apparently, Larson sent that last thought, because Silme replied to it. Huh?
Larson tried to reverse the sentiment. Only thirty-seven more floors.
You're climbing! I told you not to come up.
You never listen to me, either.
Silme would not be distracted. You'll be exhausted by the time you get here. How can that help?
Can't hurt. Larson deliberately avoided looking at the numbers, not wanting to know how far he had come until he had gone significantly beyond his last look.
Yes, it can hurt! It can get you killed!
Larson refused to argue the point. Have you seen Shadow?
Not yet, Silme returned. I'm peeking over when I can, but they have us closely watched. Tend to keep us bunched so they can see everyone at once.
Keep looking. Larson doubted even the Shadow Climber could make it up the outside of the Empire State Building without climbing aids, but he had to hope. His tiny companion had done many things deemed impossible, often for that very reason. Then, suddenly, something Silme had said returned to haunt him. Oldest to youngest!
Though not the words she had used, Silme caught the reference. They're telling the police their plan right now. One person every half hour until . . . oh my god! The contact abruptly cut off.
Silme. Silme!
When Larson did not get an immediate answer, he stopped the concentration. Without training like Silme's from the Dragonrank school, he could not reach her. He could only wait. He found himself staring at the number on the landing: 53. Above him, he heard voices. He slowed, moving as quietly as possible and straining to hear.
The talking stopped, but Larson could hear the occasional scrape of a shoe against concrete. Cautiously, he rounded the fifty-fourth landing and looked up to two uniformed men. Static hissed from one's belt. Cops. Confidently, with the look of a man who belonged, he continued upward.
The policemen spotted Larson and leaped to attention. Both were young, of average height and build; but the similarities ended there. One had red hair peeking from beneath his cap, while the other had no visible hair at all. The redhead sported blue eyes to his companion's brown, and a deluge of orange freckles. Both seemed in reasonably good shape, though neither seemed eager to continue the climb.
"Who are you?" the red-haired cop demanded.
Larson took advantage of the limitations of the walkie-talkies. If they could carry this far, these men would have known him, like the others. "Al Larson. Special team, FBI."
Both men looked him over top to bottom. "Got a badge?" the second asked.
"Yes," Larson lied. "But not the time to show it." He added harshly, "again." With the air of someone in authority and a hurry, he pushed past them and jogged up the stairs.
Larson heard the words "arrogant jerk" behind him but did not bother to slow. He wanted them to believe that he had demonstrated his bona fides to those lower down the stairway, the most likely way to explain his presence here and now.
Apparently, the ruse worked because he heard no signs of pursuit. That or they're too tired or lazy to follow me. The reason did not matter. The increase in speed dragged agony through Larson's legs, but he scurried upward until he had gone high enough that the others would not notice a change in pace.
Air rasped through Larson's lungs, raw agony; and the close stuffiness seemed suffocating. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Silme appeared in his head. Al, they've dropped the security guards!
What? Larson's reply was startled from him, without thought. Even if the method of communication allowed for mishearing, he did not want her to repeat that particular information. Both at once?
They think it shows the police they mean business.
As opposed to shoving just one guy off the Empire State Building.
One was already dead.
The cops and the crowd didn't know that. Larson quickened his pace, though his legs felt as if he had bolted bowling balls to his thighs, and he seemed to have gasped the last of the stairwell air into his lungs.
Silme's contact turned irritable. You're arguing with me? They'r
e crazy, Al. Just get up here right away!
Oh, so now you want me up there. Larson wisely kept that to himself. I'm coming as fast as I can. I'm a decent runner but no pro, and going up isn't the same as on a track or even rugged terrain.
Silme returned nothing for several moments. Larson concentrated on steady rhythmical motion, watching the patterned marble stairs unscroll beneath his sneakers. By now, even his legs appeared to remember the design: eighteen stairs to each landing. Why not an even twenty? Larson abandoned the idle thought, glad for the 160-step reprieve.
A sudden thought brought a second, desperate wind. Silme, my mother?
Scared but fine. Like the rest of us.
Larson was pretty sure Silme understood the deeper intent of his question. Oldest to youngest, he reminded.
