Dale heard shrieks, thuds and feral basso grunts behind him—Shaved Head knocking people out of his way—
Dale ran at the writhing pile—he’d run hurdles in high school, only JV but he had passable technique—shortened his final stride, kicked his lead leg high, planted his rear foot and launched—
Got the height but not the distance. The writhing pile was considerably wider than a track hurdle. Dale’s front foot landed on a guy’s chest and the guy grabbed Dale’s leg and yanked—Dale landed on his back on top of the writhing pile, and saw—
Shaved Head coming through the entry on the kitty-corner far side of the fifth gallery—
Flat on his back on top of the pile, Dale fired wildly—
Shaved Head pulled back into the fourth gallery—
Dale screamed “Stop moving! Stop!” and the people beneath him obeyed, which allowed Dale to roll onto his stomach, aim at the kitty-corner entryway behind which Shaved Head had retreated, and squeeze off—
Three sickeningly hollow clicks. Gun empty.
Shaved Head emerged, grinning, his gun leveled at Dale—
“FREEZE! DON’T FUCKING MOVE!!!” an unseen heaven-sent cop yelled from behind Shaved Head.
Shaved Head froze.
Dale scrambled off the pile and into the sixth gallery, popped the empty clip and, faster than he’d ever managed with his maimed left hand, jammed home a fresh clip—
Shots went off behind him. Dale hop-scotched across people who’d sensibly flung themselves to the floor, and shoved his way into the crowded Greatest Impressionist Hits galleries, brandishing his reloaded pistol.
Seventy-Two | 2012
Two shots from up ahead. As Mark hustled across the third gallery toward the fourth, a small stampede of terrified people rushed out of that gallery—
They saw Mark and his gun—screamed—Mark pointed to his badge and hissed “Police! Police! SHHH!” He hurried to the next entryway, flattened against the wall and looked into the fourth gallery—
People were proned out on the floor, covering their heads and whimpering—except for one guy who was on his feet, squirming against a wall, as if trying to hump his way through it—
And on the far side, at the entry to the fifth gallery, the Bald Bear was pointing his gun at someone in the fifth—
“FREEZE! DON’T FUCKING MOVE!!!”
Bald Bear froze.
The man humping the wall decided it was now safe to get the hell out, so he launched himself off his beloved and ran toward Mark—
Bald Bear whirled—
Mark couldn’t shoot, the wall-humper was in his line of fire, rushing straight at him—
Mark grabbed the wall-humper’s arm and yanked him down, pulling the wall-humper backward with him into the third gallery as Bald Bear pumped a few rounds—
Mark scrambled back to the entryway and looked—Bald Bear was gone—
Behind Mark a woman began groaning and someone yelled “She’s hit! She’s hit!”
A thirtyish woman was curled on the floor, clutching a bloody bicep. Mark rushed to her, yelling, “Is anyone a doctor?!”
Nope, just sprinters—everyone was fleeing. Mark intercepted the wall-humper—“Stay!”—and pulled him to the floor alongside the wounded woman.
Mark handed the woman his handkerchief. “Keep pressure on the wound,” he instructed, whipped off his tie, made a tourniquet and yanked it tight.
Mark handed the end of the tie to the wall-humper. “Keep this tight. And don’t you fucking leave her.” Mark told the woman, “Don’t move, okay? Help’s gonna be here soon.”
That should be true—even if cops outside weren’t able to fight their way through the manic flesh torrent that’d be pouring out of the main exits, there were loading docks and side—
Gunshots—far off, downstairs. Just two guns: Doonie one-on-one with the tall thin shooter. Shit, no reinforcements yet.
Mark resumed chasing Bald Bear, and the “small one” the Bear was chasing. Dale Phipps was small.
Seventy-Three | 2012
Dale’s gun, aided by his face, cleared a path through the Greatest Impressionist Hits, from which he emerged into an enormous gallery, the hub of this wing. It overlooked the Grand Staircase, which led down to the main exits.
But it was a no-go zone.
