Mickey Zucker Reichert
The warm, green fragrance of spring filled Al Larson's nose, a smell he had not appreciated for what seemed to him like decades; but, through the quirk of a time loop, was actually no time at all. A desperate year of combat in Vietnam haunted his memory yet did not exist in the annals of his family or the records of the United States Army. Dragged from death by a god, he subsequently spent at least a year in an elven body in a warped version of ancient Europe. Little remained from that time: just a lot of hairy recollections, his strikingly beautiful fiancée, Silme, and his best friend, Taziar Medakan the Shadow Climber.
Glad to be back in New York, as well as April of 1969, Larson savored the fresh, earthy aroma, even tainted by car exhaust. A Frisbee thunked against his skull, smacking pain through his right ear and driving him a step sideways. Unable to escape his war training, he hurled himself flat to the ground.
Taziar's not-quite German accent followed, "No fun play ambush-Frisbee when you make it so easy."
Larson clambered to his feet and turned toward the voice. Taziar peered at him from between the branches of a twisted maple. Its spattering of leaves did not conceal even his small form. He was dressed in his usual black, a habit from his days living on the brutal streets of an archaic, anti-historical Germany; though now his wardrobe consisted mostly of jeans and t-shirts. Blue eyes peered out from behind a scraggle of overlong ebony hair that well-suited the sixties style. Fine-boned and barely five feet tall, he tipped the scales at nearly a hundred pounds. He had grown to love American fast food, Ovaltine, and Milky Ways; but he remained as active as a squirrel, a tiny bundle of sinew without a visible ounce of fat.
Without a word in return, Larson headed after the Frisbee. A recent haircut kept his own blond locks in check, parted on the left and perched atop his baby-round face. Daily workouts at the gym kept him as muscular at twenty-one as in his soccer-playing teens. Deliberately active, a foot taller than his little companion, he, too, could eat as he wished without worrying about his weight—a constant consternation to his sister and fiancée.
Larson snatched up the Frisbee, then flung it at the tree in the same motion. The plastic disk flew true, smacking the branch where Taziar had crouched moments earlier. Now on the ground, the little Climber watched it rebound from the branches amid a shower of leaves and plummet in an awkward arc. Displaying the stagnant calm of a man who had never moved, he said, "Good shot."
Standing on a concrete walkway near a line of grass, Larson's nine-year-old brother, Tim, laughed.
Larson dove for the Frisbee, planning to wing it toward the kid. Taziar's small hand darted out to claim the Frisbee first, and Larson's came up empty.
Tim laughed harder.
"Very funny, Shadow." Larson planted his blue gaze on Taziar. "Now what you going to do?"
Taziar shrugged, tucking the toy under his arm. "Wait you get daydreamy again, then . . . " He slapped the heel of his empty palm against his forehead. "Smack you in head."
"You just want to give me a concussion," Larson grumped.
"You pick game."
Tim howled until he grew breathless, strangers staring at him as they passed.
Larson glanced at his doubled up brother. Sandy hair tousled around features that had finally lost their baby softness. Bell-bottom jeans flared around his ankles, hiding all but a glimpse of his filthy black and white sneakers. "Timmy's incapacitated. Why not bean him for a change?"
Warned by a faint whistle of plastic cutting air, Larson flung up an arm just in time to rescue his forehead from another attack. The Frisbee stung his inner forearm, then caromed toward Tim.
"More easy to surprise you." Taziar grinned at the boy and winked. "More fun, too."
Larson could not help smiling. He liked the camaraderie that had developed between his brother and his best friend, though he occasionally felt a twinge of jealousy. Once the sole object of Timmy's hero worship, he now had to share the limelight with the Mets, the Giants, the '76ers, and a quick, dexterous little irritation he had inflicted upon himself.
When Taziar made no move for the Frisbee, Larson headed toward it. He had taken only a step, when a pressure touched his mind. He froze. Only one person could contact him in that manner. Forced to surrender her sorceress's powers to stay in twentieth-century America, Silme still maintained her ability to touch the surface thoughts of anyone without mind barriers. Since those evolved only in worlds with magic, no one born of Larson's era had them, the very reason Frey had rescued him from a firefight in Vietnam and thrust him into the body of an elf.
Silme. Larson concentrated on his fiancée's name.
Allerum. Silme resorted to what she had called him in his elf-form, though she now knew it had come from a stammered introduction. Don't panic.
Few words could so suddenly and certainly achieve the very opposite of what they intended. Larson stiffened, the Frisbee forgotten. He cast his gaze on the blue expanse of sky, heart rate quickening to fretful pounding. Silme, what's wrong? What's happening? Is everyone all right? She, his sister, Pam, and his mother had planned to spend the day sightseeing and wedding shopping. Car accident, he guessed, wondering why cabbies seemed to feel this compulsive need to drive like maniacs. If anyone's hurt, I'll kill him.
Everyone's all right, Silme sent back, a touch of terror filling her sending. For the moment.
The Frisbee bonked hollowly against Larson's head. He barely noticed. What's going on, Silme? Tell me.
Apparently struck by the oddity of Larson's reaction, Taziar approached, Frisbee in hand. "What you do?"
Larson held up a finger, a plea for a few moments of silent truce.
We're on the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building. The first observation deck.
Larson nodded, then remembered she could not see gestures. All right. The information seemed to come far too slowly. He doubted this had anything to do with a simple fear of heights. The emotion behind the sending seemed far too urgent.
There're men.
Men?
With guns.
Larson's heart seemed to stop in mid-beat. For a moment, he hovered in a startled oblivion that precluded thought.
They won't let us leave.
Something tugged at Larson's shirt. He looked down to Tim and Taziar, the Frisbee tucked under the climber's arm. "Is it Silme?"
"It's Silme," Larson confirmed. "Big trouble." He returned to the internal conversation. Silme, we'll be right there. I'll take the details on the way.
