Abel Baker Charley (59 page)

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Authors: John R. Maxim

Tags: #Thriller

BOOK: Abel Baker Charley
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Abel threw Gorby aside. He seemed confused by the
number of men. The old one. Where was the old one? Bi
aggi, his face white with fear, fumbled another dart into the
gun chamber and fired. Abel slapped it away with the blade
of his ax.
Duncan Peck was near Harrigan now. Peck glanced at
him, his exhausted enemy, his face bright with excitement.
If he saw the gun in Harrigan's hand, he ignored it. “Look at
him,” he whispered. He cast his eyes about the Hall of
Armor as if looking for a greater audience with whom to
share what he was seeing. He saw Sonnenberg, slumped
against a wall, glaring at him through hooded eyes. “Look at
him, Ivor. He's magnificent.”
Abel turned at the voice, reeling, barely balanced. He swiped once more at the men, who danced out of reach, awaiting the drug's effect. Abel almost fell. Recovering, he staggered toward Duncan Peck. He's had it, Harrigan was
sure. Even Duncan Peck's fear seemed to wash away under
a shine of excitement. A look of clinical interest on his face,
he raised his CN aerosol and released a ten-foot stream.
Abel blinked and shook his head, reacting no more than that to the chemical burn at his eyes. A fifth dart struck his back.
Abel flailed the ax wildly. Burleson stepped under it and
into the Hall of Armor, kicking the useless gun from Harri
gan's hand in his stride and sweeping the room with one turn
of his head. His mind photographed Peterson, his one good arm shoving the dazed actress forward and then dragging a
small figure from beneath a stuffed horse.
Abel saw Duncan Peck now and lunged drunkenly
toward him. Burleson leaped. A flying kick glanced off the
side of Abel's head. His hand snaked to the knot of
Burleson's necktie and caught him in midflight. Burleson's
cheeks swelled red and his eyes went wide. From arm's
length, Abel brought that florid face closer and peered into
it, trying to focus through eyes that would not function. Strangling, Burleson punched at Abel's face. Vicious karate
blows above and beneath the feathers of the dart still lodged
in his cheek. Abel shook them off. He seemed to
realize that
this was not the man he wanted. He swung Burleson to one side and let him fall.
“Bring her,” Peck shouted. “Bring the daughter.”
Abel's head whipped toward his voice. Peck backed
away, first dangerously close to Connor Harrigan, then quickly shifting his direction. His back struck something
soft but firm. Marcus Sonnenberg had struggled to his feet
and moved unnoticed into Duncan Peck's path, blocking
Peck's retreat with his body.
Before Peck could react, Abel was upon him. His fingers
gathered Peck's lapels and lifted him, bending him back
ward over a display of pommeled daggers. Abel raised the
war ax and grinned again.
“Daddy!” Tina called. She too was trying to focus on the
man who seemed to be her father. Peterson knocked Tanner
Burke aside and placed his muzzle against Tina's head.
“Don't make me kill her,” he barked. “Let him go or she
dies.”
Abel snapped his head toward the voices and the small,
stumbling figure being propelled toward him by Peterson's knee. The sudden motion of his head made him reel, but still
the ax stayed poised.
“Baker,” Peck sputtered. “It's your daughter. Your little
girl. They'll shoot her if you hurt me.”
Biaggi had entered the hall cautiously. Seeing Harrigan
unarmed, he jigged to an angle that would give him a maim
ing shot at Abel's raised elbow, then cursed as a recovered Burleson leaped into his line of fire. Burleson dove at the raised ax, wrapping his full weight over Abel's weakening
arm.
Peck saw the ax quiver and start to sink, first away from
him and then out of sight behind Abel's shoulder. Good
man, Edward. Such a very good man. Abel's eyes were glaz
ing over. The hand gripping Peck's chest trembled and
seemed to slip a bit. He was going now, Peck knew, from the effects of drugs that would have left three ordinary men un
conscious by now. Fantastic. But Peck knew what was really
stopping this Chimera. The daughter. Chimera or no, he was
still a father who would not risk harm to his daughter. She's
everything to him. She's what brought him here. She's why we have him now. We'll keep her, he decided, his mind rac
ing with hysterical clarity. I'll tell Michael. The daughter
can live. She must be kept alive to control this one. But only for that purpose. And only the daughter. Not these others.
Not Ivor. Surely not Harrigan or the girl.
Baker. Baker understood this, Peck saw. The glazed and distant eyes were staring back at him. Nodding now. Except
there was the smile. The smile was back. Why was he smil
ing?
”I have no daughter.” Abel hissed the words almost pa
tiently, his tone that of a man explaining a misunderstand
ing. “The child is Baker's daughter.” The grin widened. Peck
heard a woman scream. He saw Baker's shoulder roll and
twist once more and the ax rose up again. Duncan Peck
shrieked. Past Baker's shoulder he saw the ax, now running with blood, and he saw Burleson's face where the long sharp
spike should have been. He was impaled there. Peck wailed
in despair at the sight of Burleson's dead eyes staring back
at him. One eye moved, then bulged to the side. A gleaming piece of steel slowly pushed its way out of the socket behind
it. Kill him! Peck screeched in his mind. Why don't they kill
him? Michael? Where are you? Douglas? Never mind what
I ordered. Shoot! Shoot, for the love of Christ! Don't let him
do this to me!
Peterson wanted to fire. He wanted to lift his gun from
Tina's head and blow that grinning maniac away, but he wa
vered. The actress had moved close. She'd go for his arm, he
