“Go!” I yelled, and David turned away from the sound of gunfire. Holly grabbed him by the arm, and together they bolted for the entrance. Their path was clear.
I spun around to see bodies tumbling down the staircase as people scrambled to get clear, to get away, before they were caught in the cross fire. A big guy in a fawn overcoat, still talking into his microphone, shouldered me out of his way, and I had to bump past a couple of female anchors to get a view.
Gerry Sinton was kneeling, with his head down on the concrete. He sat up, ran his hands over his stomach, chest, legs, making sure he hadn’t caught a stray bullet. The white sheet flew off the head of the Lizard, and with it, he discarded the spent firecracker. Before Gerry could get a good look at him, the Lizard took off. Frankie made a circular motion above his head with his fist. He was going to park and then he’d be coming back. The crowd of reporters caught their breath, cameras steadied, and the screaming became commentary.
As I reached the top steps, I saw David and Holly safely beyond the security check, inside the courthouse.
Holly was holding David’s hand.
I made my apologies as I weaved through the group of reporters that had gathered outside the entrance. A hand gripped my arm, and I turned.
The man with the Scream tattoo on his throat had taken hold of me. I couldn’t move. It wasn’t his grip that held me; it was his eyes. His pupils and irises were not dark brown; they were black. Totally black. Each eye looked like a perfect pearl of onyx resting in a saucer of milk. And below that face, the pale man screamed on his throat.
I caught the stink of cigarettes from him when he released his grip and held up his open hands, fingers spread wide. While his skin was dark, his palms were purest white. I noticed more droplets and splashes of white coloring on his fingers and wrists. The skin in these areas was smooth: no wrinkles or lines on his palms or fingers. Everything had been scalded clean, flat, and unmarked. His touch wouldn’t even leave a fingerprint.
The man was so unusual, so striking, that for a moment I didn’t see that he was hiding something in the pinch between his thumb and index finger.
“Tell your client to keep his mouth shut, cabrón,” said the man in a thick Spanish accent.
He backed away and spread his right thumb away from his index finger.
I heard the cracking of thin glass. Pushing through the crowd, he trod down the steps. I heard something hissing and looked down. Fragments of glass, no bigger than a spoonful, and surrounding them an amber liquid bubbled as it ate through the concrete.
He’d been holding a small vial of acid. I shivered and scanned the steps. He’d gone.