him to pull back, and it ricocheted around the room.
The shooter seemed unfazed by the whine of the bouncing slug, as if he led such a charmed life that his safety was a foregone conclusion.
“I’d prefer not to shoot you,” he said. “I didn’t want to shoot Ellie, either. I’ve other plans for both of you. But one more wrong move — and you’ll take away all my choices. Now kick the Uzi over here.”
Instead of doing what he had been told, Spencer went to Ellie. He touched her face and looked at her shoulder. “How bad?”
She was clutching her wound, trying not to reveal the extent of her pain, but the truth was in her eyes. “Okay, I’m okay, it’s nothing,” she said, yet Spencer saw her glance at the whimpering dog when she lied.
The heavy door to the abattoir hadn’t fallen shut. Someone was holding it open. The shooter stepped aside to let him enter. The second man was Steven Ackblom.
Roy was certain that this would be one of the most interesting nights of his life. It might even be as singular as the first night that he had spent with Eve, although he wouldn’t betray her even by hoping that it might be better. This was an incredible confluence of events: the capture of the woman at last; the chance to learn what Grant might know about any organized opposition to the agency, then the pleasure of putting that troubled man out of his misery; a unique opportunity to be with one of the great artists of the century as he turned his hand to the medium that had made him famous; and when it was done, perhaps even Eleanor’s perfect eyes would be salvageable. Cosmic forces were at work in the design of such a night.
When Steven entered the room, the expression on Spencer Grant’s face was worth the loss of at least two helicopters and a satellite. Anger darkened his face, twisted his features. It was a rage so pure that it possessed a fascinating beauty all its own. Enraged, Grant nonetheless shrank back with the woman.
“Hello, Mikey,” Steven said. “How’ve you been?”
The son — once Mikey, now Spencer — was unable to speak.
“I’ve been well but…in boring circumstances,” said the artist.
Spencer Grant remained silent. Roy was chilled by the expression in the ex-cop’s eyes.
Steven looked around at the black ceiling, walls, floor. “They blamed me for the woman you did here that night. I took the fall on that one too. For you, baby boy.”
“He never touched her,” Ellie Summerton said.
“Didn’t he?” the artist asked.
“We know he didn’t.”
Steven sighed with regret. “Well, no, he didn’t. But he was
“He was never close at all,” she said, but Grant remained unable to speak.
“Wasn’t he?” Steven said. “Well, I think he was. I think if I’d been a little smarter, if I’d encouraged him to drop his pants and climb on top of her first, then he would have been happy to take the scalpel afterward. He’d have been more in the spirit of things then, you see.”
“You’re not my father,” Grant said emptily.
“You’re wrong about that, my sweet boy. Your mother was a firm believer in marital vows. There was only ever me with her. I’m sure of that. In the end, here in this room, she was able to keep not the slightest secret from me.”
Roy thought that Grant was going to come across the room with all the fury of a bull, heedless of bullets.
“What a pathetic little dog,” Steven said. “Look at him shaking, hanging his head. Perfect pet for you, Mikey. He reminds me of the way you acted here that night. When I gave you the chance to transcend, you were too much of a pussy to seize it.”
The woman appeared to be furious too, perhaps even angrier than she was afraid, though both. Her eyes had never been more beautiful.
“How long ago that was, Mikey, and what a new world this is,” Steven said, taking a couple of steps toward his son and the woman, forcing them to shrink back farther. “I was so ahead of my time, so much deeper into the avant-garde than I ever fully realized. The newspapers called me insane. I ought to demand a retraction, don’t you think? Now, the streets are crawling with men more violent than I ever was. Gangs have gunfights anywhere they please, and babies get shot down on kindergarten playgrounds — and nobody does anything about it. The enlightened are too busy worrying that you’re going to eat a food additive that’ll shave three and a half days off your lifespan. Did you read about the FBI agents up in Idaho, where they shot an unarmed woman while she was
Roy smiled at Steven, wondering what joke he was setting up. The artist was endlessly amusing. But Steven had moved so far into the room that Roy couldn’t see his face, only the back of his head.
“Mikey, you should hear Roy rant on about compassion, about the poor quality of life that so many people live and shouldn’t have to, about reducing population by ninety percent to save the environment. He loves everybody. He understands their suffering. He weeps for them. And when he has a chance, he’ll blow them to kingdom come to make society a little nicer. It’s a hoot, Mikey. And they give him helicopters and limousines and all the cash he needs and flunkies with big guns in shoulder holsters. They let him run around making a better world. And this man, Mikey, I’m telling you, he’s got worms in his brain.”
Playing along with it, Roy said, “Worms in my brain, big old slimy worms in my brain.”
“See,” Steven said. “He’s a funny guy, Roy is. Only wants to be liked. Most people do like him too. Don’t they, Roy?”
Roy sensed that they were coming to the punch line. “Well, now, Steven, I don’t want to be bragging about myself—”
“See!” Steven said. “He’s a modest man too. Modest and kind and compassionate. Doesn’t everybody like you, Roy? Come on. Don’t be so bashful.”
“Well, yeah, most people like me,” Roy admitted, “but that’s because I treat everyone with respect.”
“That’s right!” Steven said. He laughed. “Roy treats everyone with the same solemn respect. Why, he’s an equal-opportunity killer. Evenhanded treatment for everyone from a presidential aide wasted in a Washington park and then made to look like a suicide…to an ordinary paraplegic shot down to spare him the daily struggle. Roy doesn’t understand that these things have to be done for
Rink? Roy didn’t want Rink or Fordyce hearing any of this, for God’s sake, seeing any of this. They were muscle, not true insiders. He turned to the door, wondering why he hadn’t heard it open — and saw that no one was there. Then he heard the scrape of the Micro Uzi against concrete as Steven Ackblom plucked it off the floor, and he knew what was happening.
Too late.
The Uzi chattered in Steven’s hands. Bullets tore into Roy. He fell, rolled, and tried to fire back. Though he was still holding the gun, he couldn’t make his finger squeeze the trigger. Paralyzed. He was paralyzed.
Over the zinging-whining ricochets, something snarled viciously: a sound out of a horror movie, echoing off the black walls with more blood-curdling effect than the bullets. For a second Roy couldn’t understand what it was, where it was coming from. He almost thought that it was Grant because of the fury in the scarred man’s face, but then he saw the beast exploding through the air toward Steven. The artist tried to swing around, away from Roy, and cut down the attack dog. But the hellish thing was already on him, driving him backward into the wall. It tore at his hands. He dropped the Uzi. Then it was climbing him, snapping at his face, at his throat.
Steven was screaming.
