The expression on Before's face was no longer blank, or bored. His eyes went wide with real horror as he looked down at his hands and dust-coated belly. Then he turned his attention to the task of vigorously rubbing his left hand on his pants leg. I turned my attention to the rack of chemicals behind me. I grabbed a beaker of ether off the shelf and hurled it at the big man. The glass stopper came out of the beaker as it sailed through the air, and it hit him on the shoulder, spilling its contents over his head and body. Then I quickly ducked down as After grabbed his Glock off the table and fired at me. The bullets flew over my head, smashing the storage rack and everything on it. I was sprayed with a variety of foul-smelling chemicals; I didn't care how bad they smelled, just as long as they weren't as flammable as the ether. Keeping low so that After couldn't see me, I moved along behind the worktable, and then, in a single motion, leaped up, grabbed the single surviving Bunsen burner by its base, and hurled it at the stunned, obese, ether-soaked figure standing a few feet away. The rubber tubing connecting the burner to its gas source popped loose, but the heat at the burner's steel nozzle was sufficient to ignite the ether, and the man suddenly erupted in a plume of bluish flame that rose up and licked at the ceiling. The first sound he'd uttered since walking into the laboratory was a keening scream.
After commenced firing again, but I had already dropped back down behind the solid worktable. I headed back the way I had come, knowing that if I guessed wrong, I was dead. His Glock held a seventeen-shot magazine, and he had to be running low-but it would take only one bullet to kill me. I reached the end, peered around the corner down toward the other end, where the pile of trash Bailey had collected had started to burn. I just caught a glimpse of After's bony rear end as he sneaked around the other end of the two-table setup, looking for me. The fat man's remains were cooking in the middle of the lab floor. The air was filled with the smell of seared flesh and the acrid stench of burning chemicals, which were ablaze in tiny, flaming pools all around the room.
'Hey!'
After popped back around the end of the table, fired off another burst at the spot where my head had been. He was a bit quick on the trigger, but considering the fact that he had to get past me to get out of a room that was rapidly filling with flame and poisonous gases, I could understand his impatience.
We played a few more rounds of ring-around-the-table, with After firing every time I let him see the whites of my eyes, until I finally heard the recoil mechanism on his empty Glock click open. Then I came around my end of the table and walked toward him. He was wide-eyed and his mouth was hanging open, his gaze darting back and forth between me and the flaming corpse of his partner, as he groped inside his jacket pocket for what I presumed was an extra clip of ammunition. What he got was my foot in the face as I leaped into the air and drove the heel of my right sneaker into his larynx. He dropped the gun and sat down hard on the floor, his eyes gaping with horror as he clutched at his throat with its crushed larynx that would no longer admit air into his lungs. He stared back at me as he began to turn blue and die.
The lab itself was heavily insulated, but there was no sprinkler system because water was contraindicated for many chemical fires, and there were enough flammable chemicals in the area to keep things cooking for some time. However, the greater danger at the moment was gas, which seemed to be overpowering the heavy-duty automatic venting system that had cut in. Keeping low, I darted around the flaming, blackened mound that had been the obese gunman. I got to Bailey, who had managed to pull himself to his feet by grabbing the edge of the table next to which he had fallen. He was standing on one foot, gasping for breath. I grabbed hold of his belt, and with him hanging over me we managed to hobble together to the delivery door and out of the lab. I eased him down onto the gravel driveway, then took his right hand and pressed his thumb down on a pressure point just above the bleeding bullet wound in his thigh.
'Just keep pressing here, Bailey,' I said. 'Don't pass out. I'll be right back.'
'Mongo, you can't go back in there! The gases-!'
