Mallory charged the entrance, his hand tensing around the Glock. Gunner followed flanking to the right, his gun at his side. Danvers positioned Ross and Father Carry behind a car. “Stay here,” he ordered. As he ran to join the others, the Trinity Church bell began to ring. The priest and the shaman waited all of five seconds before following.
The front entrance was destroyed, blackened by fire, smoke pouring out from the top of the broken doors, glass glittering on the ground. As the detectives approached, firefighters preparing to hose it down tried to wave them off. “You can’t go in there!” All three flashed their badges, kept moving.
They avoided the flames, negotiated the debris until they reached the main performance area. Once it was tacky chrome and mirrors, with plush chairs and linen covered tables around several small stages. Now the chrome was charred, many of the clothed tables and once-polished chairs were burning, smoke obscured the room, shattered mirrors reflecting the chaos. Puddles that stank of gasoline were everywhere; it was a wonder the whole place hadn’t gone up yet.
By a long bar, a figure stood silhouetted against fire and neon, writing furiously on an index card. He finished with a flourish, lifted his head, gave the briefest hint of a laugh. Dropping the pen and card dismissively as if that ruse was no longer necessary, he raised his hands, palms up and extended in welcome, bowed slightly.
This shadow — male, short, medium build, loose clothing — was nothing exceptional; no horns, no tail, none of that crap.
Outside, the church bell tolled: One.
Their suspect stepped to the right, toward the bar and a line of shadowed bottles. As he moved, flames illuminated his features.
Outside, the church bell tolled: Two.
Raising his head, giving that one chin nod, he leaned into the firelight.
Outside, the church bell tolled: Three.
It was him: the “Dante” at Westchester Square; the “veteran cop” at the hotel crime scene; the very ordinary Paul Farrington. He smiled, then faded back into the shadows. From that blackness, shots rang out.
Danvers crumpled to the ground at Mallory’s left, blood pouring out of his neck, his face going pale quickly.
Gunner spun around to Mallory’s right, fell to the floor, his gun skittering away, lost in the smoke. Blood sprayed up from his shoulder. “MotherFucker!” Gunner roared, slapping his left hand down on the wound to slow the bleeding.
“Gunner!”
Farrington stood behind the bar, laughing as he pointed his gun. Mallory’s mind raced: Where did he get the gun? How could he be so quick? Why didn’t he shoot me?
Mallory rushed to help his partner. Gunner was clear-eyed and furious. “One on either side of you….” When his partner tried to check his wound, Gunner waved him off. “Forget this, go nail that bastard, Mal, now!”
Mallory bent over Danvers—
Fire exploded to his left, flames taking that entire side of the room, engulfing the door, making the room glow red, heat rising.
Gunner yelled, “Lieu’s gonna be pissed you get wounded, too. Get this fucker!”
Molotov cocktails like he used at the hotel — Farrington was blocking all other possible exits, then he would flee out the back door behind the bar, throwing one last bottle bomb to obstruct that exit too. Trap them as his final victims. “It’s no use, Farrington, the place is surrounded. We’ve got you,” he yelled.
“No, detective, I have you,” Farrington laughed, tossing another in the opposite direction. The fires on that side of the room leapt up, out of control.
Mallory sucked in hot air. Movement in the shadowy space to his right drew the detective’s attention. Some kind of small room, with figures there, rising. Mallory swung his gun toward them, aiming: lining up the sights, targeting dead center on—
Gina.
He froze, uncomprehending, as his wife’s tear-filled eyes locked on his, then she looked down, hugging the kids—
The kids!
She pulled them back from the rising flames. But there wasn’t any place for her to go. And the flames were growing.
Farrington aimed his gun at them. “Drop your weapon, detective. Or I shoot. You’re not fast enough to stop me.”
Mallory dropped his Glock.
His family stood uncomfortably close to a large puddle of gas. Both the boys were wide-eyed with fear. Gina was shaking.
Kill this bastard right now.
Farrington smiled proudly. “See? You’re surrounded.”