was sure. And then Harrigan, down but still dangerous,
would be on him. Biaggi too was frozen, his line of fire
blocked by Burleson's gibbeted body. The only clear angle
would bring him too within Harrigan's reach.
Peck was fainting. But through a gathering white haze he
felt a sudden stiffening of the arm holding him. As if shot.
Yes, shot, his brain cried out in hope. Biaggi must have shot
him. Good, good man. Now he saw pain in Baker's eyes.
Anguish. The mouth still grinned cruelly, but the eyes were pleading, wincing, disbelieving. The grin faded and the lips moved. Trying to form words. A great breath . . .
“No!”
Abel roared into the face of Duncan Peck.
“No,
Baker! The darts. You can 't live with the darts, Bayykkerrr! ”
The shout, the desperate plea, shocked Peck out of his
swoon. Baker's face! The face was almost melting. Burle
son's devastated face fell slowly away, slipping off the war ax with a sucking sound and folding to the floor. Peck felt his own body slip. The grip was easing. The face Peck saw
was softer now. Soft and sad. Jared Baker slid weakly to his
knees.
Baker knew at once he'd made a mistake. But there was no
real choice he could live with. He'd stopped Abel from
killing again. He had to. Maybe he could make Tina believe
that Burleson had caused his own death by leaping on the ax.
Maybe Tanner Burke too. But there would have been no ex
plaining what they would have seen Abel do next. Abel
would have cleaved the face of Duncan Peck in half. Baker
had to stop that. He would have been shot a half-second later
by either of the two men with guns, but that was not his rea
son. He just had to stop it. But at what cost? Because now
his body was like jelly and his mind was a swirl of fog. Abel
might have been right. Maybe he couldn't live with so many
tranquilizer darts. The first two already had him stumbling.
Then Abel took . . . how many more?
He heard Sonnenberg. What was he saying? Say it out
loud, Sonnenberg. I can't hear. Charley? Yes. I know.
Charley can live. His body works so slowly. But Charley
can't help. Sonnenberg? What can Charley do?
Baker felt his body being dragged.
“Charley?”
“abe
l i
s asleep”
Charley whispered. There was a quality
of dull wonder in his voice.
“Charley, can you help me?”
“abel?”
“Never mind Abel. Charley\ you have to come out.”
“sonnenberg is calling you. sonnenberg says help him.
sonnenberg says help mrs. kreskie too. and melanie.”
”I can't Charley. I can't even help myself.”
“sonnenberg says tina can help.”
Now he could hear Tina calling him. And he knew Tan
ner was with someone. They both were. They were telling the men not to hurt him. To stop dragging him. Baker also
knew that one was dragging Connor Harrigan because he
was weak from loss of blood and he couldn't put weight on
his leg anymore. But Harrigan wasn't weak. He was pre
tending. Baker knew that. Maybe Harrigan could help. Son
nenberg? Tina can't help anybody, Sonnenberg. She can't
even if I'd let her, you son of a bitch, because of whatever
you pumped into her.
He felt the hands let go of his shoulders and his head
cracked against the marble floor. Baker barely felt it.
Through a half-opened eye he could see he was back in the
atrium. Near the steps to the bank. Baker saw Harrigan
there, slumped on the bottom step. Sonnenberg too. His face
was turned sorrowfully toward the pulpit's base, where Stan
ley lay curled in a tight ball. Tanner was behind Sonnenberg.
She was cradling Tina in her arms.
Peterson stepped through the doors of the bank from in
side, his arm splinted with slats broken off a Federal chair.
He stopped near Tina. “Hershey's handcuffed to a stair rail,”
Baker heard him say. “The woman's dead.”
Melanie. Poor Melanie.
Now Harrigan was saying something. Inside his head.
Reach out your right hand, Baker. There's a purse just by
your fingers. Feel it? There's a gun in there, lad.
I can't.
“Don't even blink, Harrigan.” It was Biaggi's voice. He
stepped toward Harrigan and reached inside his jacket. Con
nor saw the torn flesh on the back of Biaggi's hands.
“Did someone smash the cookie jar, Michael, while your
hands were in it?” Harrigan asked.
He was taunting him, Baker knew. Why?
Biaggi found what he was reaching for. He paused,
looked into Harrigan's eyes, and tore it away roughly. It was
the Walker Colt. Its hammer raked painfully across Harri
gan's ribs.
“Hey, look at this.” Biaggi smiled. “What do you think
this is, Harrigan? The OK Coral?”
Biaggi faked a fast draw from his hip, cocking the old
Colt and pointing it at Harrigan's forehead. Harrigan cleared
his throat and spat full in Biaggi's face.
Biaggi stood frozen by the insult, his eyes flaring. “That, fat man,” he said in quiet rage, “is going to cost you one set
of balls.” He lowered his aim to Connor Harrigan's groin. Harrigan threw his arms across his face.
“Connor is about to kill you, Michael.” Duncan Peck
reached for the revolver in Biaggi's hand as he spoke. Biaggi
hesitated, the force of his angry grip squeezing new blood
from his hand.
“Did it strike you as odd, Michael,” Peck asked, “that a
man would cover his face when his private parts were threat
ened?”
Biaggi, flushed, found the cylinder release and looked
down the barrel. It was plugged. The shot would have taken
his hand off.
“Excellent try, Connor.” Duncan Peck bowed slightly.
Harrigan acknowledged the compliment with a nod. Peck
took the Walker Colt from Biaggi. “For another thing,
Michael, we must learn from Connor what became of our
man Graves or of his remains. It wouldn't do to leave him
behind, credentials and all. Even then, I suggest you spare
Connor's life long enough for him to walk out to the van.
You and Douglas have enough dead weight to carry as it is.”

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