The Grand Staircase was a huge open atrium space. Four small stairways zig-zagged down to two small landings, which in turn fed into a central landing, from which two wide stairways led to the ground floor. The hordes swarming down those upper four narrow stairways had met in head-on collisions at the two small landings. The effects rippled back up to the top. The result was Grand Ant Hill, thrashing mounds of fallen, frantic, fractured people strewn across the stairs.
Dale looked around—there! He shoved his way into a corridor leading to European Decorative Arts, on the far side of which was another staircase to the ground floor.
The European Decorative Arts galleries were jammed with people equally desperate to get to that stairway. But Dale was the only one waving a 9mm VIP pass.
This stairway was 1970s modern, a steeply curved corkscrew swoop of steps suspended in the center of a two-story space, with only thin metal railings between you and the open air. Slightly scary. People were descending at a sane pace.
Sane was unacceptably slow. Dale fired another shot and screamed “FREEZE! NOBODY MOVE! STOP MOVING!” at the people on curved stairway. They obeyed.
Dale hurried down, picking his way between people frozen in place, white-knuckling the handrails. Wasn’t easy to squeeze between some of them—God, the number of fat people in this country—
An eruption of screams from above, accompanied by a man bellowing “Moof! Moof! Moof!”—
Dale began leaping down two, three stairs at a time. Had one last fatty to clear—Dale lost his footing, bounced off a planetary rump, went airborne and splatted full-length on the hardwood floor at the foot of the stairs—
Ah shit the gun slammed out of Dale’s hand and skittered away—he reached for it—
BLAM! A bullet exploded the parquet in front of Dale, peppering his outstretched hand with splinters—
“DON’T MOOF!”
Dale didn’t, except for slowly looking up.
Shaved Head was descending the curving stairs, keeping his weapon aimed as he weaved around the hippos pressed against the handrails, many with their eyes squeezed shut in hopes that might convince Shaved Head, or themselves, they weren’t really there.
Shaved Head stepped off the staircase and loomed over Dale.
“On your niece!”
“On my?—Oh.” Dale pushed himself up onto his knees.
“Hands behind head!”
Dale complied. This mean he’s not going to shoot me?
“Open you mouth!”
Dale opened.
Shaved Head shoved a miniature Hancock Building in Dale’s mouth.
Oh. They’re trying to pin it on Tesca.
Shaved Head grinned and placed the muzzle of his gun an inch from Dale’s forehead.
Seventy-Four | 2012
Mark tracked Bald Bear by the gunshots and screams.
Mark came to a suspended corkscrew staircase jammed with cringing people, and down at the foot of the stairs Bald Bear was about to shoot Dale Phipps, on his knees with a Hancock Building in his mouth—
No time to aim and the angle sucked but Mark’s bullet slammed into the top of the Bear’s collarbone. The thick beast went down. Squirming, groaning, but not visible.
Mark’s view was blocked by people on the curved staircase. He hustled down a few steps to where he could see—
Bald Bear, curled on the floor, gushing blood, in major pain, but still holding his gun—
“Drop it! Put it the fuck down!”
Bald Bear grinned at Mark.
“Right now,” Mark advised, “or you’re dead.”
Bald Bear slowly placed the gun on the floor beside him. Didn’t take his hand off of it.
Out of the corner of his eye Mark saw Dale pull the Hancock out of his mouth and get to his feet. “Dale, STAY!”
Dale stopped—
Bald Bear raised his weapon surprisingly fast for a half-dead guy—
Mark put two in Bald Bear’s chest—
Dale dashed toward a tall marble-trimmed entry to a gallery—
“DALE!!!” Mark flicked his gun in Dale’s direction—Dale paused—made eye contact with Mark—resumed running—
Mark didn’t shoot. Resumed aiming at Bald Bear, and navigated down through the corkscrew stairway’s human obstacle course.
Bald Bear was flat on his back in a pond of blood, arms flung out Jesus-wide, but his gun was still in his hand and he still wasn’t a hundred per cent dead. He was muttering darkly in a foreign language. Hurling curses, the only weapon he could still fire.
