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“Shit,” she yelled.

She lunged toward it, bunching herself to dive and roll for freedom.

“Mom, no!”

We weren’t going to make it. I grabbed her arm, pulling her up short. The grate hit the ground. She sank her fingers into the mesh and tried to haul it back up.

“Dammit.”

She shook it, hot with frustration, and threw her purse to the ground. I looked around. The exit ramp, a hundred yards back at the other side of the garage, was still open. The mesh grate was just beginning to crank down, much more slowly than this one had. I pulled on Mom’s arm.

“Come on.”

“No.” She resisted. “Look.”

Out on Wilshire a horn honked. “Evan.”

It was Jesse. The truck was in the middle of the street and he was leaning out the window waving. How the hell he got there I had no idea, but the First Cavalry, the Seventh Fleet, or even the Four Freaking Horsemen of the Apocalypse couldn’t have looked more welcome.

I pointed, yelling, “The exit.”

He accelerated away, tires squealing, heading around the corner for the side street. Mom grabbed her purse and we turned and ran. Icy light and shadow slid over us. Above the elevator the security camera glared. I gave it the finger. With both hands.

At the exit ramp the grate continued cranking down. We were about eighty yards away. Ten, twelve seconds if we sprinted like crazy.

“Faster,” I said.

We closed on the ramp. I heard the truck coming. Headlights swelled, the brakes screeched, and it swerved into sight, the back end sliding around, rubber smoking off the tires.

Mom was breathing hard. “Christ, does he always drive like that?”

The truck held at the top of the ramp, blocked by one-way spikes and a sign warning of severe tire damage. Through the glare of the headlights I saw the grate coming down.

We were too far away.

“No,” Mom said. “No.”

For another second the pickup idled outside, and then Jesse gunned it down the ramp. I yanked Mom out of the way.

He hit the spikes and the tires blew. The wheel rims shrieked against the concrete, sparks jumping red, and he slammed on the brakes, skidding down, approaching the grate.

Mom gaped. “What’s he doing? He’ll never get out again.”

He knew. The truck slewed, slowing, the hood and roof sliding under the grate. The noise was ridiculous. The cargo bed slid under the grate and the truck shuddered to a stop. The grate cranked down and hit the tailgate.

And kept cranking. Metal groaned and the back end of the truck began crunching down. Mom and I ran toward it.

Jesse opened his door. “Come on.”

The grate labored down. The back end of the truck moaned under the pressure. The taillights shattered. The latches for the tailgate gave way, it sprang open, and the grate thunked down onto it and kept cranking. The front end of the truck seesawed up. The grate clunked and groaned and, with one last shriek, finally stopped.

The tailgate was bent out of shape, the shocks, tires, and rims shot. The grate had stopped a bit more than a foot off the ground. Jesse hung in the driver’s doorway.

“My insurance agent’s going to kill me,” he said.

Running to the door, I threw my arms around him. “Jesus, this is reason number ninety-nine. Are you okay?”

He braced himself to keep from sliding out of the door. “Fine.”

“I got your text. What happened? How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt. And I didn’t send you a text.”

We stared at each other. He exhaled.

“Swayze took my phone.”

“Shit.”

“And the gun.” His eyes were hot, his voice urgent. “Coyote’s here. Her truck’s parked outside the maintenance room down on level four.”

Slowly, with dread, we all looked back into the garage.

He lowered his voice. “You have to get out. Swayze used the text messages to draw you here. And she used you to draw Coyote here.”

Mom’s voice dropped to a growl. “The bitch. The lying, shit-eating bitch. She’s the one who outsourced Coyote’s killing spree, isn’t she? And now she wants to get rid of you.”

“And then maybe get rid of Coyote,” Jesse said. “All clean and quiet, here in this empty skyscraper. She may have a cleanup crew on standby, waiting to sanitize it afterward.”

We looked at the grate. There was room for us to slither under it, but there was no way to get the frame of the wheelchair out.

“I’m not leaving you,” I said.

He shook his head. “You have to get yourself and the kid the hell away from here.”

