Queen of the Dead (28 page)

I hit the Ben Franklin Parkway, the wide thoroughfare that runs from the art museum to City Hall. Traffic was heavier here than on the side streets, but at least it offered a bit more room to maneuver. Better—or maybe worse—I could see the clock in City Hall Tower, still half a mile away. It was getting closer but slowly, horribly slowly. And its minute hand was inching downward. It had just passed the two and was making its way toward the three.

Love Park sat just northwest of City Hall. Lots of events happened there all the time, and it was almost always crowded. But today, with the first lady of Pennsylvania addressing a bunch of urban school kids, the place would be mobbed. There'd be cops around—not as many as around the governor himself maybe but plenty. And because this was Lilith's real objective, I guessed a pretty high ratio of those cops would be of the dead and drippy variety.

I could only hope Dave and Helene had gotten word to Haven and that somebody was already on their way up to the tower. I briefly considered skipping the park and going straight up there myself. I mean, I didn't owe the governor's wife anything, did I? And this was my
mom
we were talking about!

But I'd never get there in time. City Hall Tower was a block farther and five hundred feet higher. The assassin would have taken his first shot, then his second, and have jumped to his death before I even made it to the stairs.

Besides, I was an Undertaker, and I trusted my friends. If they could get to my mother before Dashiell killed her, they would.

If
they could.

Twelve minutes after nine.

I pedaled harder.

Ahead, I spotted the bubblegum lights of police cruisers. They'd cordoned off the park with blue sawhorses. Uniformed cops patrolled the boundary. A lot of them. More than I'd imagined. On the far side of the fountain, a dais had been built right behind the big
LOVE
sculpture. As stages went, it wasn't real high, just tall enough to let the people on it be seen by the gathered crowd.

And what a crowd it was. Maybe a thousand people, most of them kids. School buses lined the nearby streets. This event had apparently been turned into a weekend field trip. Heck, if I'd still been an eighth-grade student at John Towers Middle School, I might have found myself here too.

Thirteen minutes after nine.

My eyes flicked up toward the tower. Would I see a glint of metal? The flash of the morning sun off a telescopic lens? Neither. As it happened, the sun was behind City Hall at this time of day, which had cast the whole park in shadow. I wouldn't see a thing. Nobody would.
Pelligogged
or not, Dashiell knew what he was doing.

I reached the edge of the event, still at least a block from the dais. From here, I could see the governor's wife, flanked by men in suits. She wore a heavy beige coat against the morning cold, her blond hair pinned down by white earmuffs. She was speaking into a microphone. I could hear her voice echoing through the speakers, though I was still too far away to make out any words.

Fourteen minutes after nine.

A police car loomed in front of me. I skirted around it and jumped my bike up over the curb onto the sidewalk, weaving around the people in my path. A cop spotted me. Human.

“Hey!” he called.

Another cop appeared. This one was dead. He didn't say anything at all. He just moved to cut me off.

I pulled a water pistol from inside my coat and shot him in the face. As he fell back, I heard people suddenly shout, “The kid's got a gun!”

Crap!

Another cop lunged at me, human this time. I maneuvered around him, jumped off the curb again, and slipped my bike between two of the sawhorses. I was in Love Park now, skirting the big fountain and pedaling directly through the crowd, only some of whom had so far registered my presence. Those that did backed instinctively away. Those that didn't, I screamed at—“Look out! Watch it!”—until they either jumped or fell clear.

I could hear the woman's words now but didn't bother to listen. I was down to seconds, not minutes, and the cops were closing in on all sides.

That's when I spotted the ramp.

It stood on the right side of the dais and the cordon seemed to flank it, clearing the path that the governor's wife had probably used when she'd arrived and would use again when she left. I made for it, kicking at my pedals with every last bit of my strength.

A dead cop pushed through the crowd on my left and came at me. He caught my arm and would have pulled me down if I hadn't made an awkward, lucky shot with my pistol that crippled him. Another one leapt—literally
leapt
—for my back wheel, but I managed a final burst of speed, and he missed by inches.

Then I cleared the cordon and turned up the open path toward the ramp and dais behind it.

As I did, my eye flitted one last time to the tower clock.