Be careful, please, they thought in unison.
The taxi ride passed in a blur of mental communication broken only by pauses to explain the situation to Taziar and Tim.
They call themselves the Vietnam Peace Liberation Army.
A "peace" army. Too concerned to appreciate the irony, Larson pressed. What do they want?
As far as I can tell, they want the government to pull out of the war.
"They want us out of the war," Larson explained aloud, queasy from the mingled odors of stale cigarette smoke and exhaust.
"Sounds worthy," Taziar said, staring out the window at the skyscrapers zipping past.
"Worthy," Larson repeated, battling down his own memories of Vietnam. Once, flashbacks had plagued him mercilessly; and every stressful situation sent him plunging back into hellish and vivid memory. Silme and a god had reconnected the frayed and looped pathways of Larson's remembrances, returning control. He snorted. "Worthy indeed . . . if you totally ignore the fact that they're making their point by holding innocents at gun point." His own words sent him back into silent communication. Can you tell what they're planning?
I can only read surface thoughts, Silme reminded. Anything else would take magic.
Larson tried to radiate encouragement. She should be capable of extrapolating some long-term intentions from their current focus.
The leader . . . they call him Banqo.
Banqo.
In their language, that means "spiritual guide."
It sounded somewhat Spanish to Larson, though the word did not translate into anything he understood. Though a related tongue, his high school French added little. What language is that?
Made-up one, Silme sent. As far as I can tell, it only consists of a few key words. Her presence disappeared abruptly.
Alarmed, Larson chased her. Silme. Silme! "Damn it all to hell, I've lost her." Silme! He shifted wildly in his seat. Silme!!
Taziar caught Larson's arm. "Easy. What happened?"
The question seemed like moronic delay. "I lost her! I lost Silme."
Taziar's voice remained quiet and level, a starkly nonchalant contrast to Larson's desperation. "How?"
"How?" Larson repeated. "I don't know how! One moment she's there; the next she's not." Silme! Damn it, where are you? Hopeless frustration fueled his anger. He had no way to contact her and could only wait for her to come to him again, if ever.
Al. Silme's touch carried none of the desperation that had tainted Larson's since her disappearance.
Larson froze. Silme? What happened? Are you all right?
As "all right" as anyone held at gun point, I suppose.
Larson rolled his eyes. Less than a year in America, and she's already learned New Yorker sarcasm.
Unaware that Larson had reestablished contact, Taziar continued in the ancient language they had shared in the other world. "Calm down, Al. She probably has something she has to do there. Appease a zealot. Soothe another captive."
Larson raised a hand to stay Silme, though she could not appreciate the gesture. "I've got her back."
Taziar waved broadly to indicate that he had proved his point.
How many are there?
Silme addressed the ambiguous question with both answers. Three maniacs. Seventeen hostages.
That's it?
You wanted more?
Larson hurried to correct a misconception that might make him appear callous. Of course not. But I'd heard something like ten thousand visitors come every day. Pretty much all of them go to the observation deck.
There was a scramble when the guns came out. Smashed into every elevator. Rushed down the stairs. I'm guessing the gunmen stranded a couple hundred people when they disabled the elevators.
Disabled. Another surprise. Aren't there like a hundred of them?
More like sixty. Seventy, maybe. They did something on the roof that took out all of them at once, I think.
Silme's uncertainty forced Larson to remember she only read surface thoughts. He fidgeted, willing the cab faster through the milling cars. Everyone seemed in a hurry, yet they still managed to block one another from moving anywhere quickly.
Tim tugged at his brother's sleeve. "Is Mom all right?"
The question jarred Larson back to the present. It was an important point that he should have asked long ago. A warm flush of embarrassment crept over his features. Silme. Pam? My mom? How are they . . . handling this?
A lot better now that they know I'm in contact with you.
Taziar was right again . . . damn it. "Mom's fine," Larson told his little brother. "Pam and Silme, too. But we've got to do what we can to help them." Can you tell if they're capable of hurting anyone?
Silme did not reply. At first, Larson thought he had lost her again, but a trickle of discomfort seeped through their contact. She was still there.
Silme.
They shot two men they believed were security guards.
Dread stabbed through Larson's gut. He tried to hold it from his thoughts, to force a calm rationality that would show Silme he had the matter in hand when, in fact, he stood spare inches from a blithering panic. Shot, was all he trusted himself to send.
One's dead. The other's not yet, but it's only a matter of time. Remorse tainted Silme's sending. If only I still had my magic, I could heal him.
If you still had your magic, Silme, the gods would have taken you back to your world and time. You wouldn't be here to help anyone, and I'd have killed myself long ago.
Don't say that.
It's true. Larson refused to lie. I couldn't live without you, so keep yourself safe.
The cabby's gruff voice startled Larson. "This's as close we get.
Larson glanced at the street signs: Broadway and Fourth, two blocks short.
"Something's going on. Never seen a crowd like this here. Usually just a few gawking tourists—from Ioway or Idaho or some such."
Larson craned his neck. A hovering mass of humanity filled the streets, all centered on his goal. The Empire State Building towered over the crowd like a massive rocket, its antenna disappearing into the clouds.
"Thanks." He leapt from the car, leaving Taziar to pay the tab. The little man made a good living, along with Silme, with their sleight-of-hand/mind-reading act. It seemed a strange pairing, given that Taziar, with his mind barriers, was the one person whose thoughts Silme could not access. Somehow, they made it work.
Without a backward glance, Larson strode into the throng. Taziar and Tim caught up to him in a few paces. "So what's the deal?" his brother asked.
Larson softly detailed the information Silme had given him, skipping the part about the dead and dying men. It would only worry and upset Tim, and it would change nothing that Taziar did.
"Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me," Larson said mechanically as he shoved through the seething clot of people. He tried to keep his manner businesslike and his voice an authoritative monotone. Most edged aside, assuming him a professional of some kind. Some shot him dirty looks that questioned his right to progress while they remained pinned in place. A few times, he weathered shoves or elbows that barely budged his solid, weight-trained frame. No one directly challenged him, mercifully, for he would not have hesitated to deck anyone who dared to delay him.
Taziar and Tim managed to keep up, though Larson did not worry how they did so. He trusted the little climber to pace or exceed him in any endeavor that involved movement, though Taziar more often used dexterity, stealth, crawling, and climbing than the more direct and physical course Larson usually chose. Tim, apparently, simply slid into his brother's wake.
Tell me anything you can about these gunmen. Larson appreciated that the matter-of-fact, composed manner he adopted to sweep him through the crowd translated to his communication with Silme. It might soothe her to believe him in control.
Silme obliged. Their names are Bob Hendricks, that's Banqo, Steve Heston, and Mike Pevrin. They call Steve "Hyron," which to them means "soldier in the cause." Mike is "Taybar" or "adviser."
Great, a bunch of grown men with guns who think they're playing clubhouse. Have you tried to communicate with them?
Only verbally. Haven't spoken in their heads yet. Silme anticipated Larson's next question. They seem unstable.
Duh.
I don't know how they might react to an intruder in their minds. Thought I'd save it as a surprise maneuver or if things get desperate.
Good thinking. Larson tripped over someone's leg and jostled into an enormous man wearing fringed jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. He whirled, jowly face locked in a dangerous scowl, dark eyes sizing up Larson.
Reflexively, Larson curled his hands into fists and screwed his features into his best boxing face. The other man muttered something Larson could not decipher, then turned back toward the Empire State Building. Larson continued to excuse and pardon himself through the crowd.
I can't do anything more than exchange information.
Larson realized that, if the men figured out what Silme could do, they would probably kill her to protect their plans from her invasion. He tried to hide that concern from his surface thoughts. No need to further alarm Silme. You're right. Don't tip your hand until absolutely necessary.
If Silme picked up on Larson's underlying concern, she gave no hint of her knowledge. All right.
As Larson shoved his way toward the front of the crowd, he saw police hurriedly cordoning off the area with poles and yellow tape while others kept the mob at bay with shouts and gestures. Taziar caught at Larson's shirt. "Al, I'll need a distraction."
Larson quickly filled Taziar in on the rest of the conversation, then added, "What are you planning to do?"
Taziar studied the building momentarily, then retreated back into the crowd. "You don't want to know."
Larson did, but he did not get the opportunity to press. He glanced to his left, where Tim silently studied the situation. "You stay here," he told his younger brother. "Don't go anywhere with anyone unless it's the police or a member of our family."
Tim nodded. "Be careful."
It was not a promise Larson could fairly make, so he chose no reply instead. Thrusting out his chest and squaring his shoulders, he stepped over the police tape. A sudden hush fell over the crowd in his quarter.
A harried-looking policeman with sweat-plastered brown hair dangling from beneath his cap lunged for Larson, whistle blowing.
Ignoring him, Larson strode boldly toward the Broadway entrance.
"Hey," the policeman called. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"
Larson jabbed a thumb toward the tallest building in the world. "My fiancée, my mother, and my sister are in there."
Another policeman joined the first, a red-faced, heavy-set man who looked irritated to have to deal with one rabble-rouser amid a crisis and an unruly mob. "Join the club, man. Lots of people got relatives in there. We're doing everything we can."
Larson attempted to step around the larger man. "Look. There're only seventeen hostages, and three of them are my fiancée, my mother, and my sister. So, at most, there're thirteen people in the same boat as me. And your best just isn't good enough."
The red-faced man turned purple and sidestepped back into Larson's path. The other officer looked stunned. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Let's just say I served a stint in Vietnam but you won't find any record of it." For the first time, Larson tried to use the contradiction to his advantage by implying that he had served as part of a clandestine force. "You won't find any record of any kind on my fiancée. And we have a 'special' form of communication."
The larger man rolled his eyes and looped a finger near his temple.
But the smaller man ignored his comrade, clearly impressed by Larson knowing the exact count of hostages. Likely, they had discussed the Vietnamese Peace Army's demands and details by telephone and not with the press or public. "What else do you know?"
Larson recited what Silme had told him: "Bob Hendricks, Steve Heston, and Mike Pevrin."
The larger policeman shifted impatiently from foot to foot. "You're wasting time we could be spending rescuing your relatives and the others. Who do you think you are? Maxwell Smart and 99?" He made a throwaway gesture. "Get back behind the tape."
When the smaller cop returned only a blank look, Larson tried another tack. "Banqo, Hyron, and Taybar. Those were the real names of the hostage-takers and their aliases."
Now, even the heavy man's eyes widened, then narrowed suddenly in clear suspicion. "How do you . . . know that?"
En masse, the crowd went suddenly quiet and seemed to gasp in a collective breath. Knowing it probably had something to do with Taziar, Larson resisted the urge to look and draw the cops' attention, though that proved far more difficult than he expected. He dreaded the thought that the desperate kidnappers might have thrown someone from the building.
Silme's voice echoed through Larson's head. They're angry the police won't provide a helicopter.
They won't? It was a pointless question asked from distracted instinct.
They say it's too windy right now.
Wondering if this was a ruse, Larson asked, Is it?
Silme returned to sarcasm, a sure sign that she was more stressed than she was letting on to those around her, Last time I flew a helicopter . . .
Is it windy?
Well, yeah.
The conversation gained Larson nothing. He imagined a variety of air currents swept the Empire State Building at the calmest of times, but he thought he remembered talk of building a helipad on the top. Or maybe it was a dirigible mast. He shook the thought aside.
Larson looked up to find the policeman still glaring down at him, dark brows beetled. "So, how do you know so much?"