Mom raked her fingers into her hair, looking up the ramp. “If Coyote’s definitely the one who shut down the power, she may have done it so that people would evacuate. She could be waiting for you outside.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “I think she’s going to be up at Primacon.”

Faintly, through layers of concrete, we heard police sirens.

“Thank God,” I said.

Mom put a hand on my arm. “I’ll go up to the lobby and get the cops down here.”

“Not alone,” I said.

She pawed through her purse and handed me a canister of Mace. “If anybody tries to touch you, press this button. They’ll grab their eyes and shriek like little girls.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got pepper spray. And a lighter.” She peered into the bag. “And a screwdriver.”

“
Also a Nutri-Grain bar, but I wouldn’t rely on that.”

“How did you get all that on the plane?”

“Checked it on the tarmac for storage in the hold. You didn’t notice; you were too busy arguing with Eva Braun.” She squeezed my arm. “I’ll stand by the front windows and get their attention. It’s the safest way.”

She looked at Jesse. I knew what she was thinking. The cops were going to storm in with guns drawn, and they didn’t just think Jesse had trashed an apartment; they thought he was Coyote’s accomplice. One of us needed to talk to them and try to convince them he wasn’t dangerous. The LAPD wasn’t known for its bashfulness in apprehending suspects.

“When we come upstairs,” I said, “I want to see Archie and Atkins pepper-sprayed and squealing like beauty queens.”

“On the slightest pretext.”

The siren got louder. “Hurry.”

She ran to the stairwell. Jesse began snapping the wheels on the chair frame. He looked stark and sounded exhausted.

“What was that about?”

“LAPD has a warrant on you. You’d better start thinking about how you’re going to surrender yourself.”

“I was afraid that’s what you meant. How screwed am I?” He tossed his hair out of his eyes, watching my face. “Shit.”

“Don’t worry; we’ll make it go away.” I put my hand on his cheek. “You’ve also got me, and I’m a lot harder to get rid of.”

His gaze was grateful, melancholy, and deeply worried. He pulled me in and hugged me.

“Thank you for showing up,” he said.

For a moment I almost let everything go. I felt tears and grief and gratitude beginning to well. He didn’t know what had happened in China Lake, and all I wanted to do was stay wrapped in his arms and tell him. But once I started I wouldn’t be able to stop. I straightened.

“Ditto,” I said.

He pulled the chair close, boosted himself on board, and spun around, exhaling. He put the tire iron on his lap. It and the Mace weren’t the best of weapons, but better than nothing. We crossed the garage to the elevator.

His voice was quiet. “Never thought I’d say this. It’s great to be in this wheelchair.”

I hit the call button and put my hand on his shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t feel how shaky I was. The elevator hummed. The call light flicked off and the doors pinged open.

He stared. I clutched his shoulder and covered my mouth with my free hand, willing myself not to scream out loud. I had to keep the shrieking in my head.

Inside the elevator, plumes of blood were sprayed across the floor, walls, and ceiling. Collapsed on the floor, dead from a slash across the throat, lay Archie.

Breathless, I reached the top of the stairs. The door led out to the lobby. I gritted my teeth and eased it open a crack.

The lights were flickering as though damaged. It looked like lightning had broken loose inside the atrium. I crept out into shadow. If I could get past the elevator and around the corner, I’d be able to see the desk, the front windows, and the street. And please, God, let me see Mom waiting for me. My heels racked on the marble floor. I took off my shoes and padded barefoot, hearing every step, every breath.

The parking elevator dinged and the door gaped open. Archie’s exsanguinated body glistened at me. The gash through his throat looked like a red grin. I turned away. Ahead I saw only the lightning flicker. I saw no candy-colored police lights, heard no sirens.

I approached the corner. Peered around.

The lobby was empty.

The crazed lighting and streaking headlights out on the boulevard turned the scene into a sci-fi set. And—oh, no. Out at the curb sat an LAPD black-and-white. I ran across the lobby to the doors. They were still locked. I slammed a fist against one of the plate-glass windows. The cop was getting back in the car and closing the door. He couldn’t hear me. I looked around. The potted plants were all king-sized, too big to lift.