Fifteen minutes after nine.

I'm too late!

No time for warnings. I drove my bike—full speed—along the path and up the ramp, my wheels actually leaving the ground as I did so.

What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion.

The governor's wife turned, her speech forgotten, her eyes widening in shock and confusion. Her bodyguards, if that was what they were, moved in to stop me, but I was already airborne, and stopping at this point just wasn't in the cards.

I kicked one of them in the face. I'm not sure if it was accidental or on purpose.

Then I leapt into the air, pushing off my pedals, leaving the bike behind.

I'm not really sure what I was trying to do. But I think I meant to tackle the woman, to get her out of the line of fire.

I
think
.

But I'm pretty sure I
didn't
intend to take Dashiell's shot in the back.

I don't remember any pain. I don't even remember hitting the floor of the dais.

What I
do
remember is being cold. Really cold. Like someone had taken my coat and dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. My mind registered that something terrible had happened, but I had no idea what it could be.

I mean, the governor's wife
hadn't
been shot. Lying on my stomach with my head turned to one side, I could see her clearly. She was on the floor too, just a few feet away, with her bodyguards sprawled atop her, shielding her with their bodies—the way I'd tried to.

I
did
it! She didn't get shot!

But
I
think
maybe
someone
did.

Everything turned to chaos. People screamed. I could hear running feet. Lights flashed—police cars maybe. A lot of them. Had more shown up? How had they gotten here so quickly?

Somebody yelled, “The kid had a gun!”

Somebody else yelled, “It's just a water pistol!” Then the same somebody added another of those words my mother probably wouldn't have approved of.

Mom.

She was in City Hall Tower with Dashiell. He'd taken his shot; I'd heard it. But he must have missed. Would he try again, or would he just turn his gun on my mom as he'd been ordered? A fresh wave of panic flooded me, making me feel even colder. I opened my mouth to beg for help—not for me but for my mother. But no sound would come out.

“City Hall!” someone yelled. “The shot came from the observation deck!”

Yes! Go there quick! Save my mom!

A woman's voice: “Get off me! Will you men please get off me?”

A man's voice: “You have to stay down, ma'am!”

The woman's voice again: “Get off me, you idiot! This boy's been shot!”

What
boy?

Gentle hands touched my face. My vision blurred. I felt so sleepy all of a sudden. I heard the woman's voice again, much closer this time, practically on top of me. She sounded like she was crying.

“Get an ambulance! Now! No, I'm not going anywhere! This child just saved my life! Now get an ambulance!” Then
she
added a word that my mother
definitely
wouldn't have approved of.

On the other hand, under the circumstances, maybe she would.

If
she's still alive…

“Hang on,” the woman told me. “You just hang on. Everything's going to be fine.”

I remember thinking she had a kind voice.

Then everything went dark.

Very dark. And very cold. In fact, the cold was all I could feel. The woman, the wooden dais, even the air seemed to have vanished—which was just as well because I was pretty sure I'd stopped breathing.

Is this what death feels like?

“William?”

A woman's voice but not the same woman. This voice was younger, less panicky. It was also vaguely familiar, like something left over from a dream.

“William?”

I opened my eyes.

I was on a bed, under a white sheet. There was light all around me, though I couldn't see walls or even a ceiling. It was like floating on a cloud. Maybe this was heaven after all.

A blond woman was smiling down at me. She had the face of an angel. In fact, she
was
an angel, one that I'd met once before.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I replied, and I was surprised by the way my voice sounded. Raspy. Dry. Like I hadn't used it in a while.

“Good,” she said. Did I read relief in her smile now? I wasn't sure. “Just lie still. You're going to be just fine.”

Then, as if some kind of brain fog lifted, I managed to add two and two to figure out exactly who'd been shot instead of the governor's wife.

“My mom!” I exclaimed. I tried to sit up, but my entire body felt like soft rubber.

The woman put a warm hand on my shoulder and eased me back down onto the pillow.

“It's important that you stay calm, William.”

“My mom's in trouble!” I cried, begging. Tears flooded my eyes. “Please! He's gonna kill her!”

“If I show you your mother, will you lie still and calm down?”