"I just told you." Growing impatient, Larson hoped Taziar had done whatever had required his stalling. "My fiancée and I—"
"I heard that," the large man growled, "and I'm not buying. How do I know you're not just another member of the gang?"
Larson could think of several ways but saw no reason to bother. Neither of them had time for it. "Look, my mother, sister, and my fiancee are up there, held at gun point. I don't have to prove anything to you."
The bigger cop glanced at his companion, who had gone silent, studying Larson intently. The look spoke of irritation and withering disdain. "Oh, you do have to prove it. You have to get past me to enter that building, and I have orders not to let anyone through."
Larson forced his tone to a deadly and serious calm. "Shoot me, if you have to. I'm going in."
Quick as a cat, Larson dodged around the larger man and strode toward the fire stairs.
The mob cheered, and Larson pretended not to hear the policeman's shouts over the tumult. The walkie-talkie on his belt blasted a strong round of static, followed by clear words: " . . . climbing the building!"
The cop scurried after Larson, who quickened his pace. He glanced upward. The sun sheened from the chrome-nickel steel mullions and into his eyes, but he could make out a small, dark shape huddled against the spandrels. Taziar.
Apparently believing the thought for her, Silme responded. What about him?
He's climbing the freaking building!
A shock of clear surprise radiated from Silme. Does he know we're eighty-six floors up?
Of course. I told him. Did you think that would discourage him? They both knew Taziar had a fatal attraction for anything anyone deemed impossible.
What if he falls?
Larson did not bother to send the obvious answer. Already, the little climber had clambered over the five-story base to the main portion of the tower, some seven floors above street level, enough to threaten life and limb, undeterred by a frantic group of policemen shouting at him through a bull horn.
"Let him go," Larson heard the smaller cop say behind him.
The larger one snarled in response. "Let him go. Let him go? Why?"
" 'Cause even if he makes it past the others, even if he makes it up the one thousand five hundred and seventy-five stairs—and I doubt it—he ain't going to be in any condition to do anything once he gets there."
"If he gets there."
The rest disappeared beneath the blather of the crowd, the shouts of the policemen, and the crackle of static and voices through radios. Larson reached the outer fire stairs, their usually locked door propped open by another pair of policemen.
Larson ran toward them.
Al! Silme's sudden return startled Larson, and he nearly fell on his face. Where are you?
Heading for the stairs.
The stairs? But there's like two thousand of them.
Great. Fifteen hundred wasn't enough. She has to throw bigger numbers at me. He shielded the thought from his sending. What do you want me to do? Make like Shadow?
Of course not. I want you to stay there and help the police. I'll send information.
Oh, yeah. That's worked great so far. Again, Larson guarded his sending.
The policemen blocked the stairwell. "No one allowed in there, sonny," one said.
Larson stopped. Too vexed to discuss the matter again, he pretended to turn away, spun completely around, and crashed a fist against one's shoulder. Impact drove the man sideways with a gasp, opening the way just long enough for Larson to dash through it. He sprinted up the stairs.
"Hey! Hey!" Their voices chased him, followed by slamming footfalls. "Hey! You can't go up there. It's dangerous. Hey!"
Larson thundered upward, paying the men no heed.
The policemen stationed every few landings had more important matters to attend than one lunatic hero wannabe attempting to defy the gravity of a greater than a thousand-foot climb. Even in his excellent athletic shape, Larson found himself panting by level ten, breathless by twenty. Oh, great, Larson. Maybe you can crawl out the top in a wheezing frenzy and demand their surrender.
The thought sparked a realization that desperate concern for his family had not allowed him to consider. How am I going to handle these crazies? Larson shook aside the thought, focusing fully on simply making it to the top. Crazy, yes; but these guys aren't dumb. He slowed his pace, continuing his climb.
Where are you? Silme sent, with a clear hint of suspicion.
Larson borrowed Taziar's line. You don't want to know.
Probably not, but I need to.
Larson did not oblige. What's happening up there?
The three are spending a lot of time together. They're not sure they believe it's too windy for helicopters.
Larson did not like the sound of that. He focussed intently on the mental conversation, attempting to use it as a distraction for his aching legs and lungs as he forced himself upward. Can you convince them?
Not without taking a big risk. Don't know how they'll react to a mind intrusion.
Can't you just make some comment about how it's so much windier today than the last few times you came?
They've demanded silence. Threatened to throw a scared young boy over the rail. Tossed an old man's wheelchair off.
Larson's heart seemed to slam against his chest, driven by worry as much as exertion. At least, they seem to be avoiding actually harming civilians. He added to himself, Except whoever on the ground got smashed by wheelchair wreckage. He did not long concern himself with the bystanders massed beyond danger by the police.
Silme's discomfort radiated clearly, even unaccompanied by words.
What?
What what? Silme sent, too innocently.
Irritable from the growing pain of his ascent, Larson refused to give quarter. You know something you're not telling me.
Many things, I'd warrant. Though a good joke at his expense, Silme took no joy from it, a clear sign that he had hit on or near the truth.
Larson kept climbing at a swift, steady pace, no longer finding policemen on the landings. What are you hiding?
I told you about the security guards.
Larson winced. He had not forgotten. Is the second one . . .
Still alive, Silme confirmed. But not conscious. She added uncomfortably, Al, they're contemplating some . . . evil things.
Air wheezed through Larson's lungs. Go on. He appreciated the ephemeral quality of their conversation. In his current state, he could not have spoken.
The security men go first, then they plan to work their way down by age.
Distracted by his body, it took Larson's mind inordinately long to grasp the meaning of Silme's description. "Go first" as in—
Thrown over the side.
My god!
One by one over a certain period of time. Until their demands are met.
My god! Larson repeated, no other words coming to mind.
They figure they're already murderers, so they have nothing to lose.