But I had already bounded back up the steps to the delivery door. I sucked in a deep breath, held it, shut my eyes, and went back in. Relying on my memory of the layout and my sense of touch, I felt my way back along the short corridor to the testing area, stopped when I felt intense heat on my face and heard the wheezy, crackling laughter of flames, almost drowning out the whir of the giant ventilation fans. Still holding my breath, I dropped down to my hands and knees and opened my left eye to a slit. Almost immediately the eye began to sting and tear, but I had seen enough to get my bearings and the lay of this flaming land. I closed my eye again and began to crawl toward what had been the mixing table, which was about fifteen feet away, to my left. When I bumped my head against the table, I put my left shoulder against it and scampered to the far end, where the prepared dosages had been swept to the floor. I put my face close to the floor, opened my right eye slightly. There, literally in front of my nose, was a residue of the light brown powder that meant life to a dozen people, and presumably one more whom I had no interest in saving. I closed the eye as it began to tear, then used both hands to sweep the floor around me, gathering up as much of the compound as I could. I scooped up what amounted to half a handful and put it into my shirt pocket. I had no idea whether the drug would now be effective; it had been 'unmixed' and contaminated by other drugs and chemicals, but I figured that what I had collected was better than nothing.
My lungs were bursting, and I knew I had only a few more seconds before I would pass out-and die. I remembered an old diver's trick I had read about, and I swallowed, allowing the tiny amount of air that had been trapped in my throat and larynx to enter my lungs. Then I got to my feet, opened my eyes, and sprinted through the flames and clouds of gas and smoke, down the narrow corridor, and out the back door. I collapsed onto my knees on the gravel, gasping for air while at the same time resisting the impulse to rub my eyes, which were both flooded with tears.
I could hear the wail of approaching police and fire sirens, and I knew I could not afford a lot of recovery time. Still gulping in great drafts of air, I got to my feet. I peered around me until I could see the blurred figure of Bailey Kramer, went over to him.
'Bailey, I've got to get out of here,' I croaked, wiping tears from my cheeks but still being careful not to touch my eyes, which were continuing to cleanse themselves quite nicely. 'You'll be all right. The bullet didn't hit an artery, and the police and firemen will be here any moment. They'll call an ambulance to get you to a hospital.'
He clutched at my sleeve. 'Mongo?! What should I tell them?!'
'The truth. Tell them everything that's happened-except about where I am, the patients with me, and the rendezvous at Rockefeller Center. They'll take you to the hospital for treatment before they start questioning you, and that will take some time. When the police do start to question you, ask to speak to Captain MacWhorter personally. He's clued in on most of what's been happening. String him out until dusk, and then you can tell him everything.'
'The killers knew about the rendezvous. There could be more of them waiting for you there.'
'There'll be a regular contingent of cops at the rink and around the plaza. I'm counting on the hunters not to know what specific individuals to look for, while I will. If there's an army of uniforms over there, I'm afraid it might scare the other patients away. I think MacWhorter will agree. If he does decide to send extra people to the rink, and he almost certainly will, tell him to make sure they're in plainclothes, and they shouldn't interfere while I'm gathering up the patients. I'd also like to see some cops at the hospital, after nightfall. I don't know when we'll be there, but we will be there. Thanks again for everything, Bailey, and I can't tell you how sorry I am for leading those two jokers to you. Talk to you later.'
'But Mongo-!'
I didn't wait to see what else Bailey had to say, because I had too much else to do and I didn't want to waste time evading questions from the police and being fussed over by paramedics. I pushed through the knot of people that had gathered at the head of the driveway, reached the sidewalk just as two police cars and a fire truck pulled up to the curb. I headed south, and, with my breathing labored and tears still streaming from my eyes, walked as fast as I could the few blocks to my brownstone. By the time I got there my eyes had stopped stinging and tearing, and I could breathe easier. I hurried through the front entrance, past the open office door. A startled Francisco looked at me and spilled his morning coffee.
'Mongo? What. .? Your eyes are all-'
'Call upstairs and tell the women to meet me up in my living room,' I said, and started up the stairway.
When I entered my apartment I found Michael, still in his pajamas, sitting stiffly in a chair by the window, staring out through a crack in the blinds. He didn't turn to greet me, and I went directly into the bathroom, where I turned on the tap and began carefully rinsing out my eyes. After a couple of minutes I looked at myself in the mirror; my eyes were still very bloodshot, but I could now see clearly, and I did not think there had been any permanent damage from the gases in the burning laboratory. When I came back out into the living room, Sharon Stephens, Margaret, and Emily were waiting for me, standing in the center of the room next to Michael's sleeping
