Lethal Expedition (Short Story) (10 page)

Hallie screamed and kicked Ely in the face with her other foot. Kicked again, dragged herself away, pulled the ice pick out.

They scrambled up at the same time. He crabbed sideways, putting himself between her and the stairs, and picked up a hammer from the workbench. An ice pick was a poor match for a hammer. She grabbed the only thing in reach: a broom.

He came at her, swinging the hammer. The safety glasses were gone—that cracking she’d heard—and she jabbed the broom’s stiff bristles at his eyes. He snatched at the broom, and she stabbed his hand with the ice pick. He screamed, let go, kept coming. He was stronger, but she was quicker, and they danced around in a flurry of hammer swings and ice-pick stabs and broom thrusts. She threw a box of nails, then flung a screwdriver at his face. The exertion was getting to him—betrayed by ravaged lungs, he was gasping for breath.

But also enraged. He threw the hammer at her head. She dodged, but it hit her left shoulder, and that whole side went numb. The broom fell out of her hand. She dropped the ice pick, grabbed a can of WD-40, and sprayed a burst through the long red straw into his face. That backed him off, so she kept spraying until the can was empty. She threw it, hit his head, but did no real damage.

Blinded briefly, Ely still managed to stay between her and the stairs. She picked up a long plumber’s snake and whipped its barbed end at his face, making him dance away. She knew that there was one chance for her, and to seize it she had to keep him moving.

Sooner than she’d foreseen, Ely bent over, hands on knees, gasping like an asthmatic. His diseased lungs could not deliver enough oxygen. Hallie picked up the hammer, fully intending to
smash his skull. But the human brain is hardwired against killing its own kind. Despite herself, she hesitated, betrayed by evolution.

It was enough. Ely lunged, tackling her around the waist. She landed on her back, and her head smacked down hard on the concrete floor. The hammer went flying. She was too stunned to fight as he straddled her and put both hands around her neck.

“Not what I planned, but dead is dead,” he gasped.

He squeezed harder, and pain faded as her mind darkened. She had been clawing at his face. Her hands fell away and lay on the floor, fingers twitching with the last impulses of life.

The front pew on the left side of the nave was reserved for the president and her family. Amica and Leanna slipped in first, then the First Husband. President Laning took her place of honor at the end of the pew, on the aisle. She had noticed a petite, very pretty, and very pregnant woman in the pew behind. The expectant mother had on a pale blue maternity suit and wore her blond hair in a prim bun. Laning turned and asked softly, “When are you due?”

The young woman blushed bright red. Then, recovering her composure and smiling shyly, she said, “Next week, Mrs. President. Ma’am.”

“Good for you. Best thing I ever did.” Laning started to turn back, then said, surprising even herself, “All this”—she touched her chest with one hand—“will end. Family never does.”

Newberry stood in the pulpit, smiling, and hyperalert Secret Service agents spoke into their lapels, heads swiveling, and a thousand chests breathed out at once. Newberry looked toward a door in the gray stone wall opposite the far end of the presidential pew. It was time for a verger to enter with the commemorative Bible. The door in the wall swung outward, and Henry Backer stood in its frame.

He knew that every eye in the cathedral was focused on
him
. For the briefest moment he closed his eyes and felt light filling his chest, coursing out through his veins to the farthest reaches of his body.
The glory of God
, he thought.
Hallowed be thy name, my heavenly Father
.

Hypoxia takes sight first, then hearing, motor control last. Hallie’s left fingers touched something small and hard. She recognized the familiar feel of a gun in her palm. Just a cheap little pocket gun that Ely must have been carrying and that had fallen from a pocket. But a gun nevertheless. She tried to cock the hammer, but her left thumb didn’t work. Ely, crushing her neck, watching the life fade from her eyes, took no notice.

She heard that deep voice:
Die before you quit
.

Drew the hammer back, pressed the barrel against Ely’s side, and pulled the trigger, expecting the sound of a gunshot. Instead there was a
whoosh!
as Ely’s WD-40–coated suit exploded in flames. He screamed, threw himself onto the concrete floor, and started rolling.

Staggering up and away, Hallie had enough mind left for two thoughts. She could let Ely burn. Probably no one would fault her. But he might well take her house with him. Not a good trade. She picked up her box of climber’s chalk and poured its contents over him, smothering the fire. Ely lay there moaning and gasping, face blistered, melted Tyvek oozing over his body.

