The Serpent's Kiss

94

Michael Church arrived at the top of the stairs feeling only slightly winded. Only moments before he had heard a door close above him, so he felt confident Kevin Matsumoto had gone to the top, not taken any of the other doors he had encountered.

The final door was blank metal with no sign indicating what lay beyond. Steeling himself, Michael pushed through it.

He found himself standing in a gallery at the very top of The Palace. There were entrances to a number of the fourth level luxury suites. Panic gripped his heart with icy fingers. Had he lost The Serpent?

Off to his right he glimpsed Matsumoto glance around, then step through another door, this one marked Authorized Personnel Only. Michael leapt toward it, sprinting the distance, and lunging against the door just before it shut completely. There was a card reader on this door, as well.

He pushed through. Another flight of steps, industrial metal, bare walls.

He rushed upward, reckless. Time was ticking away too fast.

Out another door, and he found himself standing on a metal gridwork at one end of The Palace. The entire arena was below him. He was at the very top of the building, among the girders and catwalks. Pennants dangled nearly at eye level proclaiming the Detroit Piston’s championship seasons and the retired numbers of Piston stars. PalaceVision loomed large, still dark, a huge four-sided TV screen dangling from the center of the roof. The Palace arena spread at his feet, a huge, scooped bowl filled with people, probably a couple hundred feet across, and easily a hundred feet down.

Kevin Matsumoto was off to his right, moving determinedly toward a catwalk that angled all the way across the space. Matsumoto focused straight ahead, not looking back at Michael. Michael slipped along the wall, trying to keep to the shadows, not wanting Matsumoto to see him.

Matsumoto stepped out onto the catwalk, walking toward the middle of the space.

Michael increased his speed, trying to close the distance. Sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He blinked, wiping his face with his sleeve. He didn’t want to go out on that catwalk. It looked like it was about five or six feet wide, a steel grid, with a railing on one side, a drop of about a hundred feet off the other. Michael felt like a clamp was being tightened around his guts.

This was for real. This wasn’t some fantasy, some TV or movie, some heroic video game. This was real.

Matsumoto was moving toward the center of the space, turning toward the railing. Michael saw that he had something in both hands. He thought one looked like a remote control. He wasn’t sure what the other was.

Taking a deep breath, Michael stepped onto the catwalk, ignoring the dizzying depth beneath him, and headed toward The Serpent.

The Serpent turned then to see him. Something peculiar flashed across the guy’s face. Surprise? Relief? Shock? Anger?

Michael didn’t know. He felt his concentration both narrow and broaden, similar to what he experienced when sparring in karate — focusing on the opponent but staying attuned to the environment and other possible threats.

A smile burst across Kevin Matsumoto’s face and he held up the remote control. “Don’t even think about it,” he called out.

Michael didn’t hesitate or pause for even a second. He broke into a flat-out sprint along the catwalk toward The Serpent.