What did
that
mean? But I just nodded, mainly because something in her tone gave me hope.

She turned away and spoke to someone I couldn't see. “Point us at the tower.”

The world seemed to spin. Instinctively, I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, the weird white room was gone, replaced by something even weirder.

Now my bed was tucked—wedged really—into the City Hall Tower's narrow observation deck. Ahead stood the open steel door that led to the cramped elevator. To my right ran a curved wall of windows, separated by a waist-high metal railing that ran all the way around the deck. Through them, the city of Philadelphia sprawled outward in all directions five hundred feet below us. Overhead, looking huge and imposing at the building's pinnacle, loomed the famous statue of William Penn.

“What…?” I began.

The woman, who remained beside my bed, touched a warm finger to her lips, pointing with her other hand to two figures standing just a few yards ahead, almost around the curve of the observation deck.

One was a small, thin man wearing a parka. His hood was up, which was probably good because he'd evidently opened a couple of the windows. Winter wind tossed his dark hair and made his hood flap.

In the guy's hands was a long rifle with a ridiculously big scope mounted onto it. Beside him, a woman stood handcuffed to the railing. She wasn't as blond as the angel, but to me, she looked at least as beautiful.

“Mom!” I called.

“She can't hear you, William.”

I tried to get up. I tried desperately, but I just didn't have the strength.

“Stay calm.”

“But that's Dashiell! He's got my mother, and he's going to—”

“I know. Just watch,” she said.

So, helpless, I watched. Dashiell rested the barrel of his rifle on the railing and peered into its scope. My mother looked terrified. She was wrapped in her winter coat, a long wool beige number that my dad had given her the Christmas before he'd died. I knew it was warm enough, but unlike Dashiell's parka, it lacked a hood. Mom's hair blew every which way.

I could see her shivering.

Then Dashiell took aim at something far below, something well outside my field of view.

Love
Park! The governor's wife!

But this had already happened!

When it came, the shot was so loud it made the windows rattle. My mother jumped. Then she started to cry. She always looked so much like Emmie when she cried.

Again, I tried to get up to go to her. Dashiell had taken his shot, only he'd hit
me
instead of his intended target.

And he clearly knew it because he straightened up, cursing furiously. For several seconds, he stood there, as if trying to decide what to do next. Then he looked at my mother. She stared back at him with tear-streaked eyes. She said something, but as she was turning away from me, her words were lost in the wind.

The assassin pulled back the bolt on his rifle, ejecting the spent cartridge. Then he spoke, and
his
words, unlike my mother's, rang through loud and clear.

“Your turn, Susan.”

“No!” I yelled.

“No!” someone else yelled.

I turned to see Hugo Ramirez emerge through the open steel hatchway that led to the elevator. His left arm was still in its sling, and his face shone with sweat. He clutched a small black pistol.

Dashiell spun toward him, his face darkening.

“Special Agent Ramirez of the FBI! Lower your weapon and step away from the woman!”

Thank
you. Oh God…thank you.

The assassin took perhaps half a second to size up the situation. Then he moved, dropping the empty rifle and ducking behind my mother, pulling her in front of him like a shield until she was yanked hard against her handcuff and cried out in pain.

This time, when I tried to get up, I almost fell off the bed. The woman took my shoulders.

“All this has already happened, William. We're not even really here. There's nothing you can do.”

And to be honest, I'd already guessed that. But it didn't matter. She was my mom, and this murdering psycho had her, and I needed to do something about it! I
needed
to! It was a knee-jerk reaction, like putting your hands out when you trip.

Ramirez said, “There's no way out of here, Dashiell. It's over.”

But the killer only smiled. Then he produced a switchblade from his coat pocket, snapped it open, and pressed it to my mother's throat.

I heard a whimpering sound, and it took a moment for me to realize that
I'd
made it.

I had never felt so helpless in all my life.

“Why are you showing me this?” I asked—sobbed, really.

“Just watch…”

“Put your gun down, FBI,” Dashiell commanded. “Or I'll slit her throat.”

But Ramirez's gun arm didn't waver an inch. “Do that, and I'll shoot you dead before she hits the ground.”

