Beware (10 page)

The noise of the bursting window came from a distance, from the bathroom or bedroom. Lacey broke for the door. Dropping to a crouch, she grabbed her spray can and pocket knife. She glanced back. Scott was at the hallway entrance, pistol out.

“Let’s run!” she snapped.

Scott glanced at her, frowning.

She kicked the chair. It dropped backward to the floor, and she tugged the door open.

“Come on!”

Scott whirled around and ran. He scooped up a table leg and dashed after her through the door. He jerked it shut. “Get ready. When he comes out, we’ll…”

Lacey raced up the corridor. When she reached a corner, she looked back. Scott glanced from the door to her. She motioned for him. He muttered something through his teeth, then ran to join her.

“We had a chance…”

“We’ve got a better chance if he can’t find us.” She shoved open a fire door.

They entered a dimly lighted stairwell. Scott thrust the door shut and leaned against it.

“Come on,” Lacey said. She started up the concrete stairs. “He’ll expect us to head down.”

“Where we going?”

“I don’t know.” She turned at the first landing, and started up the next flight of stairs. Above her, she saw the blue metal door to the fourth floor. She raced up, Scott close behind her, and grabbed the knob. As she pushed the door open, Scott patted her arm. He pressed his forefinger to his lips. They stood motionless, listening.

For a moment, Lacey heard nothing. Then the metallic sound of a springing latch echoed quietly up the stairwell.

Scott shoved the door hard. It flew open, and he pointed to the upper steps. The door banged against the outside wall as they turned away and leapt up the stairs three at a time. In seconds, they reached the landing. Lacey charged up the remaining stairs. Halfway to the top, she heard the lower door clump shut.

Would it fool him? If so, he would only be delayed long enough to leave the stairwell and glance down the fourth floor corridor.

Scott, slightly above her, was first to reach the door. He held it open for Lacey. She raced through. Scott eased it shut, turning the knob to prevent the latch from snapping back into place.

With a few steps, they passed an ice machine and rounded a corner. Scott stopped, looking each way.

To the right, the corridor led past the doors of only half a dozen rooms, then abruptly ended. To the left, it seemed to stretch on forever.

“This way,” Scott muttered. He ran to the left.

Past rooms. Past a fire hose and ax. Past swinging doors of staff rooms.

Lacey, sprinting to stay beside him, saw a bank of elevators ahead. “Let’s try those,” she gasped.

They ran for them. The doors of all four elevators were shut. Scott threw himself against the nearest panel and jammed fingers into both buttons. Double disks of light appeared between each of the door sets: one with an arrow pointing up, the other down.

Lacey pressed herself to the wall beside him. Craning her neck, she gazed at the dark arrows above the doors. She gasped for air. The spray can and knife were slippery in her hands. She could feel the vibrations of the elevators against her back, hear the distant, quiet bells as they stopped at other floors. She looked up the corridor, squinting as if that might help her see the man’s approach, then glanced again at the arrows above her. They stayed dark.

“This is no good,” she whispered.

With a nod of agreement, Scott flung himself away from the wall. They left the elevators behind and dashed down the corridor. Their feet thudded on the carpet. From behind came the quiet ding of an elevator bell. Lacey looked back. They were too far away to return in time. She ran hard to catch up with Scott.

Just ahead, a hallway led off to the left. Scott slowed and turned the corner. He stopped, and Lacey halted beside him. She leaned back against an ice machine, panting for breath.

“What now?” she gasped.

Scott pointed with the club in his left hand. A yard away was a fire door.

“Might as well.”

Across the hall, a door opened. A slight, young man in blue pajamas and a satin robe stepped out backward. He pulled his door shut gently so it stopped against the frame. Turning around, he smiled a surprised greeting. In his hands, he held a cardboard ice bucket.

“Cheerio,” he said.

Scott lunged across the hall, grabbed the front of his robe, and thrust him into the room. Lacey followed. She shut the door quickly and silently.

“Hey now!” the man said. He seemed more offended than afraid. “What…?”

Scott snarled and raised the club. The man’s mouth snapped shut. He looked from Scott to Lacey, eyes narrowing behind his oversized glasses.

“We’re Nick and Nora Charles,” Scott said. “Asta’s back in our room.”

