fingerprints? Semen? What would you do?”
Laura needed to get the knife. But she’d pushed it even farther away, and her hands were cramping up even worse.
Galaz spun around and scanned the room. Frowning. “Have to burn the place down. That’s the only solution, don’t you think?” Talking more quickly now. “He shoots you, but you shoot him; he’s wounded. He’s got to cover this up though. So he pours the gas and lights a match and then tries to get out. Does that sound plausible?”
Not expecting her to answer.
“Or he’s about to pour the gas and lights it just as you shoot him—I don’t think it really matters. The important thing is the Point of Origin. It’s got to be right … here.”
He strode over to where Mickey was when he was shot. Only a couple of feet from Summer. He had been checking her shackles just before Galaz shot him.
Outside in the night, she heard a train coming, horn blaring to warn people away from the tracks. Laura looked at Summer. Fear shiny in her eyes. Watching Galaz, understanding what he was saying, that the Point of Origin would be at her feet.
Galaz looked at Summer.
“Something I’ve always wanted to do—the Joan of Arc thing. Too bad I won’t be here to see it all.” He winked at Summer and walked to the gas can, hefted it up. Held it near her, watching her face. Completely absorbed in her fear.
He looked bemused. Oblivious to Laura.
Laura said, “What about Musicman?”
Startling him out of his reverie. “Musicman?”
The train was coming.
“Weren’t you going to bring him here? To see Summer?”
“What? No.” He shrugged. “You can’t do everything.”
“But he defied you.”
Wheels ticking on the tracks, louder and louder.
“Can’t do everything,” Galaz repeated, uncertain.
The train upon them now, the rumbling shaking the room. A sweeping wall of sound, so big that for a moment it obliterated all thought. They were in the maw of sound.
The thundering in her ears. Fear pushing its way up into her throat. “Musicman wins, then” she said.
“He won’t win. He won’t get Summer now.” Galaz unscrewed the cap and sloshed some of the liquid on the floor. The smell hit Laura, the rank high smell of pure gasoline.
The thing she feared most was dying in a fire.
Summer, whimpering with fear.
Galaz produced a silver lighter from his pocket. Paused. Laura could see he was still working it out in his mind, seeing the evidence the way the fire marshal would see it, the detectives, the ME.
The sound of the train abating now, the wheels the noisiest part.
Laura curled her fingers. It hurt like hell, but fire would hurt worse. She closed her eyes and with an act of will, squeezed. The knife was in her hand. She’d have to rush him, but she could barely move.
She’d just have to aim herself at him, keeping the point of the knife to the front.
Five feet away.
She clenched her muscles even more, the pain excruciating.
Galaz’s back toward her. Splashing more gasoline on the walls, the windows.
Harnessing her adrenaline. Clamping down on muscles already stressed beyond the breaking point. Take a deep breath.
Now.
When Buddy heard the shot, he reacted immediately. Drawing his weapon, he tried the metal door, but it was locked. He stared at the windows, looking for the weakest point. The panes were fashioned of glass and wood, and in some places the wood strips were broken.
There would be no element of surprise. They’d see him coming.
Then he heard the train. He realized the tracks went right behind the warehouse. All he had to do was time it right. He doubted anyone would hear the breaking glass.
He took off his shirt and wrapped it around his gun. Picked the place where the wood had splintered, where there were stress fractures.
Waited.
The train coming, coming, the rumbling getting louder and louder until it enveloped him in an ungodly roar—
