in the general direction of her hairline. “What did Marie do?” she demanded.
The children, as a group, emitted a confused sound.
“That's right,” Mrs. Brussels said. “She tried to run away. She talked to the police.” Behind me, the Mountain released a heavy, captive sigh.
“And what happens to children who talk to the police?” Mrs. Brussels said.
“They die,” said a little boy, bolder than the rest. Like the rest, he was wearing a sheet.
“Good, Jamie,” Mrs. Brussels said with horrible approval. “And is Marie dead yet?”
“No,” the children chorused. Other than Marie, the oldest couldn't have been more than twelve. They chorused their answer in a demonic imitation of group spelling exercises. Their eyes were hooded, their last defense against total madness.
“Marco,” Mrs. Brussels commanded, “finish it.”
Marco waved the bright knife in the air. The side of his mouth that was still mobile curved upward and he took a step toward Marie. Marie closed her eyes and let out a scream that would have broken the windows in the Pentagon.
Something hit me on the shoulder, pushing me into the overdeveloped triceps to my left. The Mountain broke through into the circle, scattering children and Mr. Universe contestants alike, and threw his hands around Marco's middle from behind. With an inhuman roar he snatched Marco from the floor and picked him up. Before either Bruner or Belson could do anything, the Mountain had snapped Marco right and left, a terrier with a dishrag. There was a sound like God's fingers being snapped, and Marco's spine broke.
Marco yodeled his anguish, and the Mountain dropped him on the floor like so much garbage and turned to face Belson, who tried too late to stop himself in mid-charge. As Marco twitched on the floor, the Mountain roared again, bent double, and planted his shoulder into Belson's middle with the force of an Alpine landslide. Belson barked again, but this time it wasn't a laugh. He folded in half like a paper airplane, and the Mountain picked him up by the waist and, lifting him over his head, slammed Belson's head against the concrete floor. Belson's body went all loose and floppy, and something gray and puddinglike flowed out of his head. Marco was letting out little yippy moans. The top half of his body still worked. He writhed on the floor like a rattlesnake who'd been run over in mid- spine.
“Get him,” Mrs. Brussels screamed. At the same time, a muscular arm encircled my neck. It belonged to the bozo I'd bumped against. I felt his biceps tighten as he lifted me off my feet. I could hear Mrs. Brussels screaming, a kind of atonal counterpoint to the Mountain's roars and the whimpering of the children. My air was being cut off. As spots began to appear before my eyes, I saw the Mountain put his fist all the way through the face of another of the muscle cases, breaking his neck like a wishbone, and I finally worked the gun out of my pants. Then Mrs. Brussels screamed again, and I saw that the Mountain had lifted another bodybuilder in a sumo hold, lifted him so high that the man's head struck the light hanging beneath the cone and set it swinging wildly, and I finally had the gun and I angled my hand and wrist around so I could shoot the guy with his arm around my throat, and his hold on my neck loosened and I fell to the floor with him on top of me, among the small bare feet of the children, and someone out of somewhere pried the gun from my hand, and I saw Bruner step forward and aim the shiny little automatic with both hands and blow the Mountain's brains out.
29
Bruner fired again reflexively even as the Mountain fell, and the second shot tore away most of the face of the man the Mountain had been about to kill. The two of them, the Mountain and the goon, toppled to the floor as the children scurried backward and Mrs. Brussels shrilled, as high and incoherent as a smoke alarm.
The light swayed and wobbled as it swung in a long, dizzy overhead arc, creating crazily elongated El Greco shadows that advanced and retreated, bringing alternate moments of brightness and relative dark. The children had bolted at the sound of the shot, and the goons were grabbing frantically at them. The instant the bulb swung past us and the light started to wane, I pushed the limp weight of the big man off me and scurried on my hands and knees away from the group, across the floor and toward the trucks. I'd managed to scramble under the first one before Mrs. Brussels saw me and called out, and Bruner snapped off a shot. The bullet pinged away from the concrete about two feet behind me and bounced upward before it slapped into the side of the truck.
Staying on my hands and knees, I crawled rapidly under the second truck and then under the third. Behind me I heard a confusion of voices: Bruner calling directions, children whining and keening, goons arguing. On the far side of the third truck was the large airplane door I'd seen from the street, and next to it was a gray metal light box containing six thick black switches. This was where they'd driven the trucks in and out when the place was a real warehouse, and this was where they'd turned on the lights before they brought the rigs in.
Heavy feet slapped the concrete, heading reluctantly my way. “Go, goddammit,” Bruner shouted. “Marty got his gun.”
Above me and to the left was a big transom window, a single pane of rippled glass. Below it were wooden crates- the kind they ship produce in-stacked almost six feet high. It was plausible. I measured the distance mentally, committed the picture to memory, closed my eyes for a head start, and snapped off the lights.
Shouts sounded out. I counted five and opened my eyes. The darkness was absolute, except for a rectangle of light high at the far end of the warehouse: the window of the foreman's room. On both sides of the warehouse, the footsteps came to a halt. The goon on the left shuffled indecisively. A voice I didn't recognize-possibly Marty? — called out a panicky question, and I slipped off my boot and threw it at where I thought the window would be. It hit the wall with a smacking sound and thumped down on top of one of the boxes. I'd missed. I had exactly one more chance.
“Over there,” someone said, reacting to the noise. Almost certainly Bruner. Someone else, someone closer to me, lit a match, a tiny point of light about thirty yards away. It was no help, either to him or to me. I pulled off my other boot and threw again, harder and higher this time. There was a resounding shiver of glass.
“The window,” Bruner shouted. “Marty, find those fucking lights. Pete. Get outside and see if you can catch him. Son of a
Find the lights. Of course. There would be a light box at the other end too.
The nearest truck bulked up above me, only slightly darker than the room itself. I heard the door at the far end close behind Pete and Jackie as I felt my way around the side of the truck, moving quietly in my socks and keeping my hands pressed against the hard, chilly side of the truck. After what seemed like an eternity I came to the front end of the refrigerated section, which was shaped like a squashed tube, and found the cab that towed it. I stepped up onto the running board and fumbled around for the window. It was open.
I spread my hands flat on the top of the cab for friction and managed to get my right foot high enough to put it on top of the rolled-down window. Then I heaved myself up and scrabbled across the roof of the cab to the refrigerated section. Mrs. Brussels was saying things that no lady should think, much less say aloud, as I flopped on my stomach on top of the truck.
The bulbs snapped on. They created a lot more light than I wanted.
I hugged the truck, wishing myself thinner than I was. I would have liked to be as thin as a coat of paint. “Marty, keep the kids together,” Bruner said. “Hurt anybody who moves.” His voice echoed in the empty warehouse. “The asshole could still be inside.”
“He went through the window,” Mrs. Brussels said in a voice that was elevated by adrenaline. “You heard him.”
“I heard a window break,” said Bruner, ever the cop. “You take the right. Marty, watch the kids.”
“Me?” she said ungrammatically. “Me take the right?”
“Who do you think you are, Snow White? If you see him, shoot him in the stomach.” So she was armed too.
There had been five of the muscle boys originally, plus Bruner, Marco, and Belson. The Mountain had killed Belson and another one, and put Marco out of commission, and Bruner had shot one of the muscle boys by mistake. I'd taken care of another, although I wasn't sure he was dead. That left Bruner, Jackie, Pete, and Marty. Jackie and
