Running of the bulls

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

12:31 a.m.

Marty scrambled behind the bar, leaped onto it, put an arm around Jennifer’s waist and lifted her up so the pressure was off her throat.

“Stay with me,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a jackknife. He clenched it between his teeth and with his free hand, he pulled out the blade. “Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”

Her hands were tugging sluggishly at the rope around her neck. Saliva was running out of her mouth and down her chin. Her eyes were boulders bulging under the pressure. Her body trembled against him in spasms. She was trying to breathe, but it was almost impossible. And then, with a quick sawing motion, the rope snapped, but it didn’t go down as Marty had hoped. Instead of her falling back into his arms, she fell so heavily against him, they each went over the bar and toppled to the floor below.

Stunned, they lay there. Jennifer was on top of him. The noose was tight around her neck. She wasn’t moving.

Maggie came around the corner and took the blade out of Marty’s hands. He watched her sprint to the top of the bar and quickly cut the ropes that bound Lasker and Carra, who now were hanging lifelessly.

She wrapped her arm around their waists and eased each body to the floor. She jumped down and loosened the rope around Carra’s neck, patted her face firmly, then turned and did the same to Lasker, whose eyes were open and staring up blindly at her.

Carra groaned behind her. Maggie turned to look at her and saw her eyes fluttering. She’d live. She put her ear to Lasker’s chest and listened. She licked the back of her hand and held it over his mouth. And then, as Marty lifted Jennifer off him and shook her until her own eyes flickered open, Marty watched Maggie slam her fists down hard on Lasker’s chest. She did it again while Carra Wolfhagen turned onto her side and loosened the noose just enough to pull it over her head.

On the floor above them, they could hear footsteps coming their way. At first, they started off slowly at the front of the room, near the building’s entrance, but now they were picking up speed as they raced to the back of the room, where they were.

And then Mark Andrews’ voice, loud and clear, rang throughout the room. “He’s upstairs,” he called. “He’s armed. Be careful.”

And the footsteps stopped. Quietly, they started to retreat. And Marty knew-if whoever was upstairs didn’t hear movement soon, they’d know they’d been tricked.

He held Jennifer’s face in her hands. “Are you alright?”

She nodded.

He kissed her on the forehead. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t you dare move.” He gave her his cell. “Call 911. That’s all I want you to do. I know you’re in pain, but try. Tell them where we are. Tell them this is linked to the explosions across the Park. Tell them to hurry.”

He looked at Maggie, who had been administering CPR and now was feeling for a pulse in Lasker’s neck. There was none. “He’s dead,” she said.

Above them, a creaking. Someone listening.

“We need to get up those stairs.” He looked at Carra Wolfhagen, who had sagged against the bar and was rubbing her hand over her throat. What the hell was she wearing? Not the little black dress Jennifer told him about earlier. “Who’s up there?” he asked.

“Max,” she said, in a voice low enough so Mark couldn’t hear. “He did all of this. He lured us here. He tried to kill us just like he’s killing all those people who took the stand against him. He admitted it to us. He said we were next.”

“It’s just him upstairs?”

“Yes,” she said.

He cocked his head at her. “And he strung all of you up by himself?”

“No,” Jennifer said. Her voice was barely audible. There was a faint wheezing sound when she spoke. “There were two others.”

“He had help, but they ran,” Carra said cautiously. She looked down at Lasker and then crouched to press her hand against his cheek. “They killed him. They helped Max do this and they ran when they put those nooses around our necks and hoisted us up.” She motioned toward Jennifer. “When she came to the door, they knocked her unconscious and dragged her in here. I saw it happen.”

Marty turned to her. “Is that true?”

She nodded.

Again, Mark Andrews: “I’m fine,” he said with an irritated voice. “Get your hands off me and go upstairs. He’s there. The staircase is just behind the bar. Move!”

Above them, a retreating.

Marty looked at Maggie. “You ready?”

The determination in her voice was as clear as the gun now clutched in her hand. “I’m ready.”

“Then let’s do this.”

Wolfhagen stood in the center of the sprawling second floor, where most of the walls had been knocked down, likely by Carra and Lasker, to provide for a more open, free-flowing space. Essentially, this was a replica of the main floor. A second bar was here and in a broad nod at the old Bull Pen, painted above it in money-green was a giant bull with a ring through its snout.

He could hear them down below. The police. He’d heard Andrews shout orders at them twice, warning them that he was up here and waiting for them. And the cripple was right. He was waiting for them and he would kill them. They wouldn’t take him again. Wolfhagen was either walking out of here or he’d die here.

In this dim hollow of dark fetishes, Wolfhagen found exactly what he’d use on them when they took the stairs. He went to it, grabbed the bottle of 150 proof vodka he found at the bar, and started dousing the object until it was sheeted with liquid. And then he retrieved a second bottle of vodka and soaked it again until the liquid leached inside the cavity and dripped from every corner.

Like Carra, Lasker and the reporter, Wolfhagen also had been strung up. But he managed to break free and take the gun Carra’s assassins placed on the bar before they left. They put the gun there and said that freedom was just below should anyone want it. What they really meant is that whoever broke free first could have the gun, kill the rest and escape before they were found out.

