Timmy struggled, feet kicking, but Fallows lifted him easily under one arm. Fallows turned at the door, looked back at the flames. His eyes met Eric's and for a moment, the time it takes a hummingbird in flight to change course, something like regret flashed in those cold eyes. And vanished. Back was the real Dirk Fallows, the man who'd ordered Jennifer's and Annie's deaths. Then he was gone. With Timmy.
But hanging next to Eric on the other end of the rope was the man who'd actually done the killing. Who'd slit the throat that once harmonized with waiters to sing 'Happy Birthday' to strangers in restaurants without embarrassment. Who'd snapped the neck that refused to wear anything but cheap costume jewelry until the children were in college or she became president, whichever came first.
This man must die.
Eric felt Cruz's tremendous weight shifting on the other end of the rope as he pulled himself up the rope far enough to loosen the rope around his neck. Being lighter and more agile, Eric managed to do it first, loosening the knot and slipping the noose over his head. For a moment he thought about letting go, dropping to the ground and making a run for Fallows. But the flames below were thick and blistering, covering too wide an area. Chances are he would burn before getting away. Also, if he let go of the rope, they'd both fall and he'd be fighting flames and this maniac at the same time. He didn't want to risk Timmy's life that way.
With both men free of the noose, but still dangling six feet above rising flames, there was nothing left to do but fight each other. But with one man holding on to both ends of the rope, there was a chance-a splinter of a chance-of survival.
Cruz was the first to act. His legs wrapped around the rope, holding on with one arm, he rocked toward Eric, his free hand grasping like a grappling hook. Eric knocked the hand away, but it kept coming back. The momentum of their movements caused the ropes to swing more dramatically toward each other, until they were passing within inches.
They both were fighting with their one free hand, jabbing at the throat, eyes. Trying to disable the other, but careful not to knock him off the rope, killing both of them. The heavy smoke stung their eyes, burned their nostrils. Eric was coughing, but Cruz breathed the smoke as naturally as if it were air.
They swung toward each other again, Cruz hammering Eric on the top of the head with such force that Eric's grip slipped. He dropped a few inches, the rope chewing the skin on his palms like sandpaper. But he caught the end of the rope, just as Cruz's weight started to pull it out of his hands. Eric's feet dipped into the flames below, singing his feet and legs. His pants were smoking as he quickly shinnied up the rope.
Again, Cruz swung toward him.
Neither man spoke. What was there to say? A waste of energy to threaten, posture, curse. This was business. And each man went about it silently, professionally. Like bankers.
Eric rammed his heel into Cruz's nose, crumbling it like an aluminum can. At first, the nose just shifted to one side, then the blood began to rush out of the nostrils, over lips, down the chin. Cruz didn't seem to notice. He was busy swinging his legs around Eric's back, locking his ankles in a scissors hold. He pulled Eric close enough so that he could grab his rope. Now, holding onto both ends, he squeezed his legs together, trying to make the knees meet despite Eric's spine between them. Eric felt the bones grind and shift, a pain running up both legs so intense he thought for a moment they were on fire. His fingers began to loosen around the rope, slip a few inches. A few inches more.
Still Cruz squeezed, his teeth gnashing together as he stared at Eric. He had only one thought, kill. And he would keep squeezing until it was done.
Eric's legs were numb, his breathing strained. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. His arms were leaden, too much trouble to lift. He could almost feel Cruz's knees rubbing together on either side of his spine. He heard his lower ribs crack.
With the greatest effort, Eric struggled to raise his useless arms. It was matter of seconds now; his body wouldn't be able to stay conscious much longer. And once he'd passed out, Cruz would drop into the fire below. Move! he yelled at himself. Do something. His arms lifted a few more inches. His mind reeled between light and darkness as he tried to focus.
He remembered sitting in a bar with Big Bill Tenderwolf, nursing a beer and explaining special tactics he'd learned at camp. They were called Togakure-ryu. Big Bill had stopped him halfway through the explanation with a shake of his head.
'We have a very similar technique among the Hopis.'
'What do you call it?' Eric had asked.
'Pain,' Big Bill had grinned, handing him the bar tab.
Now Eric spread his hands apart, cupping them slightly, and brought them together with a thundering slap on either side of Cruz's head over his ears. Cruz groaned in agonizing pain as his eardrums exploded, the blow having separated the anvil where it joins the stirrup, disrupting the ossicular chain, and resulting in his sudden deafness. But despite the pain, he tightened his grip on the ropes, though his legs weakened slightly. Eric used the lapse to firm his own grip on the rope and ram his head full force into Cruz's face. Cruz wavered from the impact, his broad face collapsing as bones shattered here and there. His legs went limp around Eric, though they remained hooked at the ankles. His hands slipped a few inches down the rope. Eric's head was tender from the impact, but he didn't hesitate; he rammed him again. Cruz buckled a little more, losing his grip on Eric's rope.
With hands flying one over the other, Eric scampered up the rope a few feet, out of reach of Cruz's legs, and snagged Cruz's rope. One hand gripping each rope, he coiled his legs up until his knees touched his chin, then catapulted them into Cruz's broken face.
There was a moment's pause as Cruz looked up, dazed. His nose was mashed flat against his face, his lips were torn, a bare hone protruded through the split cheek, like a white stone amidst the bloody pulp. He hung by one hand, a stubborn rag doll, refusing to die.
Eric tilted his foot up, then snapped his heel into Cruz's hand. Two knuckles cracked; he slipped on the rope an inch. But still he held on. Eric kicked the hand again. It opened.
It was a short fall for Cruz, six feet, which was a foot less than his height. But it seemed farther to Eric, maybe because of his vantage, maybe because of the silence. For a man who had so little to say in life, Cruz had nothing to add in death. He dropped to the altar, falling through the fire-weakened floor another foot to the cement base. Quickly he clawed himself to his feet, shaking off the burning wood lying across his back. He started to run toward the aisle, but it was too late. The flames, still drunk on gasoline, splashed over him like confetti, dragging him back until he was clothed in fire. Still, he made no sound, no screams, no concessions to death. His body staggered a few more feet, his hair leaped up in flames, his skin ignited, shriveled. He fell face first into the front row seats, ripping them out of the cement floor with his weight. After that, he didn't move.
Eric wrapped his legs around one end of the rope, using the other end to tie the two together. When the knot was secure, he shifted his body weight until the rope was swinging back and forth. The smell of Cruz's burnt flesh tore at his stomach. He felt the sour bile bubbling up his throat, swallowed it back. He was swinging more now, one foot in his noose like a stirrup. Wider and wider the rope swung, carrying him back and forth over the sea of flames like a pendulum ticking off the last seconds of the world.
When the rope swung far enough, high enough, he breathed out and let go of the rope. His hands shielded his face as he crashed through what was left of the stained glass window, flying through colored triangles that were either Mt. Sinai or a soaring dove. He tucked his body, twisted for the landing. Falling through space among the shards of stained glass. Falling the way he'd been taught. The way Dirk Fallows had taught him.
30.
They found him lying under a tree two hours later. His back was propped up against the trunk, his feet splayed out in front of him like a Bowery bum. He didn't move, just stared at them as they trudged slowly toward him across the flat terrain. They were moving, but through the steaming heat rising from the ground and his throbbing headache, they looked like flies preening on the carcass of a dying animal.
It took them twenty minutes from the time they spotted him until they actually reached him.
He could see the shock on their faces as they got closer, realized his condition. Their eyes traveling from head to foot, taking inventory of the damage.