Aside from the lives of innocent people.
A sliver of fear slipped through Silme's carefully controlled facade. They feel their cause is more important.
Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Kill innocents to protest the killing of innocents. Knowing better than to seek logic in the actions of fanatical true-believers, Larson glanced at a door to discover he had reached the forty-ninth floor. He groaned. Still thirty-seven to go.
Apparently, Larson sent that last thought, because Silme replied to it. Huh?
Larson tried to reverse the sentiment. Only thirty-seven more floors.
You're climbing! I told you not to come up.
You never listen to me, either.
Silme would not be distracted. You'll be exhausted by the time you get here. How can that help?
Can't hurt. Larson deliberately avoided looking at the numbers, not wanting to know how far he had come until he had gone significantly beyond his last look.
Yes, it can hurt! It can get you killed!
Larson refused to argue the point. Have you seen Shadow?
Not yet, Silme returned. I'm peeking over when I can, but they have us closely watched. Tend to keep us bunched so they can see everyone at once.
Keep looking. Larson doubted even the Shadow Climber could make it up the outside of the Empire State Building without climbing aids, but he had to hope. His tiny companion had done many things deemed impossible, often for that very reason. Then, suddenly, something Silme had said returned to haunt him. Oldest to youngest!
Though not the words she had used, Silme caught the reference. They're telling the police their plan right now. One person every half hour until . . . oh my god! The contact abruptly cut off.
Silme. Silme!
When Larson did not get an immediate answer, he stopped the concentration. Without training like Silme's from the Dragonrank school, he could not reach her. He could only wait. He found himself staring at the number on the landing: 53. Above him, he heard voices. He slowed, moving as quietly as possible and straining to hear.
The talking stopped, but Larson could hear the occasional scrape of a shoe against concrete. Cautiously, he rounded the fifty-fourth landing and looked up to two uniformed men. Static hissed from one's belt. Cops. Confidently, with the look of a man who belonged, he continued upward.
The policemen spotted Larson and leaped to attention. Both were young, of average height and build; but the similarities ended there. One had red hair peeking from beneath his cap, while the other had no visible hair at all. The redhead sported blue eyes to his companion's brown, and a deluge of orange freckles. Both seemed in reasonably good shape, though neither seemed eager to continue the climb.
"Who are you?" the red-haired cop demanded.
Larson took advantage of the limitations of the walkie-talkies. If they could carry this far, these men would have known him, like the others. "Al Larson. Special team, FBI."
Both men looked him over top to bottom. "Got a badge?" the second asked.
"Yes," Larson lied. "But not the time to show it." He added harshly, "again." With the air of someone in authority and a hurry, he pushed past them and jogged up the stairs.
Larson heard the words "arrogant jerk" behind him but did not bother to slow. He wanted them to believe that he had demonstrated his bona fides to those lower down the stairway, the most likely way to explain his presence here and now.
Apparently, the ruse worked because he heard no signs of pursuit. That or they're too tired or lazy to follow me. The reason did not matter. The increase in speed dragged agony through Larson's legs, but he scurried upward until he had gone high enough that the others would not notice a change in pace.
Air rasped through Larson's lungs, raw agony; and the close stuffiness seemed suffocating. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Silme appeared in his head. Al, they've dropped the security guards!
What? Larson's reply was startled from him, without thought. Even if the method of communication allowed for mishearing, he did not want her to repeat that particular information. Both at once?
They think it shows the police they mean business.
As opposed to shoving just one guy off the Empire State Building.
One was already dead.
The cops and the crowd didn't know that. Larson quickened his pace, though his legs felt as if he had bolted bowling balls to his thighs, and he seemed to have gasped the last of the stairwell air into his lungs.
Silme's contact turned irritable. You're arguing with me? They're crazy, Al. Just get up here right away!
Oh, so now you want me up there. Larson wisely kept that to himself. I'm coming as fast as I can. I'm a decent runner but no pro, and going up isn't the same as on a track or even rugged terrain.
Silme returned nothing for several moments. Larson concentrated on steady rhythmical motion, watching the patterned marble stairs unscroll beneath his sneakers. By now, even his legs appeared to remember the design: eighteen stairs to each landing. Why not an even twenty? Larson abandoned the idle thought, glad for the 160-step reprieve.
A sudden thought brought a second, desperate wind. Silme, my mother?
Scared but fine. Like the rest of us.
Larson was pretty sure Silme understood the deeper intent of his question. Oldest to youngest, he reminded.
Y-ess. This time, Silme surely knew, but she feigned ignorance.
Pain and the battle for breath contributed to Larson's irritability. Come on, Silme. Where does my mother fit on that spectrum?
Silme dodged the question. She's still a young woman.
Silme . . .
Don't you think you'd be happier not knowing?
Probably, Larson admitted, rounding the sixtieth landing. But tell me anyway.
Silme waited inordinately long to continue. After the guy in the wheelchair . . .
Yes. Larson deliberately injected impatience into the sending.
He looks about a thousand years old. His caretakers says he's eighty-nine, but he acts more like an infant . . .
Silme . . . Larson chastised her clear delay, then guessed, She's next. After the old man. Isn't she?
Al, just hurry.
Though Silme gave no direct answer, Larson knew he had discovered the truth. He refused to let the news paralyze him. If he did, all was lost. I'm hurrying, he said. But I'm going to need your help.
After a crossover at the sixty-fifth floor, Larson charged toward the top with nothing to stand in his way but his own human frailty. He felt like he had run for hours, lungs burning, legs aching, sweat stinging his eyes. He longed for a companion, some bunkmate with eternal stamina to challenge him when he felt like giving up. But, as he gulped scant air into his lungs, he felt thankful that his only partner chose a different route to the top. There did not seem enough air for two in the cramped, stagnant stairwell. Almost there. Almost there. Larson drove himself forward, his legs numb, moving only from habit. He looked at the number on the landing door: 84. Excitement thrilled through him, chilling the sweat that covered every part. He dragged up the stairs, buoyed by the energy that comes of impending success.
