Amber House: Neverwas (43 page)

the rear of his waistband.

“You’re not going to set the bomb off while you’re standing

here,” Jackson said. “You don’t want to die.” He stepped in front

of me a little, partially shielding me from Jaeger, and spoke to

me without taking his eyes off the Nazi. His voice was hard and

cold. “You do what I tell you this time, Sarah.
Every
thing depends on it. You hear me?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Then RUN!”

As he said those words, he leapt on the Nazi. I ran. Behind me,

I heard the sounds of breaking glass, splintering wood. A gunshot.

The thud of a fist on flesh. The sound of feet pounding after me.

I couldn’t find the way out. The women of Amber House had me

in their grasp. The exhibit was a maze and I was trapped in it.

I looked up toward the ceiling to find a direction, to stop run-

ning in circles. I veered around this wall, around that, but kept

heading for the point in the glass web above me that I knew was

over the exit. And then there were the stairs, just ahead.

o287

“Leaving, Miss Parsons?” Jaeger was just behind me. He was

going to catch me. I made my feet go faster. I would have

screamed, but I had no breath for it.

Oh, God, oh, God
, my brain gibbered.
He is going to catch me
.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Jaeger go down as Jackson

tackled him again. I staggered up the steps, gasping, out of

breath. Behind me, Jackson and Jaeger were still struggling. I

looked back. Jaeger raised a hand, and a blade snicked into view.

He stabbed it into Jackson. I saw the crimson of blood spreading

all around the wound. The Nazi pulled his knife out and raised it

up to stab Jackson again.

“Stop!” I screamed.

Jaeger glanced up at me, and started laughing again. I stood

on the steps, gasping for breath, pointing Claire Hathaway’s gun

at him. I used both my thumbs to pull back the hammer.

“You are so amusing, my dear Miss Parsons. Your family has

such touching faith in its ridiculous heirlooms.” He got up and

started walking toward me, the bloodied knife in his hand.

I pulled the trigger. The gun leapt in my hands, gouting flame

and smoke, knocking me down.

And Jaeger staggered back, sinking to one knee, his hand

clapped to his shoulder. He brought his hand away to see; it was

covered with blood. His moan turned into a snarl as he shoved

back to his feet and started up the steps. A hole from an antique

iron ball was not enough to down the consummate Aryan spy.

But somehow, Jackson threw himself at the Nazi yet again.

“Run, Sarah,” he groaned, “now!”

I made my legs climb the stairs. Tears were clouding my vision

and I needed to see. I turned left and left again, away from the

entrance. I’d seen a case here earlier — a display of ancient

Japanese artifacts. I used the gun butt to smash the glass that

protected them, grabbed a short blade, and started back.

And was knocked against the wall by an explosion.

288 O

The hall filled with dark gray smoke. An alarm was blaring,

but I could hardly hear it over the dullness in my ears. I stumbled

back to the exhibit gate. All around me, metal paneling was clos-

ing over paintings and tapestries on the walls — fire protection.

I saw the entrance to the exhibit stairs just ahead of me. A grille

of metal bars was descending across it.

A man hurtled out beneath the dropping bars. Jaeger. He

turned back and spoke to Jackson. “I wish I had the time to kill

you slowly for that stunt, Mr. Harris — triggering my surprise

event prematurely. But perhaps none of the guests are as impor-

tant to eliminate as your little girlfriend. Yes? I promise you: I

will find her.” Then he ran off toward the entrance.

I dropped the blade. Pointless now. I reached the gate and

clung to the metal bars. At the foot of the stairs, Jackson was

struggling to rise. A large bloodstain spread across the front of

his shirt. He staggered up the steps to stand opposite me.

“What do I do? How do I get this open?”

He shook his head. “You don’t.” His voice was muffled by the

dullness of my ears, but still audible. “You have to hurry, Sare. If you don’t stick to the schedule, you’ll miss the train home. The

guards will be here soon. They’ll let me out. You have to get that

coin back to Amber House.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not
leaving
you here!”

