56

The museum was in sight now. It looked as though she would make it, after all. The police would be there. They would grab him as soon as he stepped inside the door. And she would collapse against Duvivier, maybe even cry.

“Are you thinking about him, Christine?”

“About who?”

“You know who.”

“No,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Jesus Christ. Did anyone ever consider that Christine Rivers might have committed suicide?

Duvivier heard Lida before he saw her. He had all but given up. He had started down the floating staircase, the carcass of a V-2 rocket obstructing his view of the door.

“Not yet,” she said with exaggerated petulance. “I want to look around first.”

Duvivier waited on the landing as they walked past. And then he followed, gingerly, in their contrails.

Lida stood before a blowup of the surface of the moon. She traced her finger along the edge of a crater, playing for time. Just where the hell were those cops? Did you have to be behind the wheel of a car to bring them out of their hiding hole? But maybe they were there, laid back but ready. Maybe. Lida tried to roll her eyes without moving her head. So that Riley wouldn’t notice.

Riley stood behind her, staring at her ass.

Duvivier thought of his heroes. Any one of them would have grabbed Riley by the shoulder, spinning him around. Then they’d send one swift punch to Riley’s jaw, toppling him backward, impaling him on one of the jagged moon rocks.

Duvivier could only watch.

They moved into one of the small exhibit cubicles. Duvivier stood at the door, waiting. There were several people in the room, so he was sure Lida would be safe.

Riley stood beside a small Army helicopter. Lida examined it, moving from the cockpit toward the tail. Then around the tail, back along the other side.

Riley kept his eyes on her.

She leaned her hand against the prop. She pushed. It spun around, and the nearest blade hit Riley on the temple.

“That does it,” he said, coming after her.

Lida laughed, as if it were a game.

She dodged behind some tourists, and then moved on.

Riley lumbered after her, his face getting redder, his hands reaching forward.

Duvivier moved to block his progress. The door was wide, too wide to bar it with his body. But if he could confront Riley, offering himself in exchange for Lida …

Duvivier stood in a pose that mirrored the Crucifixion.

And Riley pushed past him, without recognition.

That scared Duvivier more than anything else had yet.

Lida spotted a queue that had formed for the movie, Flight. It was a thick line, with the people standing four abreast. She ran alongside it. Why were there no guards? And then she saw the tallest man that she could ever hope to see.

He was a big, loose-jointed black, a basketball player, she supposed. Even without the hair, which was massive, he must have been seven feet tall. The tallest of the others came up to the base of the camera which the man had slung around his neck. It looked like a miniature camera resting on his chest.

Lida aimed for him, connected, and reached up, taking his arm. “Hey, my friend thinks you’re just a dumb nigger,” she said, “but I think you’re cute.”

Even before the man’s eyes could grow large, Riley was there. He lunged, stretching forward, his hand grabbing for Lida’s face.

Lida ducked. Riley caught hold of a thick brown male forearm.

The man glared down at Riley. The top of Riley’s head was, maybe, mid-lens. But Riley didn’t drop his arm, even though the huge man swung around, stepped forward, facing Riley now.

People began to bob, with everyone straining to see. Lida took a step backward.

And then Riley dropped his arm, and he, too, moved back.

“That’s better,” the man said, smiling. It wasn’t a conciliatory smile. It was mean. “Now, what—exactly—is that you say?”

And Riley stood, heaving, considering. It only took a second, maybe less. Riley brought his leg up, straight, fast, high. It hit the man in the groin, audibly.

Everyone gasped, in chorus.

The huge man fell, clutching his testicles and wailing. He rolled from this side to that, the camera clattering against the floor behind him.

The people swarmed crazily, and Duvivier hopped up on the staircase, the better to see.

The, around the corner from the knot of people, he caught a green flash that registered as Lida’s coat. The door to the ladies’ room closed behind it.

Lida raced through the room where the mirrors and the sinks were and back into the room with the stalls. There would be a window. She would climb out the window, run through the streets. She was safe now, she thought irrationally. He couldn’t follow her here. He wouldn’t dare.

There was a window. And just behind it, a thick mesh screen. Lida curled her fingers through it, tried to move it, shake it. An impenetrable mesh screen.

The people had not yet resumed their places in the line. The black man was standing now, without his camera. He was stooping to talk to a doddering security guard, who was writing in a little pad.

Duvivier looked back toward the ladies’ room, and just in time.

Paul Riley had opened the door. He looked back at the milling crowd just once, and then he went inside.