“But think of the paperwork, agent,” the assassin replied with a laugh. “A dead civilian?”

“This isn't a joke. Let her go, or you're going to die on this observation deck.” Ramirez took a step closer, but as he did, the assassin's hand tightened, and his blade nicked my mother neck. She gasped and struggled, but he held her fast.

“Stop it!” I cried, even though I knew it was stupid and pointless to do so.

Ramirez froze again, but his eyes remained locked on the assassin's.

“The mistake you're making,” Dashiell told him, “is assuming that I expect to survive this job. I have my orders. I was to kill my target, dispatch this witness, and then make a dramatic swan dive into the city hall courtyard. Just think of tomorrow's headlines!”

“And that's okay with you, is it?” Ramirez asked. “Offing yourself for a client?”

For just a moment, the assassin faltered a little. “It's…necessary.”

“Why's that?”

“She…” Dashiell blinked. “She said so.”

“Lilith Cavanaugh?”

At the sound of the Queen's name, Dashiell's confusion evaporated. His eyes narrowed. “Are you maybe…recording me, agent? Trying to get me to incriminate my employer? I've never heard of anyone by that name. Sorry.”

Then Ramirez did an odd thing. He smiled and lowered his gun. I stared at him, flabbergasted. My gaze switched between the two men, and I noticed that Dashiell seemed every bit as surprised as I felt.

“Actually,” the FBI guy said, “I'm
not
recording you. This isn't even a real gun. It's a cheap plastic water pistol…though a little more realistic than most maybe.” He squirted it into his open mouth and made a sour face. “Saltwater.”

“A bluff?” Dashiell asked, looking confused and wary.

Ramirez's smile widened. “Nope. Just wanted to keep you talking long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

In that instant, a figure dropped from above, crashing down onto the assassin through an opening in the roof of the observation deck.

The strike was so perfectly landed that it split Dashiell and my mother apart. She fell to the deck floor, groaning in pain as her manacled wrist was twisted again. The assassin tumbled away but recovered his feet almost instantly, the knife still in his grip.

Then he whirled around to face the new threat.

Tom Jefferson blocked the width of the walkway, a human barrier between my mother and her would-be killer. His face was like stone, his expression colder than I'd ever seen it.

“Who are
you
?” Dashiell demanded, brandishing his switchblade.

“I'm an Undertaker,” the Chief replied in a toneless voice.

The assassin sneered. “I've heard of you kids. She said you might try to get in the way. But I admit I didn't expect anything like this! Just where did you come from?”

Tom nodded upward. “While Ramirez was keepin' you busy, I came up the stairs, climbed out onto the roof of the deck, and worked my way around.”

“Clever,” Dashiell admitted. “But you must be freezing without a coat in this weather. Careful, kid…you'll catch your death.”

Tom didn't smile. On the contrary, I didn't think I'd ever seen him so pissed. He took a step toward the assassin, who held up his blade, turning it this way and that in the morning light, like a little kid on show-and-tell day. “Think twice, boy? I'm armed, and you're not.”

The Chief took another step forward. “I saw you take your shot,” he said flatly. “I was too late to stop it…but I
saw
it.” For a moment, a shadow seemed to cross his face. Then he added, in a tone much colder than the biting February air, “You missed.”

Dashiell shrugged. “Unfortunate but not disastrous. Once I'm out of here, I'll arrange a new opportunity.”

“You're not
getting
out of here.”

The assassin chuckled. “A handcuffed woman and two unarmed men? I've faced much longer odds that than, Undertaker. In a minute, you'll all be dead, and I'll be on the stairs.”

Tom didn't seem to have heard the threat. “I'm a soldier,” he said. “But I've never killed a human being before.”

“Well, don't worry, kid. You're not going to be starting today.”

Tom just went on talking. “You missed your target. But you hit someone else.”

“I know. I saw it. Some kid on a bike.”

The Chief of the Undertakers surged forward. Seeing this, Dashiell reacted by lunging with his switchblade. I expected Tom to dodge. He was great at hand-to-hand; I'd never seen anyone better. But he
didn't
dodge. He didn't even try to parry. He simply grabbed the blade, wrapping his big left hand around it and clamping down like a bear trap.