“You’ve got to go or you won’t make it in time. I promise — I

will meet you back at Amber House.”

“No —
no
.” I was sobbing. I must have been sobbing all along, because I was gasping for air, tears spilling down my cheeks.

Jackson caught one with his fingertip, then traced his fingers down

my jaw and under my chin, gently angling my face to meet his gaze.

“Sarah, listen to me. You have to trust me now.”

“I do trust you. I do.”

“I know. Listen to me — you have to finish this, all right? See

it through to the end —”

o289

“Clear the nest,“ I said.

He smiled. Set his teeth, and nodded.

“You remember that page I asked you to memorize?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. You have to focus, Sare. That’ll get you

home, if you do it just the way I wrote it. Here.” He tied his yel-

low handkerchief around my wrist. “Take this. It’ll help.”

“Jackson —”

“I told you, you have to hurry.”

This was all wrong. I could hardly focus — the alarm seemed

to knock the sense right out of my head. “I can’t.”

“You
can
. I believe in you.”

Jackson stepped close. His presence was like an anchor. A

silent, stable place in the middle of the chaos. One hand cupped

my chin — my head pressed into the feeling of his palm, its

smooth, cool certainty. His other hand traced down my arm and

behind my waist, pulling me nearer, as near as possible with the

bars between us.

I breathed him in. My breath became his breath. Strangely, I

felt my heart slow — almost as though it were working to match

the steady rhythm of Jackson’s own. Above him, and behind,

through the glass of the atrium ceiling, the sky blossomed

golden, silver, and gleaming red. Fireworks, heralding the begin-

ning of the year to come.

“I’ve seen this moment a long time,” he said.

His lips met mine. Gently — so gently — but also fiercely.

As if this belonged to him. As if he had waited for it. As if there

was nothing in the world but that kiss. It could have lasted for-

ever and it would have ended too soon.

My first kiss.

And then —

“Go,” he pleaded. And I finally obeyed.

CH A P T ER THI RT Y-ON E

K

As I stumbled toward the doors of the museum, I repeated the

litany of instructions Jackson had written another lifetime ago.

South exit. Follow dirt path. Stay off the sidewalk. Turn right up

hill before fountain. Cross at light. One block to the subway. 12:15.

I wondered what time it was now. How many minutes, how

many seconds were left?

I switched on my flashlight and pushed out the south exit. A

new alarm started to blare. There was a cement walkway, but it

led back to the front.
Where in God’s name is the
dirt
path?

I trotted up the walk, playing my flashlight over the ivy

and bushes that bordered the cement. There was nothing — I

couldn’t find the dirt path, there wasn’t any dirt path.

Suddenly, I realized I was standing in light. I had gone so far

forward, I was within the reach of the streetlamps.

“Sarah?!”

Claire Hathaway was standing on the museum steps, staring

at me, her mouth dropped slightly open. “Richard,” she said,

turning behind her, “I think she has my gun.” She looked back at

me. “That’s my gun.” She took two steps forward. “Why do you

have my gun?”

But my attention was diverted by someone running toward

me, someone tall and blond and dressed in black.

I turned and fled back up the cement walk, shoving the damn

gun butt-first into Maggie’s bag.
Where’s that path?
A few inches of brown cut through the ivy. I gathered up my skirt and plunged

through the branches, following that rivulet of brown. My

o291

slippers chattered down the dirt slicked with snowmelt turned

to ice. Every rock jabbed up through shoe soles made for parquet

dance floors. The bushes and trees grabbed at my clothes.

I heard Jaeger crashing through the bushes after me. I made

an easy target. Flame red, with a flashlight beam shining out in

front. I went faster.

The trees came to an end. Ahead I saw a plaza with a fountain.

Right, up the hill.

