The Switch (40 page)

"Uh, Henry. Harry," she corrected just as the man answered.

"Help! They're crazy!" Chief yelled into the receiver. "They've started a fire up here. Harry, can you hear me? Help! ire! Fire!"

Then he dropped the receiver and let it bang against the wall. Grabbing Melina's hand, he charged into the hallway. Before they'd reached the exit door at the end of the corridor, lie fire alarm began to blare at an ear-shattering volume. Behind them, doors began to open.

Human nature being what it is, he was afraid people would hesitate to leave the comfort of their apartments and interrupt their quiet evening until the emergency was confirmed. Ile also counted on modern society's reluctance to get too chummy with neighbors. He doubted anyone would recognize him as a nonresident.

Waving his arms wildly, he shouted. "Hurry, everybody. Get downstairs. There's a fire in apartment D and it's spreading quickly."

A resident on a lower floor, who had responded to the alarm and ventured into the stairwell, shouted up, "Is there really a fire?"

"Seventeen D," Melina called back. "Get everyone on your floor out!"

By the time they had loped down several flights, they became part of the throng rushing into the stairwell, which was exactly what Chief had hoped to accomplish when he raised the alarm.

"What do we do when we get to the bottom?" Melina asked beneath her breath.

"Hell if I know. I'm hoping there'll be so much confusion, we'll be able to sneak away. No matter what, don't let go of my hand." He received an answering squeeze even though she was helping a woman in a sari hustle two sleepy children down the steps.

Even before they reached the lobby, Chief could hear sirens wailing. By the time they got to the lower floor and entered the lobby, rent-a-cops who provided building security were herding people through an emergency side exit. Two fire trucks had already arrived. Firemen in full garb leapt from them and raced toward the entrance where Harry was babbling frantically. Chief was glad the doorman was occupied and didn't see him and Melina as they were caught up in the crowd that moved en masse toward the bottleneck at the emergency exit.

"Keep your head down," he instructed as they wiggled through the door. They moved along with their eyes on their feet. Once they were clear of the door, he tugged her toward the edge of the gathering crowd but purposefully kept them in shadows as security personnel shepherded them across the street into the parking lot of the building from which he guessed the shots had been fired.

He pulled up short when he recognized two familiar faces in the crowd of condo dwellers. The two men were looking wildly about, but not because they feared fire. They were scanning the faces of everyone who had exited the building.

Chief spun Melina about and reversed their direction. "Don't look back. Two o'clock. Our FBI impersonators. I'd bet good money they were the shooters."

"But why'd they shoot Jem? They were under his orders, weren't they?"

"He thought so."

Anxiously she pulled her lower lip through her teeth. "What do we do?"

"Well, we could try reasoning with these guys."

"Right," she said caustically.

"Or we could call Tobias. Lawson. Either would help us." "They'd also contain us."

Privately Chief acknowledged that he and Melina were fools for not taking advantage of the protection that the FBI and the local police department could afford them. Their lives were at risk—at least his. Now that Hennings had been dispatched, the next hollow-tip bullet probably had his name on it. They'd already made two unsuccessful attempts to punish him for "tainting" Gillian and making her unsuitable for the Program. And he didn't like the sound of Melina's being pegged to take her place.

Of course, everything Hennings had said could be nothing more than the blather of a madman. He and his pal Gordon, he sexual deviate, could have been zealots who had twisted Brother Gabriel's well-meaning message to justify their own aberrant agenda.

But maybe not, and that was a terrifying prospect. If Brother Gabriel had authored this program of genetic engineering, the implications were horrifying and had the potential of being globally catastrophic. Chief recognized that he had to be crazy not to call in the cavalry.

On the other hand, he didn't have all the facts yet. At this

point it was still a personal fight, and he didn't cotton to anyone else fighting his battles for him. Maybe that misplaced pride, or downright orneriness, was a legacy from his forefathers that was only now manifesting itself. Maybe his inclinations were more Native American than he'd been willing to accept.

Whatever, he chose to rely on his gut instinct.

"I say we go for broke, but it's your call, Melina," he said quietly, barely making himself heard above the din surrounding them. "Gillian was your sister."

"She was my
twin
. This is personal."

"For me, too."

"Then there's your answer."

"Okay."

But now that the decision had been made, they were stuck in their immediate dilemma, and it was dangerous. He had created chaos in the hope of their getting out of the building unseen. But his strategy wasn't without a few major hitches. For one, they were now afoot. There was no way they could retrieve the clunker from the parking garage because it was blocked by emergency vehicles. Furthermore, it would soon be determined that the fire alarm had been a ruse to cover Jem Hennings's murder.

Following his train of thought, Melina said, "We've got to get away."

"Soon. When they discover Hennings's body, everyone with a badge will be after us for questioning. Harry the doorman isn't going to forget us. Particularly you." He glanced down at her flat-soled shoes. "If we have to, can you run?"

"I do. Three times a week."

"Where's the nearest commercial area? Lots of traffic. People."

"Oak Lawn Street. That way," she said, subtly motioning with her head.

"I'm right behind you. Start out slow, walking. Try not to attract attention."

He placed his hands loosely on her waist. They shuffled through the crowd of milling people, some of whom were already expressing skepticism about the fire and grumbling about the unreliable technology that set off false alarms more often than not.

They had almost reached the fringes of the crowd when Chief turned his head to check and see if they were being followed. He spotted Tobias's impersonator standing no more than twenty yards away. His neck was stretched up from his shoulders as he swiveled his head back and forth, surveying the crowd of men, women, and children who'd evacuated the high-rise.