Larson nearly crashed into a pair of policemen lounging on the landing. He froze, panting savagely, unable to speak.
The men did not press. Though their breath came more easily, they seemed noticeably fatigued, their uniforms askew and their faces pink-cheeked. Relatively young and sinewy, they had clearly been chosen for their ability to make the climb. One was black, round-faced with a well-tamed afro, the other sandy blond with quick, green eyes. "What's the buzz, cuz?" one asked, a far cry from the personal challenges Larson had, thus far, received.
Larson froze, too tired to move, too wracked with nervous energy to sit. "How much..," he panted, " . . . do . . . you know?"
The black man gestured toward himself. "Name's Carter. Yours?"
Uncertain whether the man had just given his first or last name, Larson gasped out, "Al."
"Mahan," the other man said. "Jimmy Mahan." He studied Larson with a knowing wince. "Take a load off for a bit."
Larson grasped his knees, seeking the best position to gulp air into his lungs. "Can't. Got . . . to . . . move . . . fast."
Carter huffed out a laugh. "How you going to do that when you're gasping like a landed fish? Ain't doing no one no good in that state."
Larson had to agree. He lowered himself to the landing in a crouch, still too driven to fully sit. "They're . . . tossing hostages. No time . . ." My mom!
The cops exchanged glances, smiles wilting in an instant. "Tossing?" Carter repeated. "You mean over the side?"
"Eighty-six stories down," Larson confirmed, the concept, now spoken, staggering.
"Shit." Mahan wiped his brow, picked his cap up from the floor, and plastered it on his head. "What's the plan?"
Larson thought fast. Ideally, he would get one of the men to give him a gun; but he could not think of a way to request such a thing without raising ruinous suspicions. "To get up there, of course. What's blocking the way?"
Silme's presence returned in a wild flurry. Al! The old man! They're carrying him to the rail.
Mom's next. Larson knew he should feel callous about worrying more for what might happen than the fate of one at risk now, but he could not help it. The old man had lived a long life and probably had little understanding of his fate. Silme, what's blocking the stairwell door?
Which one?
Stumped by a simple and obvious question, Larson went quiet. Any . . . one he tried.
Silme did not question. They're locked.
Of course.
Two guarded by armed men—usually. If there are more, I don't know about them. Anticipating Larson's question, she added. I can only read surface thoughts, not everything they know.
"Locks, for one thing," Carter said in answer to a query Larson had forgotten in the hailstorm of his and Silme's exchange. "We've got the key, of course, but it's not much use from inside the stairwell."
Larson pursed his lips, breathing gradually coming easier, though his legs still ached. He thought of Taziar, hoping the little climber would have the sense not to rush in alone. Taziar possessed neither the ability nor the mentality to kill. Taziar. That gave Larson an idea. "Are there any windows on this floor?"
Mahan shrugged. "It's an office building. Practically made of windows." He added doubtfully, "Why?"
Larson did not even want to waste time saying "No time to explain." Instead, he charged for the heavy door, slammed in the handle, and dashed into the hallway. He charged down the high-ceilinged corridor, noticing nothing but the first office door. He turned the knob and struck it with his shoulder simultaneously. He hit solid wood frame, clearly locked, but the force of the blow shattered the opaque glass front. Shards stabbed his shoulder, and rained, further broken by the green marble floor. He sprang through the gap, dislodging the remaining, clinging pieces and crushing the glass beneath his sneakers to powder.
Eyes on the window, Larson stumbled into a desk, sending a chair careening to the floor and dashing pain through his hip. Ignoring it, he floundered through the wreckage, still unable to take his eyes from the window. Bumped and bruised, leaving a wake of askew furniture, he made it to a pane that stood more than a half-foot taller than his six-foot frame. He slammed the heels of his hands against the glass. It barely budged. Larson hammered his fists against the window, howling with rage.
Silme's voice entered Larson's head with an eerie quiet. Al, they threw him over. He's gone.
Oh god. Larson stifled the image of the old man tumbling through the air, eyes wide with terror, mouth wrenched open in scream after scream. He wondered how long the man would have to contemplate his fate before it ended with a flash of excruciating pain, then nothing. Silme, I'm coming.
Hurry, she sent, bare understatement. Please hurry.
Larson hurled himself at the safety glass, vision suddenly filled with clouds, the buildings around seeming distant and small. The glass did not give, but Larson's rational mind did. What the hell am I doing? If this breaks, I'm going down. He backed up, reassessing the situation. Seeing a latch on the window, he smacked himself in the forehead, feeling like a royal fool. Of course, they're made not to break. Can't have people accidentally falling, but no reason not to let some fresh air in now and then. Working the catch, he easily opened the window. Now what? I'm not Shadow. Larson clambered to the sill, deliberately looking only up. A downward glance might paralyze him.
Groping along the rail-like mullions, Indiana limestone, and sand-blasted spandrels, Larson discovered solid hooks placed as if for climbing. He nestled his hands into them, a million thoughts distracting him from the job ahead. If these go the length of the building, Shadow probably figures this skyscraping monstrosity for the easiest thing he's ever climbed. Larson recalled that Taziar's friends had bragged he could climb a straight pane of glass, and Larson had seem him scramble up brick buildings without a moment's hesitation. He also realized that the hooks had to serve as tie-ons for window washers and, possibly, maintenance workers.
Sunlight reflected from the steel, its glow shattering into a blinding array that forced Larson to squint. He worked his way to one of the enormous stainless steel pylons that braced the observatory tower, only one floor above him.
Al.
Larson stiffened, gouging the hooks into his hands. Don't do that!
Don't do what? It was a right and innocent question.