Wolfhagen was that person. He was taller than the rest and found enough footing on the bar to lift himself up, remove the noose, topple to the ground and grab the gun. He came up here to find a grislier way to kill them all when he heard a commotion, the sound of bodies dropping, and then Andrews directing the police.

Carra was wrong. He wasn’t afraid of death. If it came, it came. What frightened Wolfhagen more than anything was not leaving a mark.

Since he had transformed himself at Yale, it’s what he always feared-the idea that he might slip back and become that nobody freak everyone loathed when he was growing up. Now, if he could pull this off correctly, he had a chance to not only take out the police, but also everyone else in the room below.

After that, he faced the challenge of getting out alive, but if he could manage it, all Wolfhagen needed to do was get to the front door. Run out into the night. Disappear forever into the world.

Marty and Maggie moved around the bar and came to the grand staircase that led to the second floor, which was in darkness. Maggie ran her hand along the wall to the left searching for a light switch while Marty darted across the staircase and did the same on the right wall.

The switch was on the left.

They stepped back into the first floor’s main room, tucked their bodies against the wall and looked at each other, their guns poised and ready.

Maggie tapped his thigh.

Gingerly, Marty reached out and snapped on the lights. He jerked his hand away and listened. Light was now fanning down the stairwell toward them. They listened and, at first, could hear nothing. There were no footsteps. There was no movement. And they wondered. Was Wolfhagen waiting at the top of the stairs for them? Was he waiting for one of them to peer around so he could blow a hole through their head?

Quietly, Marty dropped to the ground and got on his stomach. He positioned his gun in such a way that it was pointing up the stairs. Maggie inched forward and leveled her gun in front of her. The barrel was about an inch from the end of the wall. If Wolfhagen shot at Marty, she’d swing around and take him out.

He looked up at her, saw that she was ready and eased his head so he could look up the staircase.

Nothing.

He motioned for her to look. And when she did, nothing changed to something.

The floor started to creak. They could hear the distinct sound of something rolling. It was coming quickly, so quickly, in fact, that Marty got to his feet and looked up at the staircase with Maggie. And when they did, there was the sound of something igniting, a fresh blast of heat rolled down the staircase, and then a large bloom of fire mushroomed toward the second-floor ceiling as it came into view.

What they saw was a grand piano. It was engulfed in flames and it stopped just short of going over the staircase. Behind it was Wolfhagen, his face caught in the curling cascade of flames.

He was grinning down at them. Maggie took a shot at him but missed. Marty ran to the other side of the staircase to see if he could get a better view, but it was worse here. Wolfhagen was hidden behind the growing fire.

And then came Wolfhagen’s voice. “You want to fuck with me? Then you better have the balls to fuck with me. Tonight, I win.”

Maggie took aim and shot again just as he gave the piano a massive push.

It was as if it came from hell.

Ablaze and dripping liquid fire onto the staircase’s old carpet, which quickly caught with flame, the piano teetered for a moment at the top step before it started to thump and bump down the staircase. Flames sprayed and sparks flew as it shook the building and built momentum. And then there was the sound it made-thousands of notes playing at once, wires snapping, wood splintering. It was a concerto of the damned and the music it made filled the space as if a madman was directing it.

Transfixed, Marty and Maggie watched it come toward them. They watched it jump over stairs and gather speed as it flew through the air like some fiery, misshaped, musical comet. In the vacuum of heat building within it, the piano’s lid blew off and shot toward the ceiling, where it hung in the air just long enough to catch the ceiling on fire before it smashed back onto the piano.

“Run!” Marty shouted.

The piano slammed into the wall at the base of the stairwell. The force was so great, it blew the piano apart, but the fire remained and it quickly spread, licking the old wallpaper and moving with surprising speed up the walls, over the ceiling and into the room on the second floor, where Wolfhagen now was trapped and would bake if he didn’t get out soon.

Maggie looked at Marty, who was peering up the stairs, and when she did, she saw Carra Wolfhagen’s face emerge faintly in the room behind him.

Given the veils of smoke, the debris and the fire billowing up from the piano, Carra appeared to be an orange ghost hovering behind him in the dark room. At first, Maggie wasn’t sure why she was here. Was it to see her husband burn? But as Carra drew closer and Maggie saw that she was holding a gun, she knew differently and took position.

The next few moments were a blur.

The flames were growing. Pieces of the ceiling were crackling down onto the piano and the stairs. It was difficult to see clearly. Worse, Marty couldn’t hear Carra walking behind him because of the fire’s roar and the falling plaster.

Carra was an encroaching funnel of orange light. She looked across the haze at Maggie, cocked her head at her and then quietly lifted her gun to Marty’s head. A large chunk of the ceiling gave way and smashed onto the piano. Hot air and flames fanned out, creating a blizzard of smoke and ash as Maggie took aim at Carra’s chest.

But too much smoke was blowing into the room. It was almost impossible to see. Time slowed. She held her hand as steady as she could and fired at Carra just as another piece of the ceiling dropped. Marty turned away from it and moved into Carra’s path.