“Oh?”

Scott let go of him. The man offered a small, pale hand. “Hamlin Alexander.”

After shaking hands, they moved away from the door. One of the double beds was mussed, the other neatly made.

“You alone?” Scott asked.

“I just shooed away a nymphet. I don’t expect her to return in the immediate future.” He set the ice bucket on the dresser beside a full bottle of Stolichnaya. “Room ser vice didn’t provide ice. Expected me
to fetch it myself, obviously. I don’t suppose we might venture out for some, now that we’re acquainted?”

“I don’t think so,” Scott said.

“If you’re indeed Nick and Nora, I doubt you intend to rob or mutilate me. Would you care for a warm drink?”

They nodded, and he opened the bottle.

“I don’t suppose you caught my concert to night? Really first-rate.”

“Sorry,” Scott said.

Hamlin poured vodka into three glasses. “To a warm and
healthy
relationship,” he toasted.

Lacey sipped her vodka. Its strong taste made her cringe, but it felt warm and pleasant going down.

“Now,” said Hamlin. “To what do I owe your presence? You’re not a pair of lunatic fans, obviously. Am I a hostage of choice or opportunity?”

“Opportunity,” Scott told him. “You came out your door at the right time.”

“The right time for you, perhaps.”

Though they were talking softly, Lacey worried that their voices might carry through the door. She crossed the room and turned on the tele vision.

“Oh please,” Hamlin muttered. “Ah, I see,” he said as Lacey increased the volume. “Background noise. That’s about all the cyclops is good for. Now, what brings you in to my august presence?”

“We’re being pursued by a killer.”

Hamlin raised his eyebrows, sat on his rumpled bed, and crossed his legs. “I see you’re well armed.”

“He has an Ingram, a small assault weapon capable of firing twenty rounds per second.”

“Nasty.”

“Extremely. So you can see that we’d prefer to avoid a confrontation. If he didn’t see us come in, we’ll be all right. Even if he knows which floor we’re on, I don’t think he’ll take the chance of barging into every room.”

“I hate to appear simplistic, but have you considered bringing in the gendarmes?”

“A special team is flying in from Washington,” Scott told him. “We expect it to arrive,” he checked his watch, “in roughly three, three and a quarter hours.”

“Washington? So we’re embroiled in a cloak-and-dagger scheme? I should have guessed; you have that clean-cut, boy-next-door, FBI look about you.” He peered at Lacey as she sat down beside Scott on the other bed. “Nora, however, is not an agent. No no. To o delicate, feminine, vulnerable. I should think Nora is an innocent bystander cast by mischance into the role of heroine.” He nodded shrewdly. “Perhaps a witness?”

“Very observant,” Scott said.

“The fellow with the nasty weapon, a Ruskie agent?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“The solution to your problem is make up. I just happen to have, in my possession, an elaborate make up kit complete with hair, teeth, blood, and Dick Smith’s Flex-flesh. I don’t
just happen
to have it—very deliberate. I often travel incognito. For security and privacy, you understand. The kit has many uses, however. The nymphets blush and cream
at the chance to be transformed into the monsters they are: zombies, hags with oozing pustules, vampires. The vampire is my specialty. Those submoronic sexpots throw themselves into the role with such abandon—snarling, baring their fangs—and it’s rarely my neck they insist upon sucking. Quite delightful. I’d be more than happy to transform the two of you. Not in to monsters, perhaps, but with a few deft touches and a change of clothes you might walk right past the murderous Ruskie without being recognized.”

“Thanks anyway,” Scott said.

“On the other hand, I might apply a multitude of wounds: bullet holes, slash marks, quantities of artificial blood. I’m superb at corpses. I’ll arrange you on the floor. If your maniacal Soviet should burst through the door, he’ll assume you’ve already been dispatched. No need to repeat the process.
Voila!
”

“That’s ridiculous,” Scott told him.

“It’s genius. A subtle but profound difference.”

“Maybe. But I still think…” The deafening clamor of a bell in the corridor stopped his words.

Hamlin jumped, spilling his drink.

The high-pitched ringing went on.

“Fire alarm!” Scott shouted.

“You don’t think…?”