Larson realized that his own keyed-up terror had caused him to startle, not Silme. She had contacted him with an appropriate slow gentleness he should have appreciated. Stay with me, will you? I'm going to need you.
Sorry. I was just comforting a scared little boy. Where are you?
Larson shored up his leg and right-hand holds before groping over the observatory ledge with his left. I'm coming over the side, like Shadow. Watch for my hand. His fingers banged against cold metal. Only then, he remembered the fencing that surrounded the open-air terrace, constructed to frustrate suicides. Wait a second, he thought to himself and Silme simultaneously. How did the gunmen get the old man past the fence?
They cut a hole, Silme explained. Pushed them through. An emotion accompanied the sending like a mental shiver. Made us all look through. Let us know what's in store for us if the police don't give in to their demands soon. Then, they placed some of the more terrified ones on the phone.
Larson gripped the fence. Peace Army, indeed. Bunch of crazy sadistic bastards.
Abruptly, Larson's description sunk in. Silme's contact wafted terror. You're where?
Larson felt along the metal, defining diamond-shaped mesh that would admit the head of someone who wanted the dizzying experience of looking down. He knew from his one visit there, as a young child, that the bars curved toward the building at the top to thwart a more determined jumper from simply climbing over the security rail. I'm at the outer edge of the terrace, touching the fence. Watch for my hands. Direct me toward the hole they cut, and distract anyone who might see me.
All right, Silme returned. I'm watching for Shadow there, too; but I can't communicate with him.
Larson remembered Taziar's mind barriers. Choosing a direction at random, he worked his way along the edge, using pylons as steps. Movement proved easier than he had expected, though one wrong weight-shift would send him plunging to his death.
Al, I see you. You'll get there a lot faster if you go clockwise.
Larson repositioned, switching direction and heading back the way he had come. A trek that had seemed surprisingly simple, at first, rapidly became a discomfort. His muscles, already aching from the climb, cramped from the unnatural position; and his nerves wound them to tight coils. Wind pounded his face, threatening his grip. Granite scraped the skin from his arms, and the fencing bit into his fingers.
Almost there. Almost there. Silme's cautious pronouncement fell on welcome ears. Then, her tone changed drastically. Wait! Al, one of them's headed toward you!
Larson's heart pounded. He could imagine himself struggling to get up while a stranger tore off his hold and sent him into a long and fatal plunge, filled with evil laughter. Distract him!
I'll try. Silme's contact disappeared from Larson's mind.
Now completely disoriented, Larson made a desperate choice. He had to assume the worst, that Silme's interference would fail. He could freeze and hope the other man did not see him, but that did not suit him. A man of action, Larson found himself incapable of just remaining in place, blindly hoping a ruthless killer did not notice him. Instead, he increased his pace, the wind whipping though his ears making hearing all but impossible.
Jaggedly cut metal sliced Larson's palm, and pain shocked through him. Biting his lip, he maintained his grip, easing into position in front of the hole.
Al! Silme's presence jabbed into his mind like a hot spear. He's right at the opening!
Larson jerked his head up and found himself staring into the cold dark eyes of a killer. Shaggy black hair fell around a rugged Caucasian face a few years older than his own. He wore a V-neck shirt, a leather backpack, and a hand-hammered peace sign swinging from a gold chain. The eyes went wide with clear shock.
Push him, Silme! Feet wedged, one hand winched onto the shattered fencing, Larson wound his free fingers around one strap of the man's pack and pulled with all his considerable strength.
The man slid toward Larson, as if on a dolly. As most of his weight tipped forward, he screamed, grabbing wildly. Larson flinched. If those flailing hands caught him, they would both go tumbling. His own balance thrown backward, he seized a death grip on metal and strap. For an instant, they remained in a strange balance, hovering between life and death, while time seemed to stand still. Then, the man toppled toward oblivion, shrieking in mindless terror. The abrupt shift of weight tore free Larson's toeholds. Suddenly supporting the full mass of two, every tendon in his right arm seemed to snap at once, a stabbing explosion of burning pain. His fingers jerked open. I'm dead. The calm realization seemed savagely out of place. Then, the backpack straps slipped free. The weight of the killer disappeared. A scream swirled on the wind, and something steady clamped onto Larson's wrist, arresting his own fall. Battling rising panic, he sought and found his toeholds on the pylons.
Hold on, Silme sent. I won't let you fall.
Larson gulped down bile. He swung his left hand over the ledge, still gripping the killer's backpack. Only then he realized that he could have saved himself some serious injury if he had only let go instead of clinging to the backpack. At the time, the idea of loosing any solid grip had seemed madness. He looked up to Silme's worried features, both hands clamped around his left wrist.
Hurry, Silme sent, glancing wildly behind her.
Larson scrambled up the ledge and through the hole, the pain in his right arm a constant, screaming blessing. It reminded him he was alive. But not for long if we don't do something quickly.
Larson jerked up the pack and pawed through the contents. He found clothing, food, and spare magazines. Damn it, no gun. The irony became a burning bitterness. I nearly died for no gun. He glanced at Silme. Get back with the others. Let them know I'm on your side. To help me if they can.
Silme nodded, turning. She headed for the central gift shop.
At that moment, a huge man with long, greasy blond hair crashed through the door. "Hey!" He seized Silme by the wrist, spinning her through the door, then slammed it behind her.
Though enraged by the manhandling, Larson kept his head. He dove aside, just as the man raised a .45 automatic. Larson skittered around the loop, pressing against the gift shop wall. Then, another man burst through a door to his left, sandwiching him between them.
Shit! Surrounded, Larson tried for desperate unpredictability. He sprinted for the fence and dashed up the diamond mesh, only then noticing another man just reaching the incurving spires at the top. Shadow! Brutal realization dawned. And I just gave him away.
"Holy fuck!" the blond shouted. Ducking, he fired at the figure over Larson's head.
