Through the door, I could hear vague, hurried movement: metal moving against metal, a zipper sliding down, then up again. The grunt of breath being exhaled. I inched my way toward the door, put my back against the wall, and peered through the doorframe.
The space beyond the doorway was completely vacant; even before the quake, all the interior drywalls had been knocked down, leaving open a large, empty room bordered only by the outer walls. Sullen midday sunlight, flecked with dust motes, streamed through the windows and the gaping hole in the ceiling where the roof had partially collapsed, leaving broken pipes, brick, and mortar strewn across the dirty tile floor.
On the opposite side of the room, the killer was packing up the tools of his trade.
He was nobody I recognized. In fact, he looked like nobody anyone would ever recognize. Average height, medium build, late thirties or early forties, wearing a beige workman’s jumpsuit. A wireless radio headset hung around his neck. Sunlight reflected dully off a receding hairline, which had already left him half bald, and the wire- rimmed glasses on his plain face. People talk about the banality of evil; I was looking right at it. This dude could have been a janitor, an electrician, an exterminator cruising for rats … anything but a professional assassin.
He moved quickly as he dismantled his weapon: a small compressed-gas tank, a contraption that looked like a compact piston-driven pump, a pair of storage batteries attached by slender cables to a long, cumbersome instrument that vaguely resembled a World War II vintage bazooka, itself mounted on a tripod with an infrared telescopic sight above its barrel. All of it was being stripped down and loaded into a two-wheeled golf caddie.
You think “laser rifle” and the first thing you imagine is something from a late-show SF movie-small, sleek, no larger than an AK-47-but this thing resembled nothing more or less than an industrial welding rig from Chevy Dick’s garage.
Never mind that now. His back was turned to me. His target was gone, and he only wanted to get out of here while the getting was good. Man, was he in for a surprise.
He had disconnected one of the batteries and had bent over the caddie to shove it in place when I moved through the doorway as quietly as I could, carefully stepping around the broken stuff littering the floor, the rebar grasped in both hands. I paused as he stood up and turned toward the laser itself, pulling an electric screwdriver from the back pocket of his jumpsuit. He fitted it into the base of the tripod; there was a thin mechanical whine as his thumb pressed against the button.
I took a deep breath, hefted the rebar in my hands, and then I charged across the room toward him.
Halfway across the room, my boots stamped through some debris. His head snapped up at the sound; he dropped the screwdriver and began to twist around, his right hand whipping for the front breast pocket of his jumpsuit as he turned toward the figure hurtling at him.
I screamed at the top of my lungs as I hauled the iron bar above my head. The.45 automatic was out of his pocket, but he didn’t have a chance to aim before I swung the rebar.
It slammed straight across his chest and lifted him off his feet; the gun sailed out of his hand, hitting the floor ten feet away from where his ass landed.
He lashed out at me with his right leg, catching me on the side of my left ankle. I yelped and danced away; he rolled over and began to scramble toward his gun.
“Fuck you!” I yelled as I raised the slender iron bar again and brought it straight like an ax against the back of his right arm.
He screamed at the same instant as I heard the dry snap of his elbow being shattered. He clutched at his arm as he rolled over on his back, losing his glasses as he howled in agony.
“I said, ‘Fuck you!’” I yelled again as I raised the bar and swung it down square between his legs.
His scream could have shattered a wineglass. A dark blotch spread against his pulverized groin as he grabbed at it. I didn’t care. “Didn’t you hear me, asshole?” I snarled. “Are you deaf? I said, ‘Fuck you!’”
I swung the rebar down across his right knee. The breaking of bone and cartilage, like fine porcelain shattering beneath a hammer, trembled through the bar into my hands.
God help me, but I loved it.
He howled as tears streamed from his eyes, his face turning stark red. I bent over him, savoring his agony, the high animalistic keening of his voice.
“Still can’t hear you, cocksucker!” I bellowed at him, then I stood up and lifted the iron bar above my head again. “I said-”
“I hear you!” he gasped, his voice ragged and hoarse. “I hear you! Please don’t …”
I saw John’s face. I saw Beryl Hinckley’s face. I saw Jamie’s face, even though this scumbucket had had nothing to do with his death. I wanted to beat this nameless bastard to death … but before that, I wanted answers to a lot of questions.
“Where are you from?” I shouted. “Who sent you?”
His face crawled. “Ehh … ehhh …”
“Tell me, you dick! Tell me who sent you or I swear to God you’ll never walk again!”
His chest was rising and falling as if he had just run a ten-mile race. In another minute, he’d go into shock and I’d lose him …
“Speak up, you piece of shit!” I showed him the jagged edge of the rebar, holding it just above his face, and let his imagination do the rest. “Talk to me!”
“ERA!” he cried out. “I’m working for ERA!”
No surprise there. Still holding the rod over his head, I yanked Joker out of my pocket, thumbed it into Audio Record, and held it over him. “Who at ERA sent you?” I demanded, even though I already knew. “Tell me his name! Why did he-”
“Drop it, Rosen!”
Mike Farrentino was standing just inside the door, book-ended by two uniformed officers. The cops were crouched, their revolvers cupped between their hands and aimed straight at me, but Farrentino’s hands were shoved in his pockets.
“Get away from him, Gerry,” he said evenly. “Just let go and-”
“Aw, cut it out, Mike.” I pulled the rebar away from the sniper’s face and let it drop from my hands; it hit the floor with a dull clang. I raised my arms and backed away from the man on the floor. As quickly as it had come, my rage dissipated. “He’s the guy you want, not me. I just-”
“Shut up, Gerry.” Farrentino walked farther into the room. “Simmons, look after the man on the floor. Conklin, make sure Mr. Rosen isn’t carrying anything he shouldn’t be.”
The two cops stood up. Their guns still in hand, they quickly crossed the room. I kept my hands in the air while Conklin patted me down and removed Joker from my right hand. “He’s clean, Lieutenant,” he said as he holstered his pistol and held out my PT to the detective. “That’s all he’s got on him.”
“This guy’s in bad shape, sir.” Simmons was kneeling next to the man on the floor, checking his pulse. “He’s still conscious, but he’s got a broken arm, a busted leg, some hemorrhaging in the testicle area.” He paused, then added, “Gun on the floor over there.”
Farrentino walked over to the gun and knelt down beside it, being careful not to touch it. “Get another ambulance crew up here pronto,” he said to no one in particular, “and collect this piece as evidence. Bag it and have it taken downtown to the lab … dust-up, serial number and registration check, the works.”
Simmons nodded his head, then looked down at the man on the floor. The headset was lying next to his head; he picked it up and held it next to his ear, then looked up at the lieutenant. “Just static,” he said, “but it must have been active.”
“Bag it,” Farrentino said. “Take it downtown.”
“What about this one?” Conklin asked, still standing beside me. “Want me to bring ’im downtown?”
“Before you start reading me the card, Mike,” I said, “you might want to check out that rig over there. That’s the laser rifle you guys have been looking for. This dude’s the one who killed three people so far.”
Farrentino glanced at the man, then stood up and walked over to study the partially disassembled laser more closely, again being careful not to lay his hands on anything. He gave it the once-over, then grunted and looked back at me. “And I guess you’re going to tell me that you found this character up here and worked him over before you thought he was going to shoot you next. Right?”
I lowered my arms to my sides. “No thinking about it, Lieutenant. He shot Beryl Hinckley-that’s the woman down there in the plaza-while we were crossing the street together. He tried to shoot me next, but the courthouse