And when he did, the bullet cut through him, he sank to his knees and fell hard on the floor.

For an instant, Maggie stood there, unbelieving. She shot him.

For an instant, Carra looked down at Marty and then through the smoke at Maggie, unbelieving. She shot him.

Carra turned to run, Maggie fired off a shot but missed.

She was about to run after her when she heard footsteps running across the second floor. She looked up at the staircase and watched, stunned, as Wolfhagen leaped from the top step and fell through the smoky air.

His legs scissored beneath him.

For balance, he kept his arms held out at his sides.

In one of his hands was a gun.

His shock of white hair turned increasingly orange as he neared the fire.

He was heading straight for the center of the burning piano, where the lid was burning. She reared back when he smashed on top of it. The lid broke but Wolfhagen was invincible. He leaped out of the pit and into the room. He came face to face with her and lifted his gun, which she swatted away with her own. She punched him hard in the face with her free hand and then hit him harder with her gun against his left cheek.

He stumbled back, but Wolfhagen was nothing if not quick. He fired at her and missed. The room was smoky, he couldn’t see. Neither could she. Eyes and lungs burning, she pointed her gun where she thought he was standing and fired. She listened but didn’t hear him fall. Instead, she heard him running toward the door that was across the room. Freedom was there. They both knew it.

But she wouldn’t allow him freedom. Rage drove her forward. At the front of the room, the air wasn’t as smoky. There was a distinct breeze and the sound of traffic mingling with the sound of flames. And Maggie knew-Carra Wolfhagen was gone. She’d run out and left the door open.

Maggie ran faster and as she did, she began to make out all of him. He turned over his left shoulder to see how close she was. His face appeared to her-that face that she hated. He was breathing hard, panting like the animal he was, his crowded teeth bared into a tight smile of triumph. He knew he was going to make it. She could feel it. She swung around one of the tables in the center of the room, lifted her gun and steadied her aim.

She heard Mark say something behind her, something about the smoke. But he wasn’t her focus. This was her chance. She was taking Wolfhagen. He charged forward and then turned toward her again. “Love your face,” he said.

“Love yours more.”

When she fired, his head exploded. But she was running so quickly, she ran straight through it as it exploded. She felt blood and brains and bone collide against her face. He went down and she jumped over his falling body. One look told her what she needed to know. He was dead.

At last, she was rid of him.

But what of Marty?

She shook and wiped off Wolfhagen’s remains. She turned the corner and sprinted into the other room. She screamed for Jennifer to get herself and Mark outside. She could see Marty glowing from the fire at the far end of the room. Next to him, the piano was snapping, crackling. Marty was in a heap. The building was going up quickly. Too quickly. If she didn’t hurry, either the second floor would collapse on top of them or the smoke would kill them.

She stopped beside Marty, pulled him away from the heat and saw that her bullet had hit him in the chest. He wasn’t moving or breathing. She could hear Jennifer rolling Mark forward. They were coughing. She called to Jennifer and told her to get an ambulance.

With a chest wound, she knew the procedure of reviving him had to be done differently and so she lowered her mouth to his, covered the wound with the palm of her hand and forced air into his lungs while Roberta’s words rolled through her head: You’re going to shoot him, my friend is going to die and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

But the dead could be brought back.

Applying more pressure to the wound and aware of the sound of sirens coming near them, Maggie spoke to Marty between breaths. She knew he was dead but she wouldn’t stop. She breathed air into his lungs and was aware of the blood seeping up through his chest each time she did so.

And she knew. His lungs were filling with blood. He was drowning.

Before each breath, she spoke to him.

“Don’t die,” she said with a raised voice. “You come back. I know you can see me. Jennifer is safe. You don’t have to leave. Come back.”

All around her, the walls were starting to give. Chunks of the ceiling gave way and smashed to the floor while fire on the second floor started to reveal itself and tumble down from above. Jennifer and Mark were at the door now. They stopped to look inside and then Jennifer started to run toward Marty.

“Go!” Maggie said. “Get him out of here. Don’t come back-you won’t have a second chance if you do. Marty’s fine, Jennifer. I’m getting him out of here now. Wait for us across the street on the sidewalk.”

Reluctantly, Jennifer stopped.

“Come with us, Maggie.”

It was Mark. She found him and now she was certain she’d lose him again. The building was going to give way. She knew it. She felt it. It took everything she had within her to say, “Just go. We’re right behind you. I promise.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

They left.

She gave Marty another shot of air, but nothing was working. She increased pressure on the wound and then, in her despair, she realized she was crying. All around them, pieces of the ceiling continued to fall. The house was shifting, weakening. The walls were alight with flame. The heat was intense. She leaned over him and held his face in her hand. She gently shook him. “Come back.”

The police, fire department and EMTs broke into the building. Maggie looked at them as they raced toward her. She turned back to Marty. “You’re not going to die,” she said. “Your girls need you. Do you hear me? Your girls need you. You can’t do this to the girls.”

And then, in spite of the smoke closing down on her, she pressed her scarred cheek to the hot floor, took a lungful of clean air and breathed whatever life was left inside her straight into him.