Blood splashed Larson's cheek. "NO!" Without thought for his own safety, he hurled himself at the shooter. He struck the blond with a force that hurled them both to the floor. A bullet ricocheted wildly, and the hostages screamed, running toward the opposite side of the store. Both men slid, crashing into the glass storefront, pain jarring through Larson's left side. He caught the man's gun-hand with his left, then slammed his aching right arm downward. He heard something crack, accompanied by a rush of pain through his strained muscles. The gun clattered to the terrace.
Shadow! Silme screamed in Larson's head.
Larson scooped up the gun, whirling. The other man fired at Taziar. The little climber dodged, then lost his footing on the fencing.
"No!" Larson shrieked, charging to save his friend, though he knew he could never arrive in time. The killer whirled on Larson, shooting. Fire tore through Larson's thigh, dropping him to a spinning crouch. He watched, helplessly, as Taziar pitched from the fencing into empty air. "No!" he screamed again. "No! No!" Rage overtook him. He trained the blond's gun on the second man, who was now hurriedly reloading. Larson pulled the trigger again and again, until the slide locked back on empty.
Al!
Nothing could stop Larson now. "Shadow!" he howled. "Shadow! NO!" Only then, he remembered the blond. The man lay unconscious by the gift shop, a horde of hostages swarming over him. Some attempted to tie him with souvenir King Kong airplanes and anything else with laces or strings. Others pelted him with metal statuettes.
Larson dropped the gun and fell to his knees. He clamped his face in his hands, his own blood warm and sticky on his cheeks. "No! No! No!" It was all my fault! If I hadn't picked that spot, they wouldn't have seen him. Shadow would still be alive.
Mrs. Larson rushed to her son, cradling him in her arms like an enormous baby. "Al." Tears dripped down her cheeks as she looked at the blood. "Al, say something." Pam knelt beside them and took Larson's aching hand.
"I'm all right, Mom," Larson croaked out, though he could not even convince himself.
Finally, Silme appeared, and she had clearly read the spirit of Larson's thoughts, if not the exact words. Stop beating yourself up. You couldn't have known he was there.
Larson wasn't so sure. Accidentally or on purpose, he had betrayed a buddy, had caused his very death. In 'Nam, he had learned to keep an eye on each and every companion, to do whatever it took to keep all of them safe. They relied on him, and he knew he could rely on them. Except, this time, he had made a mistake, and his best friend had paid with his life.
Silme's delay had, apparently, come from obtaining the key to the stairwell. Now, the police came to survey the scene, herding most of the hostages toward the safety of the stairwell.
"What happened?" Carter asked, opening the flood gates. Most of the hostages began talking at once.
Mahan made his way to Larson. "What really happened?"
Mrs. Larson answered first, hugging Larson to her, though it smeared blood onto her arms, face, and dress. "They shot my boy. Can't you see, they shot my boy."
"I'm all right," Larson said again. His arm ached, and his thigh felt like a bowling ball; but these faded beneath the terrible agony in his soul.
Carter called over the hubbub. "Mahan!"
"Yeah!"
"I'm going to take these folks down and get some backup. You okay up here?"
Mahan looked at Larson.
"Enemy's all down. Third one went over the side," Larson assured. The words ached through Larson. And Shadow, too.
"Yeah!" Mahan called back, barely missing a beat. He looked at Silme, Pam, and Mrs. Larson. "You three need to go with the others."
Mrs. Larson did not look up. "I'm not leaving my son."
Mahan looked at Pam.
"My brother," she said.
"My fiancé," Silme added before the policeman could even ask.
Mahan sighed, then clapped Larson's shoulder. "Guess I know now why you did what you did. You're not really FBI, are you?"
Larson smiled weakly. "Wouldn't tell you if I was."
Mahan laughed. "Carter'll have the paramedics up here soon. You going to make it till then?"
"I've been hurt worse."
"Really?" Mahan brushed hair from his forehead. "I better rethink that FBI question."
A voice wafted from the gift shop. "I hurt, too. Why no pretty lady hold me?"
Everyone whirled at once. Even Larson struggled to a painful stand, recognizing the voice. Shadow? It can't be!
Taziar dragged himself from the stairwell, smearing blood across the marble floor. Dirt covered every part, and scarlet splotches decorated his tattered clothing.
Silme at least managed to start the question Larson could not. "How did you . . . ? How . . . ?"
"Don't move." Mahan approached Taziar, hand raised, attention on the climber's every move. "Who are you?"
Silme brushed past the policeman to assist Taziar. "That's Taziar Medakan. He's our friend."
Pam just shook her head. "You . . . you fell off the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building! How . . . how?"
Taziar smiled weakly. "Falling off, that easy. Climb up from ground, that hard." When no one laughed, he gave the explanation they all needed. "Just fall two floor. Land on ledge. Go through open window." He threw up a hand, as if stating the obvious. "Come here."
"A miracle," Mrs. Larson breathed.
Mahan scratched his head. "Actually, been about a dozen attempted suicides before that fence got up. I don't think any of them made it all the way to the ground."
"Really?" Mrs. Larson finally pried her gaze from her son, which pleased Al Larson. He did not think he could handle another moment of her pained scrutiny.
"Believe I even remember some old fellow landing on that very same ledge as this guy here. Broke a bone or two but otherwise all right. Wind currents tend to blow everything back toward the building. Probably got a fortune in pennies on every ledge."
Larson had always believed that a coin dropped from the observatory would crush anyone or thing it hit. Now, he knew why he had never actually heard of anyone killed in such a manner despite the open eighty-sixth-floor terraces and the building's many windows.
The ping of the arriving elevator brought an unexpected rush of relief. Taziar was here, alive. The paramedics had come.
Larson closed his eyes, clutching his sister's hand, enjoying the music of a gurney rolling across the marble floor.