I was breathing hard, and the air was too cold to be sucking it

down in such big gasps. My throat hurt, my lungs hurt. But I

kept running.
See it through.

On the far side of the plaza, the hill rose sharply under a cover

of trees and bushes. I pushed into the thick of it and switched off

my light. I would shove up in the dark. I could see light from the

street ahead. It wasn’t that far.

Behind me, shoes were pummeling the pavement. The sound

stopped. He was looking around, listening. I kept going, tried to

go faster still.

A stone wall rose above me. The top was shoulder high.
Oh,

God
, I moaned in my head. I switched on my flashlight. More light hit me from below. He was climbing through the bushes after me.

I found what I was looking for. I scrabbled to the right, under

some low branches, placed a foot in the tree, grabbed higher,

and shoved myself up. With my skirts wadded in my arm with

the flashlight, I placed my other foot higher.

He spotlighted me then, an oversize cardinal perched in a

tree. He crashed through branches, hurling himself toward me.

I pulled myself up and pulled myself up until I put one foot on

top of the wall.

A hand caught my other ankle. Without stopping to think, I

kicked back toward the hand holding me. He lost his grip; my

heel collided with flesh. Branches cracked and snapped as Jaeger

fell back through them.

292 O

I pulled, shoved, dragged myself back up onto the wall and

dropped the few feet to the sidewalk. Then I was off and running

again.

The road was full of fabulously dressed gawkers watching the

flames above the Metropolitan. The circling lights of two fire

trucks threw garish flashing shadows on the buildings around

us. I reached the corner just as the traffic light turned yellow.

I ran out anyway. The light turned red. Cars lurched forward

even though they had no place to go — the firemen had filled

the road. I wove between bumpers. As I reached the other side,

I glanced back and saw Jaeger, sliding across a car’s hood, press-

ing forward, gaining on me.

For blocks, the traffic was at a standstill, with rerouted cars

jamming the roads. The sidewalks were equally full of people

running down to Fifth Avenue to see the fire. I felt like a salmon

hitting the falls as I pushed and shoved through an oncoming

river of humanity. I was limping, and my lungs were on fire.

A hand caught my elbow; I felt myself swung around. I saw a

glint of metal. I looked up into Jaeger’s eyes. I saw satisfaction there.

His free arm was slashing toward me when it was stopped by

two little bird claw hands belonging to a man so withered and

shriveled he might have been a hundred years old. “Kelev,” he

rasped, his eyes burning. “Rotseyekh! MURDERER!”

“Unhand me, you filthy Jude,” Jaeger snarled, twisting his

knife with a move so fast I couldn’t follow it. His other hand still held my arm with fingers of iron.

I thought he would stab the little man right before my eyes,

but his thrust was intercepted by an immovable grip.

A giant stood between the German and the Jew — a black

man with a yellow kerchief in his jacket’s breast pocket. His eyes

touched briefly on the yellow fabric on my wrist. Then
his
free hand came up and slammed into the Reichsleiter’s face. I felt the

Reichsleiter’s fingers slide off my arm.

o293

“I am a diplomat!” Jaeger shouted. “An attaché!” The pitch of

his voice was rising.

“Nazi,” someone growled and I heard another blow connect.

“Murderer!” from someone else.

I backed away, rubbing my arm. Jaeger’s eyes were on me. I

saw hatred in them, and fear.

But then his face sank into the circle of backs surrounding

him. The crowd seemed to swallow him. His protests ceased.

The thuds of the blows continued. I knew that one way or the

other, he would no longer be following me.

I turned and ran on. One block more. The subway entrance

was just ahead. I rounded the end of the rail to the stairs down.

“Sarah!”

I looked back, hopeful, expecting to see Jackson.

No. Richard Hathaway. Chasing me for his mother’s gun.

I started shoving my way down the stairs. I could hear Richard

above. “Let me through!”

I pushed harder. Ahead I saw turnstiles. I kept running as I felt

around the bottom of the bag frantically.
There.