Suddenly he turned. Chief had no warning. He couldn't avert his head in time. Their eyes connected.

"Go!" he told Melina, giving her a light push, just as he heard a shout behind them.

She didn't hesitate or stop to ask questions, but broke into a sprint across the parking lot. She didn't falter when they reached the low hedge of shrubbery, but hurdled it like an Olympian and kept running full-out. The street was clear. They raced across it. He heard tires squeal behind them and turned his head only long enough to see that the men in pursuit had nearly been struck by an oncoming minivan.

The near miss diverted them just long enough for Melina to plunge through a high, dense hedge that bordered a vacant lot. They were away from streetlights now. It was dark and the ground was uneven. Chief nearly collided with a metal real estate sign planted in the ground, but he managed to avoid its doing no more damage than glancing his kneecap.

"Through here," Melina gasped when they reached the far .side of the lot. She led him through a bank annex's drive through bay and then into another darkened lot that had a vacant house in the center. When they rounded the house, he reached for her hand and pulled
her to a stop. They flattened
t
hemselves against the frame exterior. The wood smelled old
an
d mildewed and gave off the odor of animal decomposition.

"You okay?" he huffed, trying to catch his breath. "Are they still chasing us?"

"I'm taking no chances. How much farther?" "Two, three blocks. See the lights?"

Above roofs and treetops he saw the glow of commercial lighting. "Take off."

Many of the older houses in the area had been converted into businesses—antique shops, hair salons, law offices which were closed at this hour. They kept to the shadows and used trees, fences, and shrubbery as shields.

Over her shoulder, she asked, "When we get there... ?" "Hail the first taxi you see."

Taxis weren't easily come by in a city like Dallas, where the number of cars nearly outnumbered the population. He reasoned that their best chance of finding one would be near restaurants and clubs where people were drinking alcohol and hopefully opting to take a taxi home rather than risk a DUI charge.

They wove their way through a congested parking lot that served several restaurants. Curious looks were thrown to them by people who were either returning from or going to dinner. Chief didn't resent the passersby. He was glad to see that the sidewalks were crowded and that the street was jammed with traffic.

"Try and blend in," he said, taking Melina's arm. If not for the sweat pouring down their faces, they might have been any other couple out on a date. "There," he said, spying a taxi pulling up to the entrance of one of the restaurants.

They dodged the crawling traffic and jogged across the street, climbing into the back seat as soon as a trio of Japanese tourists alighted. "Where to?" the driver called back.

"Head south out Interstate 45. I'll give you directions as we go along."

Chief pulled Melina back against the seat. She didn't have to be told to keep her head low. "There," she whispered. "Under the R in the restaurant sign."

Tobias's imposter and his partner looked out of place in the yuppie crowd, sweating, their chests heaving with exertion, frustrated. Chief kept his eyes on the pair until the taxi was
well away.

"They never saw us," he reported as he flopped back against the seat, exhausted. For a time, he kept his eyes closed and concentrated on sucking in oxygen. Eventually he asked, "How're you doing?"

She had pulled up the hem of her sweater and was using it like a towel. Her face was buried in it. Then he noticed that her shoulders were shaking. "Melina?"

He stretched his arm across her shoulders and pulled her closer against him.

"Were y'all in some kinda race?" the driver asked.

"Yeah. A fucking marathon. Now mind your own goddamn business and drive."

"Jeez. Bite my head off, why don'tcha?"

Dismissing the nosy driver, Chief threaded his fingers through Melina's sweat-damp hair. "It's okay. Don't cry. You're safe."

When she raised her head, he was amazed to see that she wasn't crying at all. She was laughing. "I don't know what's wrong with me!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "I just saw a man's head disintegrate. We falsely reported a fire. I was chased by bad guys intent on killing one or both of us. I am avoiding the FBI. And I'm
laughing
?"

No sooner had she said that, however, than her features crumpled and tears spurted from her eyes.

Cupping the back of her head in his palm, Chief pressed it against his chest and continued to massage her scalp while she hiccupped hard sobs into the front of his shirt.

He hated being anywhere in the vicinity of a weeping woman. Tears represented emotions that were best avoided—fear, frustration, heartbreak, disappointment, anger. When a woman began to cry, you wished you were anywhere else but there, especially if you were the one responsible for her tears.

But he didn't mind Melina's crying. He felt if anyone deserved a good cry, it was she. Up till now, she'd demonstrated unusual bravery. He would sign her up to be a member of his crew any day of the week. She had proved that she could be relied on not to unravel during a crisis situation.

Now that the crisis was past, however, he felt she was entitled to an all-too-human crack-up.

He held her close, with his chin propped on the crown of her head, one hand stroking her back, the other still cupping her head. He let her cry until she ran dry. He didn't move until he was sure she was finished. Then he placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. "Better?"

"I barf and I bawl. Fine confederate I am."

"You don't hear me complaining, do you?" He smiled and she smiled back.

Her neck was resting in the crook of his elbow. Her face was tilted up and back, exposing her throat. After brushing away a tear with the pad of his thumb, he kept his hand there against her cheek. His other moved to that bare strip of skin between her raised top and the waistband of her slacks.

Her lips separated on a quick intake of breath.

He wouldn't have disengaged his eyes from hers just then if someone had told him that the sun had burned out. Without looking, he felt her hand, which had been clutching fistfuls of his shirt moments ago, now resting somewhere just below his belt buckle, collecting heat.

His throat was tight, but he managed to breathe her name. "Melina...?"