Y-ess. This time, Silme surely knew, but she feigned ignorance.
Pain and the battle for breath contributed to Larson's irritability. Come on, Silme. Where does my mother fit on that spectrum?
Silme dodged the question. She's still a young woman.
Silme . . .
Don't you think you'd be happier not knowing?
Probably, Larson admitted, rounding the sixtieth landing. But tell me anyway.
Silme waited inordinately long to continue. After the guy in the wheelchair . . .
Yes. Larson deliberately injected impatience into the sending.
He looks about a thousand years old. His caretakers says he's eighty-nine, but he acts more like an infant . . .
Silme . . . Larson chastised her clear delay, then guessed, She's next. After the old man. Isn't she?
Al, just hurry.
Though Silme gave no direct answer, Larson knew he had discovered the truth. He refused to let the news paralyze him. If he did, all was lost. I'm hurrying, he said. But I'm going to need your help.
* * *
After a crossover at the sixty-fifth floor, Larson charged toward the top with nothing to stand in his way but his own human frailty. He felt like he had run for hours, lungs burning, legs aching, sweat stinging his eyes. He longed for a companion, some bunkmate with eternal stamina to challenge him when he felt like giving up. But, as he gulped scant air into his lungs, he felt thankful that his only partner chose a different route to the top. There did not seem enough air for two in the cramped, stagnant stairwell. Almost there. Almost there. Larson drove himself forward, his legs numb, moving only from habit. He looked at the number on the landing door: 84. Excitement thrilled through him, chilling the sweat that covered every part. He dragged up the stairs, buoyed by the energy that comes of impending success.
Larson nearly crashed into a pair of policemen lounging on the landing. He froze, panting savagely, unable to speak.
The men did not press. Though their breath came more easily, they seemed noticeably fatigued, their uniforms askew and their faces pink-cheeked. Relatively young and sinewy, they had clearly been chosen for their ability to make the climb. One was black, round-faced with a well-tamed afro, the other sandy blond with quick, green eyes. "What's the buzz, cuz?" one asked, a far cry from the personal challenges Larson had, thus far, received.
Larson froze, too tired to move, too wracked with nervous energy to sit. "How much..," he panted, " . . . do . . . you know?"
The black man gestured toward himself. "Name's Carter. Yours?"
Uncertain whether the man had just given his first or last name, Larson gasped out, "Al."
"Mahan," the other man said. "Jimmy Mahan." He studied Larson with a knowing wince. "Take a load off for a bit."
Larson grasped his knees, seeking the best position to gulp air into his lungs. "Can't. Got . . . to . . . move . . . fast."
Carter huffed out a laugh. "How you going to do that when you're gasping like a landed fish? Ain't doing no one no good in that state."
Larson had to agree. He lowered himself to the landing in a crouch, still too driven to fully sit. "They're . . . tossing hostages. No time . . ." My mom!
The cops exchanged glances, smiles wilting in an instant. "Tossing?" Carter repeated. "You mean over the side?"
"Eighty-six stories down," Larson confirmed, the concept, now spoken, staggering.
"Shit." Mahan wiped his brow, picked his cap up from the floor, and plastered it on his head. "What's the plan?"
Larson thought fast. Ideally, he would get one of the men to give him a gun; but he could not think of a way to request such a thing without raising ruinous suspicions. "To get up there, of course. What's blocking the way?"
Silme's presence returned in a wild flurry. Al! The old man! They're carrying him to the rail.
Mom's next. Larson knew he should feel callous about worrying more for what might happen than the fate of one at risk now, but he could not help it. The old man had lived a long life and probably had little understanding of his fate. Silme, what's blocking the stairwell door?
Which one?
Stumped by a simple and obvious question, Larson went quiet. Any . . . one he tried.
Silme did not question. They're locked.
Of course.
Two guarded by armed men—usually. If there are more, I don't know about them. Anticipating Larson's question, she added. I can only read surface thoughts, not everything they know.
"Locks, for one thing," Carter said in answer to a query Larson had forgotten in the hailstorm of his and Silme's exchange. "We've got the key, of course, but it's not much use from inside the stairwell."
