Fegan looked back to the doorway and the darkness beyond. The breathing drew closer, its urgency growing. He stepped quietly towards the sound, the Walther between him and the shadows.
A stair creaked. The breathing faltered, then came back, quicker than before. Fegan heard the hiss of fabric against wallpaper, someone sliding along the wall.
Steady.
A man’s high, nasal whine. Terror.
Fegan stepped closer, shifting his weight slowly on the ancient floorboards. He kept the Walther drawn at waist level, in case they came in low. Closer. He could almost reach out and touch the door frame now. The breathing grew faster and faster, harder and harder.
Then it stopped.
Quigley burst from the shadow, a small pistol locked in both hands, his eyes bulging, his face burning, his knuckles white. He cried out when he saw Fegan’s Walther aimed at his heart, but he didn’t shoot. He stood frozen, staring, his breath held in his chest. Fegan saw the fear on him; he smelled the panic. This man was no killer.
“Breathe,” Fegan said.
Quigley stared back, veins standing out on his forehead and temples. His hands quaked. They held a .22 target pistol, little more than a toy.
“Breathe or you’ll faint.”
Air exploded from him in a long, desperate hiss. He inhaled with a tremulous gasp, and let it out again in a low moan.
McGinty’s voice came from above. “Shoot him, Quigley!”
Ellen cried.
“You don’t want to die,” Fegan said.
“Just shoot him!”
“You don’t have to die,” Fegan said.
Quigley couldn’t keep the gun aimed in one direction. It danced in his hands.
McGinty’s voice was high and fractured. “For fuck’s sake shoot him!”
“It’s your choice,” Fegan said. “You can live if you want to.”
Despite its leaden weight, he raised his left hand, open. Quigley stared back, his eyes searching Fegan’s face.
“You can live if you want to. Malloy and the Bull are hurt bad. The rest are dead. McGinty’s going to die soon. You don’t have to die with him. Choose.”
Quigley’s eyes fell away and his shoulders slumped.
“Quigley?” McGinty’s voice had lost its anger. “Quigley, what’s happening?”
Quigley placed the gun in Fegan’s outstretched hand, his stare fixed on the floor.
“Go,” Fegan said, slipping the gun into his jacket pocket.
“Thank you,” Quigley said. He hurried to the kitchen door without raising his eyes.
Fegan turned back to the shadows Quigley had emerged from. A door stood slightly ajar on the other side of a hallway. Morning light crept in from somewhere. Fegan pictured the rear of the house. There was a window at the center of the upper floor.
“It must be at the top of the stairs,” Fegan said.
The woman stepped closer to the darkness. With her free arm she signalled in and upwards. Fegan edged up to the door frame.
“Quigley?”
“He’s gone,” Fegan said.
“Bastard! Fuck!”
The voice wasn’t far away. Just at the top of the stairs, it sounded like. It resonated in the narrow hallway. Fegan eyed the door on the other side.
“Don’t come up here, Gerry. I’m warning you.”
Fegan took one breath before diving sideways, his left shoulder aimed at the door across the hallway. He caught a glimpse of McGinty’s silhouette against the window, Ellen writhing in his left arm, a revolver in his right hand. The gun boomed in the narrow passageway just as Fegan’s wounded shoulder connected with the door. The bullet scorched the air above Fegan’s head. The door burst inward, and he cried out in pain as he tumbled into the room. He fell against a stack of wooden chairs, sending them crashing to the floor.
“Stay away, Gerry. Don’t make me hurt them.”
Ellen screamed and cried.
Fegan scrambled to his feet, his mind working fast. A revolver, six shots. He counted.
“He’s fired three,” he said.
The woman turned to him and nodded. Fegan held her burning gaze.
“He’s got three left.”