DelPrego paused over the bodies of the dead black men. He stuck the Colt in his belt and picked up the two fallen pistols, heavy automatics, one nickel-plated.
Jenks looked back. “Fuck that shit, Wayne. Let’s go!”
They flew down the stairs, feet barely touching each step.
The exit led them out to the blizzard. It still howled, wind flinging snow and sleet.
“Where’s DelPrego?” Morgan shouted over the wind.
Jenks turned around, saw DelPrego wasn’t behind him. “Shit.”
These were the men who’d killed Timothy Lancaster.
DelPrego held the pistols like white-knuckled death. He’d scour Albatross Hall, and all would fall before him. Nothing mattered but his white-hot vengeance.
He found them on the second floor. They stood in a cluster, a half dozen of them, one gesticulating the story of the shooting on the floor above. DelPrego ran toward them, picking up speed with each step, arms extended and guns leading the way.
Their faces turned, eyes wide, screaming. They pointed guns back at him. Curses. DelPrego didn’t hear. There was only the hot buzzing, blood pressure pounding hot in his ears. He squeezed the triggers as fast as he could.
The hail of lead shredded the group, one gritting teeth, grabbing an arm. Another pitched forward. Two ran. Three returned fire, big automatics spitting fire.
DelPrego caught a slug in the leg, he screamed, went down, but twisted to keep his pistols aimed at the group. He kept squeezing the triggers even after his gun was empty. His head swam, stomach heaving. Another bullet plowed a deep groove into his left shoulder. Blood gushed with each heartbeat.
He lay on his side, dropped the empty pistols, and pulled the Colt from his belt. He cocked it, fired along the tile floor, and shattered the ankle of one of the gangsters. The gangster screamed, collapsed to the floor, squirming to get ahold of his ruined ankle. The puddle that formed under his shoe was thick and red and spread rapidly.
Two more bullets smacked into DelPrego’s chest. He no longer felt the pain, only the dull impact. He fired the Colt one more time, but the bullet went wild.
He was shot again. Again. His eyes looked up, dull and unblinking. The smile was faint and oddly peaceful.
forty-five
The three of them huddled against the blizzard, looked back at the door they’d used to escape Albatross Hall. DelPrego did not come out.
“Maybe he took a wrong turn,” Morgan shouted over the blizzard.
“H-he was r-r-right b-behind us.” Valentine had fled the building with only a light jacket. He was turning blue.
“His eyes,” Jenks said. “He had a crazy look. I think he’s going to do something.”
“Can someone please tell me what in the hell just happened?” Morgan asked.
“Get himself killed,” Jenks said, still thinking of DelPrego. “I better find him before-”
“D-don’t be a f-fool,” Valentine said. “You can’t go back in-”
Valentine’s head jerked around. Morgan and Jenks followed his gaze.
Distantly, figures took shape. They manifested out of the fog like floating stones, great, hard, square chunks of granite. Shoulders. Hands deep into the pockets of their long dark coats, hats pulled low to cover eyes. A ragged line of them moving forward, taking form as they stepped into the feeble lamplight. They did not heed wind or cold, only advanced like a silent, grim tide. Eight of them; no, ten. A dozen square-jawed ghosts.
“Jesus,” Morgan said.
“He ain’t going to help you.” Jenks’s hand tightened on his pistol.
Valentine clutched the shotgun to his chest. “No shells l-left.”
They marched toward Morgan, Jenks, and Valentine. Behind the line of men came another figure. He was small, bent against the cutting wind, thin hand holding a cloth cap on his bald head. He held on to the arm of one of the bruisers. The small man came within three feet of Morgan and stopped.
“The reading went well,” Fred Jones said. “I should kick your ass, but I enjoyed it.”
“Who are these men?” Morgan asked.
A blast of wind sprayed the group with sleet. Bob Smith had to use both hands to keep Jones from flying away. Jones’s thugs continued to march past.
“The kid told me about his troubles.” Jones nodded at Jenks. “I called a few old pals to come help.”
Jones turned to Valentine. “A guy from University of Arkansas Press was there. Asked me if I had enough stuff for a whole book.”
Morgan’s mouth fell open.
“That’s m-most fortunate,” Valentine said.
“You’re going to freeze your balls off,” Jones said. “Bob, bring the car around and pick us up.”
“Right, boss.” Smith lumbered back into the blizzard.
“The weather’s going to keep the cops off our backs for a little bit, but we got to move fast,” Jones said. “My guys will finish here. They know what to do.”
Jenks yanked on Morgan’s sleeve. “Wayne.”
Morgan said, “One of my students is still in there.”
“I got to look for him,” Jenks told Jones.
“Nunzio!” Jones waved over one of the long coats.
The guy had big, red cheeks, black eyes. “Mr. Jones?”
Jones jerked a thumb at Jenks. “Take this guy inside. He lost a lamb. Make sure he ain’t shot by accident.”
“Right. This way, kid.”
Morgan watched Nunzio lead Jenks back into Albatross Hall. The building looked like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe tale-dark stone, windows like vacant eyes, the snow piling at the corners. Morgan looked down, saw that Jones had latched on to his arm. He’d been holding the old man up. Morgan hooked arms with Jones, stood close to shield him from the wind. Jones let him.
Jones craned his neck, lifted his mouth toward Morgan’s ear. The old man was trying to tell him something. Morgan leaned forward, cupped his free hand around his ear to block the howling storm.
“You got to help me get my book into shape to show this Arkansas Press guy,” Jones said. “He says he’ll leave a slot in the schedule open this fall.”
Morgan said he’d help.
Dull gun blasts echoed from within Albatross Hall. Blue light flashed in the windows.
“W-what are they doing?” asked Valentine.
“Sweeping up,” Jones said.
A sudden flurry of shots like a spurt of microwave popcorn, flashes from the third floor.
Jones’s car pulled up on the sidewalk with Smith at the wheel. The big sedan carved dirty furrows in the white snow. Morgan opened the door for Jones. Valentine went around the other side. They climbed into the car, sighed relief at the warmth.
“Are they going to be okay?” Morgan looked at the dark windows of Albatross Hall.
“They’ll be fine,” Jones said. “I need some soup.”
Under the car’s interior light, Morgan took a good look at the old man. His lips were blue, breathing shallow.
Morgan took his hands. They were lumps of hard ice. “You okay?”
“I can’t feel them.”
Morgan put the hands between his own, rubbed hard.
“It was like you said,” Jones muttered. “When I knew I had the crowd. They loved it. I could feel them. It