Adrenaline took her that far, but the choking had done something. A high, shrill note sang in her ears, and her heart felt flighty and fragile. Her neck, where Ely had tried to crush it, would not turn her head. Thoughts tangled and died. She needed to do something, but remembering was like grabbing smoke.

Finally:
Call police
.

She staggered up the stairs, almost fell near the top, struggled on, and grabbed the telephone receiver, heavy as a yellow brick. She had to squint to see white numbers on gray buttons.

She pushed 9.

Aimed her forefinger at the 1, missed, tried again, got it.

Her vision blurred, clarified. She poked toward the 1 again but lost her balance and staggered to one side. It saved her life. Ely, staggering himself, only grazed her head with the hammer. He shoved her down onto her back and straddled her. She saw him raising the hammer with both hands, and she raised her own in flimsy defense. She had one last thought:

I am going to die. But I didn’t quit
.

It came like an explosion, and then there was nothing at all.

The verger’s antechamber was dark. Henry Backer, in a black cassock and framed by the lightless doorway, stood invisible to Newberry and the congregation except for his gloves. Then he stepped into the light, carrying the shining new Bible in his white hands.

He walked toward the end of the presidential pew. When he was ten steps away, he made eye contact with President Laning. She smiled, and he smiled back. Newberry, seeing this, was delighted. It was the first time she had ever seen Henry Backer smile.

In fact, he was very afraid, but he armored himself with prayer:
I bring forth a fire from the midst of thee and it shall devour thee
.

At the end of the pew, Backer turned left and approached the high altar, where Bishop Newberry stood, having descended from the pulpit. He placed the Bible on the Holy Eucharist table before her. Newberry said the prayer of blessing, made the sign of the cross over the Bible, and nodded at Backer.

When he retrieved the Bible, Backer was still smiling. Newberry noted an odd radiance in his eyes, which seemed to be looking not at her but at some bright vision only he could see. He lifted the Bible and turned toward the president.

Hallie was dreaming that Stephen Redhorse was kissing her. His scent was sharp and sweet, like cinnamon, and rich with something close to wood smoke. She came awake and realized that it was not a dream. Someone
was
kissing her. And it wasn’t Stephen Redhorse. She pushed the man away. It took a second for her blurred vision to clear.

“Agent Luciano?”

He was beet red, either from embarrassment or the effort of CPR. “You had stopped breathing,” he panted, rocking back on his haunches. Another agent, the man she had seen in the Buick, was on her other side. “Agent Scott was doing compressions,” Luciano said. She saw that Scott, too, was blushing. She tried to sit up, and Luciano eased her back down. “Stay there for a while,” he gasped. “We’ve called the paramedics.” He looked around. “What the hell happened here?”

She looked left and saw Ely lying on the kitchen floor, his head in a dark red pool. “He dead?” she croaked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I shot him,” Luciano said, going from red to white.

“It was a right shooting,” Scott said. “That hammer was on its way down. Another half second and …”

“Why … why are you here?” Hallie’s throat felt like she had a bad case of strep.

“We have a warrant for your arrest.”

“On Sunday morning?”

“The law never sleeps, Dr. Leland. And judges move at their own chosen speed. When one signs, we go.”

“That man tried to kill me.” She pointed at Ely.

“Yeah, we saw. Why?”

She started to explain, but then remembered. She sat up straight. “Can you communicate with the Secret Service?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You need to call them. Now!”

Luciano helped her stand. He patted her shoulder. “You need to take it easy, Dr. Leland. It’s obvious that—”

Something in Hallie snapped. She shoved his hands away.
“Listen to me! The president may die unless we alert the Secret Service. NOW, goddamnit!”

His eyes went vague and she knew he was looking down the long road of his career, maybe ten years done, ten to go. It could be an easy cruise to a sweet pension and a West Palm condo. Or he could embarrass the Bureau and end up chasing Eskimos in Juneau.

He looked at Agent Scott, and she could almost feel the gears clicking in their heads. Luciano’s eyes went blank. A siren, approaching. “I think the medics are here,” he said, and started to turn away.

She had one last shot. “What if President Laning dies? Can you live with that, Agent Luciano?”