Larson pursed his lips, breathing gradually coming easier, though his legs still ached. He thought of Taziar, hoping the little climber would have the sense not to rush in alone. Taziar possessed neither the ability nor the mentality to kill. Taziar. That gave Larson an idea. "Are there any windows on this floor?"
Mahan shrugged. "It's an office building. Practically made of windows." He added doubtfully, "Why?"
Larson did not even want to waste time saying "No time to explain." Instead, he charged for the heavy door, slammed in the handle, and dashed into the hallway. He charged down the high-ceilinged corridor, noticing nothing but the first office door. He turned the knob and struck it with his shoulder simultaneously. He hit solid wood frame, clearly locked, but the force of the blow shattered the opaque glass front. Shards stabbed his shoulder, and rained, further broken by the green marble floor. He sprang through the gap, dislodging the remaining, clinging pieces and crushing the glass beneath his sneakers to powder.
Eyes on the window, Larson stumbled into a desk, sending a chair careening to the floor and dashing pain through his hip. Ignoring it, he floundered through the wreckage, still unable to take his eyes from the window. Bumped and bruised, leaving a wake of askew furniture, he made it to a pane that stood more than a half-foot taller than his six-foot frame. He slammed the heels of his hands against the glass. It barely budged. Larson hammered his fists against the window, howling with rage.
Silme's voice entered Larson's head with an eerie quiet. Al, they threw him over. He's gone.
Oh god. Larson stifled the image of the old man tumbling through the air, eyes wide with terror, mouth wrenched open in scream after scream. He wondered how long the man would have to contemplate his fate before it ended with a flash of excruciating pain, then nothing. Silme, I'm coming.
Hurry, she sent, bare understatement. Please hurry.
Larson hurled himself at the safety glass, vision suddenly filled with clouds, the buildings around seeming distant and small. The glass did not give, but Larson's rational mind did. What the hell am I doing? If this breaks, I'm going down. He backed up, reassessing the situation. Seeing a latch on the window, he smacked himself in the forehead, feeling like a royal fool. Of course, they're made not to break. Can't have people accidentally falling, but no reason not to let some fresh air in now and then. Working the catch, he easily opened the window. Now what? I'm not Shadow. Larson clambered to the sill, deliberately looking only up. A downward glance might paralyze him.
Groping along the rail-like mu
llions, Indiana limestone, and sand-blasted spandrels, Larson discovered solid hooks placed as if for climbing. He nestled his hands into them, a million thoughts distracting him from the job ahead. If these go the length of the building, Shadow probably figures this skyscraping monstrosity for the easiest thing he's ever climbed. Larson recalled that Taziar's friends had bragged he could climb a straight pane of glass, and Larson had seem him scramble up brick buildings without a moment's hesitation. He also realized that the hooks had to serve as tie-ons for window washers and, possibly, maintenance workers.
Sunlight reflected from the steel, its glow shattering into a blinding array that forced Larson to squint. He worked his way to one of the enormous stainless steel pylons that braced the observatory tower, only one floor above him.
Al.
Larson stiffened, gouging the hooks into his hands. Don't do that!
Don't do what? It was a right and innocent question.
Larson realized that his own keyed-up terror had caused him to startle, not Silme. She had contacted him with an appropriate slow gentleness he should have appreciated. Stay with me, will you? I'm going to need you.
Sorry. I was just comforting a scared little boy. Where are you?
Larson shored up his leg and right-hand holds before groping over the observatory ledge with his left. I'm coming over the side, like Shadow. Watch for my hand. His fingers banged against cold metal. Only then, he remembered the fencing that surrounded the open-air terrace, constructed to frustrate suicides. Wait a second, he thought to himself and Silme simultaneously. How did the gunmen get the old man past the fence?
They cut a hole, Silme explained. Pushed them through. An emotion accompanied the sending like a mental shiver. Made us all look through. Let us know what's in store for us if the police don't give in to their demands soon. Then, they placed some of the more terrified ones on the phone.
Larson gripped the fence. Peace Army, indeed. Bunch of crazy sadistic bastards.
Abruptly, Larson's description sunk in. Silme's contact wafted terror. You're where?