Just to make sure, Mark stepped on the rugged bastard’s wrist and pulled the gun out of his hand.
The rugged bastard stopped muttering and agonizingly raised his head, glaring, grinding his jaw, searching for his last dying glob of saliva. He found it and tried to spit at Mark. The bloody sputum just dribbled over his lower lip and the effort killed him.
Mark pocketed the gun and started to go after Phipps—
Gunshots from somewhere behind him, not too far off. Sustained fire, Doonie trading with the second shooter. Mark did a one-eighty and ran hard.
Seventy-Five | 2012
As Doonie came out of the long hall he saw a skinny bloody-nosed goon shooting at Mark, so Doonie returned fire fast as he could.
Missed, and the goon disappeared up a short staircase.
Doonie and Mark traded a nod and each went after his guy.
Doonie sidestepped a fallen wheelchair at the foot of the stairs, eased up the steps, peered over the top—didn’t see the shooter.
What he saw was a rectangular mezzanine, its outer walls lined with galleries. The center of the mezzanine was an atrium under a skylight held up by old-fashioned marble columns.
On the floor right in front of Doonie was a good-looking young broad laying on top of some lucky geezer.
Doonie started to ask, “Which—”
“That way,” the young broad snapped, like she was pissed about the level of service she was getting, “down those stairs!”
She pointed to the rear of the mezzanine, where a staircase went down to an interior courtyard. Doonie hustled toward it but skidded to a halt when he heard a screech from below—he looked down—the interior courtyard was full of sculptures and two tourists babbling “Pleasedon’tshoot pleasedon’tshoot—” at the skinny goon, who was hissing “Shut up! Shut up!” and pointing his gun at them—
“FREEZE!” Doonie roared, aiming down at—
The skinny goon whirled and fired up at Doonie—
Doonie held fire because he couldn’t risk hitting the tourists. He pulled back, then peeked down. Saw the goon retreating into one of the galleries that lined the sides of the inner courtyard, as the tourists ran the hell away, up the courtyard’s front stairs.
Doonie scoped the situation: the stairs the goon had taken at the rear of the mezzanine led down to the rear of the inner courtyard. But if Doonie went down those rear stairs, the goon would run out the front stairs.
So Doonie rushed down the front mezzanine stairs, which came out next to the stairs leading down to the front of the inner courtyard. Doonie edged down into the courtyard—
The goon leaned out of a gallery and fired—missed Doonie but killed a small statue, as—
Doonie snapped off shots—
The goon grabbed his leg and fell back into the gallery.
Doonie hurried into an adjacent gallery. On its far wall there was an entry to the goon’s gallery. Doonie went there and—
Nobody.
But a trail of blood led to the next gallery. Doonie nearly took a bullet when he poked his head into it. Doonie pulled back sharply—bullets tore through the flimsy gallery wall next to him—he hit the deck.
He heard movement.
Doonie hoisted himself to his feet, saw the goon heading up the rear stairs, back to the mezzanine.
Doonie chased him—goon had a shot-up leg, even Doonie should be able to run this asshole down.
But when Doon hustled up the rear stairs and looked across the mezzanine—no chance for a shot, the goon was already speed-gimping down the front mezzanine stairs. Skinny prick, gunshot leg and all, was faster than him.
At least the young broad and the geezer were gone—she must’ve dragged him away.
Doonie ran to the front of the mezzanine. Looked down—shit—a glimpse of the skinny prick as he ran into the long hall.
Doonie heaved his beerbelly down the stairs and hustled to the hall’s entrance. Took a breath and moved in—
Nobody. The walls of the long hall were lined with display cases, and the center of the hall was divided into two aisles by a row of free-standing glass display cases, alternating with a bunch of fucking knights and horses in tin suits.
But the goon hadda be in there; not enough time for even a quick gimp to make it to the exit way down at the other end. And he was bleeding.