Grabbing his makeshift club, Scott scurried off the bed and raced toward the door. Lacey picked up her spray can, her knife. Hurrying after him, she saw him touch the knob. “Not warm,” he said. He looked back. “Hamlin,” he yelled over the din. “Get over here!”

The small man rushed to them. His face, so confident before, now looked drawn and pale.

“Look out the door. See if there’s smoke.”

They stepped aside so they couldn’t be viewed from the hallway, and Hamlin opened the door. “Appears fine,” he said.

“Check around the corner.”

He stepped out. Scott held the door open a crack. A moment later, Hamlin shoved through it and gazed at them. “Jesus H. Christ! The other end of the hall—all kinds of smoke. People spilling out of their rooms like…Christ, my horn!” He hurried past them. Seconds later, he returned with a black leather case. “Don’t know about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of here!” Flinging open the door, he dashed across the hallway to the fire door.

Lacey stepped out beside Scott. Half a dozen people were now in the short hall, most in night clothes, rushing for the door. Hamlin threw it open. He coughed as dark smoke bellowed into his face. He started to shut it, but the door knocked him backward and a flaming man stumbled from the stairwell. His fiery arms reached for Hamlin, but the little man smashed them aside with his instrument case and leapt out of the way.

Screams mixed with the blaring alarm bells as the burning man staggered toward the onrushing group of guests. They scattered. Falling among them, he clutched the negligee of a horrified young woman. She lurched away, but flames were already starting to curl up her white gown. A nearby man ripped it from
her shoulders. She kicked free of the garment and threw herself into his arms.

Scott grabbed Lacey’s wrist. He jerked her after him, around the corner to the long corridor. Hamlin was far ahead of them, dashing through stunned guests, dodging some, stiffarming others aside, the black case hugged under one arm like a football. Though the far end of the corridor was gray with rolling smoke, Lacey saw no flames.

“This way’s blocked,” Scott yelled to an elderly couple heading toward them. The couple stopped, looking at each other with confusion as Scott and Lacey hurried by.

The greatest number of people was gathered in front of the elevator bank, screaming and shoving in a frenzy to get closer to the doors.

As Scott and Lacey reached the edge of the crowd, an elevator arrived. Its double doors slid open, but the small enclosure was already packed. A roar of protest bellowed from those inside as the mob pressed forward. Through a gap in the crowd, Lacey saw one of the men in the elevator jerked out. Amid darting fists, a new man took his place. The doors rolled halfway shut, then slid open again. A tiny, dark-haired man leapt high, clambering over the shoulders and heads of those inside, his right hand clasping a black leather case. A moment later, the doors closed.

“What’ll we do?” Lacey asked.

“Forget the elev…”

A woman’s shriek rose above the tumult. Lacey
looked, couldn’t see her, then saw the bloody head of a fire ax rise above the figures at the far side of the crowd. It swung down. The mob parted, people stumbling out of the way, yelling and screaming. The ax chopped down, knocking through the upraised arm of a man staggering backward, and split his head. As he fell, the ax swung sideways, biting into the belly of a naked woman—the one whose nightgown had caught fire earlier.

Lacey gaped as the slaughter continued, the ax chopping from side to side, catching people in the chest and belly and throat. They fought and tripped over each other, trying to get away. For an instant, Lacey glimpsed the length of the weapon. It swung, held by no one—no one she could see. It hacked through a man’s neck. His severed head tumbled through the air, spraying blood.

Lacey clutched Scott’s arm. “It’s him!” she shouted.

“Come on!”

“Where?”

Side by side, they raced down the corridor. As they neared the corner, Lacey looked back. The ax had finished hacking its way through the mob. Splatters of blood hung suspended in the air behind it. Abruptly, it lurched forward.

Lacey gasped, and rounded the corner after Scott. He threw himself against the door of Hamlin’s room—locked.

“Come on!”

They rushed farther down the short hall, leaping past the small fire spreading around the dead man like a pool of strange, burning blood.

The next door, too, was locked.

Only three remained. Scott glanced at them, apparently decided they would offer no more than this one, and drew out his automatic. He blasted a single shot through the area where the lock tongue entered the frame, and kicked the door open.

Lacey looked back.

The ax flew at her, flipping end over end.

Scott jerked her inside and slammed the door. He threw himself against it.