The desk. I sprinted around it and grabbed Archie’s chair.

I froze. Stuffed under the counter was the scrawny security guard, Atkins. His eyes were crossed and his lips were blue. His tongue was oozing from between them. His head lay at an angle like a sock puppet. And beyond being dead, he was undressed. His uniform shirt and pants and hat were gone; he was lying there in his briefs. Pulling the chair behind me on its casters, I ran back to the windows. The police car was still there, but now its headlights were on.

With an almighty roar I swung the chair into the air and flung it at the plate-glass window. I turned my back and shielded my face with my arms.

Thud.

The chair bounced off the glass and clattered to the marble. I gaped. There was no more than a pea-sized crack in the glass. The nonbreakable, tough-as-hell, stupid goddamned new UltraGlas. I was kicking and beating on the window, watching the patrol car signal and pull out into traffic and cruise away out of sight down Wilshire.

“No. No.”

I leaned my head against the glass, straightened, and spun around. Turning my back on this building was as stupid an act as I could imagine. I ran to the desk, leaned over, and grabbed the phone.

The receiver came free in my hand, the cord springing with it, neatly cut.

I dropped it. Thought twice and picked it up and held it like a club while I peered around the lobby and up at the mezzanine levels and walkways that ascended around the rim of the atrium.

I had to find my mother. I had to get out with her and Jesse, and I needed help right this damned second. What did I have? Mace. A telephone receiver. My wits, what was left of them. My lover, who had plenty of wits and a tire iron and wheels for feet. And there had to be other people in this freaking tower. A janitorial crew, the odd wonk who couldn’t leave his desk. Somebody who would have a working cell phone and could redial the police.

The voice of fact and necessity tinned at me, far back in my thoughts.
There’s a key to unlock the doors
.

The fire alarm. I could pull the fire alarm.
Archie had a
set of keys
. The fire alarm would get plenty of attention here, fast.

Deep down, I moaned. Even when I pulled the fire alarm, it would take five to ten minutes for an engine crew to get here. Jesse and I could slide under the garage exit grate, but once he did he’d be stuck. The fastest and safest way to get out of here was to get Archie’s keys.

Psalm 91, is that the one about not fearing the darkness of the night? Slowly, reluctantly, I tiptoed back toward the stairwell, feeling the marble cold beneath my bare feet, clutching the Mace and the phone. There would be a fire alarm by the elevator. The lights spasmed above me. I turned the corner.

Maureen Swayze was waiting for me.

I screamed and jumped and brought up the canister of Mace.

Just as quickly Swayze brought up a gun—no, something else—and I shouted, turning away, putting my arms over my head.

Pain engulfed me. Outside, inside. Electric shock. I was rigid, falling, biting my tongue. The pain was unbelievable. I hit the marble and couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Swayze grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into an elevator.

 
The walls of the elevator whirled like a fairground ride. Tears leaked from my eyes. I lay twisted on the floor with Swayze standing above me, appraising me as though I were a frog pinned to a lab tray. She held the stun gun in her hand, and she looked eager for a repeat performance. Head to toe it felt as if straight pins were sticking into me. My legs and arms were floppy clubs. My tongue was bleeding, blood running out the side of my mouth onto the floor of the elevator. The car lurched to a stop and the door pinged open. Swayze dragged me out into a half-lit hallway.

Even with the walls spinning I could tell this wasn’t the slick corporate lobby of Primacon Labs. We were on one of the building’s unfinished floors.

Concentrating, fighting for some tiny use of my body, I hung my head and spit blood on the floor. As she pulled me along I dragged my hand through the blood. It left a trail like fingerpaints. I fought, slowly bending my knees.

She stopped, dropped to one knee, and jammed the stun gun against my belly, right at my panty line.

“The Taser is a nonlethal device. Usually.” Her eyes, behind her glasses, were remote. “I’m not current on the research as to its effect on a first-trimester fetus.”

I stopped breathing. Swayze’s face lit with satisfaction.

“As I suspected.” She stood. “Get up. Crawl.”