Doonie followed the blood up the right aisle—
The skinny prick’s gun snapped out from behind a suit of armor—
The bullets missed Doonie and blew out the front of the display case behind him—Doonie returned fire—
The goon dove into the left aisle—popped up a second later, shooting through one of the display cases in the middle of the hall—
Doonie stood his ground and shot back—
The glass sides of the display case between them collapsed, and—
One of Doonie’s bullets smashed the gun out of the goon’s hand!
They both froze, shared a Did that cowboy shit just happen? moment—Doonie grinned at the goon—
Who looked down at an eighteen-inch ceremonial dagger in the shattered case in front of him—
Doonie yelled “Don’t!” but the goon was already wrenching the dagger loose from its fastenings, and Doonie fired—
Click. Empty.
Doonie popped the clip and pulled out another—
The gimpy goon managed to step up into the shattered display case and used his good leg to launch himself—
He landed on Doonie, who dropped his empty gun and grabbed the goon’s knife-arm with both hands as they crashed backward into the shattered display case behind Doonie, the corpulent cop landing inside the case, on his back with the goon on top of him, pressing hard on the dagger, the point an inch from Doonie’s eye—
Using his weight advantage, Doonie rolled over, so he was on top—and using that same tonnage, leaning down, Doonie began to move the goon’s dagger—
The goon began punching Doonie’s head with his left hand—
Doonie knocked the goon’s fist aside and Doonie’s hand came down on a thick round wooden handle—
But the handle was fastened to the display by metal loops—
Doonie yanked—
The dagger point waggled upward toward his fucking eye—
The handle Doonie was yanking at tore free and Doonie swung some heavy thing at the goon’s head—
Seventy-Six | 2012
Mark charged into the west entrance of Gunslaughter—
Forty feet away, Doonie was inside a display case straddling the skinny goon, who was trying to shove a dagger into Doonie’s—
Mark stopped short and raised his gun—
Doonie bashed the goon with a mace. A fucking mace. A sploosh of blood, goo, hair and bone erupted from the goon’s skull, and he went limp.
As Mark hurried to them, Doonie looked at the heavy thing in his hand, seeing for the first time what it was.
Mark asked, “You hurt?”
Doonie gazed at the wet part of the mace for a few seconds. Looked at Mark. “I shot the gun out of his hand, then killed him with a, a, whatchamacallit.”
“Mace.”
&n
bsp; “Uh-huh… This is a great museum.” Doonie slid out of the case and stood, gripping his mace.
“Your back is bleeding.”
Doon flexed his shoulders and winced. “Might be a coupla little pieces of glass in there.”
Mark checked the goon’s pulse. “He’s not dead.”
“Fuck,” Doonie complained.
Mark picked up Doonie’s gun and full clip, inserted the clip and handed it to him. “I gotta go after Phipps.”
“PUT DOWN THE GUN HANDS IN THE AIR PUT DOWN THE FUCKING GUN SHOW YOUR HANDS,” a bunch of unis and SWATs screamed as they flooded into the Hall, weapons leveled.
Mark pointed at the badge on his breast pocket. “We’re cops,” he said, and gestured at Doonie. Four of the unis were veterans, which meant at least two should recognize Doon. They did.
Mark told the senior SWAT, “In addition to that”—the gory mess in the display case—“we got one shooter dead, and their target, who’s probably left the building: Dale Phipps, white male, five-six, light hair, horrible skin, bulging left eye. I need backup.”
The head SWAT radioed Dale Phipps’ description to the scene commander outside.
Mark and three SWATs ran back the way Mark had come.
When they arrived at the curved staircase the dead Bald Bear was going viral. Most of the art lovers had fled. Five were clustered around the corpse, posing for photos, and one was holding the miniature Hancock—
“Put that the fuck down!” Mark roared—
The art lovers did a mass flinch-and-yelp as they saw Mark and his three beefy pals with assault rifles—
The art lover holding the Hancock quickly laid it on the floor. “Sorry sorry sorry.” He pointed to Dale’s gun on the floor nearby. “I didn’t touch the gun.”
Mark told one SWAT, “Secure the scene,” and signaled the others to follow him into the gallery where Phipps had gone.
SOME DEAD GENIUS Page 18