Germ

forty

'It wasn't him.' Allen was leaning close to her, his hand on her shoulder. Already they were drawing stares.

'You know it was.' But how? She had not seen a bruise or cut or bullet wound.

He echoed her thoughts: 'How can that be?'

'I don't know. I just—don't know.' Her mind poked at possibilities, but none of them made any sense. 'We have to get Stephen out of there.' She pulled out her mobile phone, flipped it open, and dialed 411.

'I thought we didn't want to use cell phones.'

'They already know where we are.' She recited the name of the bank. Ten seconds later, a computer voice informed her it was making the connection at no additional charge.

Allen said, 'He might follow Stephen into the bathroom. Or the way these guys are, just go after him right in the lobby.'

'I know, Allen. Shut up a second.'

The receptionist inside the bank answered. Julia made her voice low and gravelly. 'There's a bomb inside the building. In two minutes, you're soup.' She flipped the phone shut. Two minutes would not give the bank manager time to consider his options.

'Soup?' Allen asked.

'Nice image, huh? If you were that receptionist, think you'd be giving the manager an earful about evacuating the building?'

'I'd probably just leave.'

She looked at him. If he was joking, he showed no sign of it.

'Let's hope she's cut from a different bolt.'

She hoisted the gym bag to her side, pulling the strap over her head to cross her body like a bandolier. She didn't want to lose it if things got crazy. They walked around the tables in front of them and stepped over the railing. She hoped Stephen would pile out with the crowd and beeline it for them. She'd lead them around the corner to her car, staving off the killer with her pistol, if necessary.

The bank doors swung open, and a nicely dressed woman shot out at the head of a massive knot of people. They pushed and shoved and exploded from the narrow doorway, spilling into the street. Cars braked and stopped. Somehow, the word had spread to the three-story building's upper floors; Julia could see bodies moving quickly out of the front-facing offices.

'Yell at him when he comes out,' she said. 'Tell him to run, just run. Anywhere.'

She stepped off the curb. She was considering going into the bank. A movement in a second-floor window caught her eye.

It was Stephen.

He was looking through the closed window at the insanity on the sidewalk below, then he raised his head, searching for Allen and Julia. She waved her arms. He spotted her and shrugged.

Come on! she motioned.

He nodded and pushed up on the frame. It wouldn't budge. He leaned over and made a hammering gesture. Someone had nailed the windows shut, probably upon retrofitting the building with central air. He tried again. She could see his face contort. With a crack she could hear from across the street, the window frame splintered and the glass panel rose six inches . . . Another heave and it opened to a foot . . . then another two—enough for him to climb through.

She ran to the street's center line, sensing Allen behind her. Cars had stopped in both directions as bank customers and office workers milled about on the far side of the street. Heat radiated from the blacktop. Beads of perspiration sprang out on her forehead, her upper lip.

'Get out now!' she yelled.

The crowd, noticing the big man somehow stuck in the doomed building, joined in. Shouts rang out: 'Come on, man!' 'Get out!' 'Jump!'

But the second floor was too high above the concrete pavement.

'He's in the bank, Stephen!' Allen called. 'The killer!'

Stephen's face changed from confusion to concern. He began assessing his options. He eyed the arching fabric canopy jutting out from an expensive perfume shop next door.

'Hang from the ledge! Hang and fall! Now, Stephen, now!'

He nodded and immediately swung his leg through the opening. The crowd roared its approval. Crouching on the ledge, facing the window, he assessed the distance down, scanned the edge for handholds. His right hand clutched an envelope. He began to lower himself from the ledge when a shadow flashed in the room behind him. Wood and glass exploded over him. A fist shot out, grabbing hold of the hair on top of his head. Stephen jerked his head around, tethered to the fist. He wrenched his head back hard and lunged away from the window as far as his arms would stretch. A black arm and fist came out of the window, missing his face by inches.

Julia pulled in her breath. The fist bore hard spikes in the black knuckles—the killer was wearing the gauntlet she had retrieved from her mangled dashboard. Her hand dropped down to the gym bag hanging at her side. Through its nylon walls, she felt it, solid as a fossilized arm.

Another gauntlet!

This assailant was not merely similar to the one she'd seen killed; he was precisely the same.

She drew her pistol and watched as Stephen kicked off of the building, flying backward.

forty-one

The gauntlet had not missed Stephen's face. He felt it nick his brow. Warm liquid stung his eye. The black fist retreated, pistoning back for another strike. If the assailant leaned out, the fist would reach his head.

Stephen released his grasp on the window frame, focused all his strength into his legs, and pushed out, cranking his body sideways as he did. The arm crashed through the remaining glass, reaching for him. Pellets of glass hit his face, flew past him. The attacker's head and shoulders leaned out of the window. He had chiseled features, a twisted mouth, blazing green eyes behind nerdy glasses.

Stephen hit the canopy with a great wbup! His left shoulder caught a rib of the iron frame; the awning buckled, following the downward momentum of his body. Pain flashed up his side into his jaw. Maroon canvas enveloped him, closing out the sky above. He slammed to a stop. He thought he'd hit the pavement, then realized he was cradled in a hammock of fabric, rocking slowly. He scrambled to break free, probing for the ground with his foot. He found it, not far away, and spilled out onto it. His shoulder radiated lightning bolts of pain, and his arm felt numb to the elbow. He realized he was still holding the envelope of cash. He shoved it into his back pocket.

In the street to his left, Julia crouched in a target-shooting stance, holding her pistol in both hands and pointing it, lock-armed, at the window above. Stephen turned to look, saw nothing.

'This way!' Julia yelled, pointing in a direction that would cause him to cross in front of the bank. Her eyes never left the shattered window.

He hesitated, puzzled. She had approached the cafe from the opposite direction. Then it came to him: the crowd he'd only half noticed from the window had grown exponentially in the brief time it took him to make it down to the street. Gawking people stood at least ten deep in a wide semicircle, of which the bank was the epicenter. But no one dared to approach the area in front of the bank or the sidewalk for thirty yards on either side; Julia had chosen the path of least resistance.

Allen darted past her, toward the end of the block. That was enough to prompt Stephen to run as well. Julia moved sideways fast, keeping the gun poised at the window. She joined Stephen on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the bank from the canopied store.

The crowd made a sharp sound as if they were catching their breath all at the same time, apparently seeing something that was out of Stephen's view.

Another window above him erupted.

As the first fragments of debris struck his head, Stephen grabbed Julia's arm, pitching her forward, away from the destruction.