“This is between you and me, not them.”
He laughed. “This is about us, Detective, every single horrible one of us. Isn’t that why you have someone lurking in the shadows behind you?”
“Because you and I also have business to finish, demon.” Father Carry stepped into the flickering light of the burning walls, holding a crucifix in one hand, a large open book in the other. He read from it now. “Eternal God, Our Father, let not the enemy prevail against us. Let not the son of iniquity have the power to harm us. For our faith is in you God—”
Farrington shuddered, groaned, then pointed his gun at Max. “Silence the priest or I shoot the little one first.”
Father Carry went silent but continued mouthing the prayers.
Farrington pulled one of the Molotov cocktails towards him. “You see, Detective? He knows who I am. Has for a very long time.” A smile crossed his face, turning its doughy features maliciously confident. “He believes in me. Who do you believe in?”
Mallory blanched. But his mind started flashing on his answers.
Farrington flicked the lighter on, off, on off, waving it close to the cloth fuse. “Come on, Detective, tell us what you believe in.”
“I believe you can’t win.”
The figure before him laughed, lit the bottle, threw it at Mallory. “Can’t win? Look around. Religious leaders fondle children—”
You sleeping, Dad?
Mallory stepped forward, slapped the flaming bomb across the room, away from his family, adding to the inferno already raging to his left.
Wake up! You’re missing everything!
Farrington lit the next. “—Politicians forsake truth for victory. Business giants trample nature for profit. The media spreads fear of everything all the time.” Again Farrington threw it.
Bacon and pink lemonade.
Mallory caught this one, hurled it right back. Farrington ducked. The bar behind him exploded. Mallory took three quick steps forward. Behind him, by the front entrance, a beam collapsed.
Gina’s big brown eyes.
Mallory kept coming, arms extended forward, fingers waving back to himself, offering Farrington a better, closer target than Gina and the boys.
Farrington lit another bottle, face glowing. “Commercials make you all hungry for food, sex, beauty, more, more, more, until none of you can feel confident, happy, satisfied.”
Mallory stepped toward the bottle, head lowered, his own eyes burning brightly from under his brow, focused on this thing threatening his family.
“Can’t win?” Farrington caressed the bomb, letting the fuse burn down. This would be the one. He was going to light Mallory up in front of Gina and the kids. “My dear friend, I already have.”
You have to play what’s there, Dad.
Mallory glanced to his right. “Jesus Christ, please!” He stumbled closer, hands slapping together in supplication.
Farrington raised his homemade hell, aiming at the detective only two feet from him now. “Is that who you finally believe in? Jesus Christ?”
The Who’s “Love reign over me.”
Mallory glanced from Farrington to Gina and the kids. Suddenly, from the shadows of the doorway between them, a burst of white, billowing, foaming chemical spray cleared a path from his family to the rear exit. Ross stepped out, blasting foam right at the madman. The little man ducked behind the bar. Ross threw the now empty fire extinguisher right at Farrington. He came up firing. The extinguisher crashed into his gun hand, sending the bullets wide, the gun flying.
Ross scooped up Kieran in one arm, Max in the other, then led Gina back into the shadows beyond the doorway.
Mallory closed in on Farrington quickly, his fist cocked.
Farrington raised his last firebomb. “Now you’ll see the real me. For I am—”
Mallory punched Farrington right in the throat. “Just another loser.”
Farrington slammed back onto the flaming bar, gasping, choking, the burning bottle somehow still raised, fuse almost gone. He hammered it down toward the detective’s head.
A shot rang out, from behind and to Mallory’s right.
The bottle exploded onto Farrington, flames enveloping his head, chest, arms. Mallory rolled away from the fireball, stunned as Farrington, engulfed now, fell back onto the bar, revealing the wall behind, where the shattered, scorched mirrors reflected distorted images: Farrington burning, Mallory stumbling to his feet before a rising shadow, slithering toward him through the gathering darkness.
“The demon.”
Let him burn!
Mallory could hear the voice, at least he thought he could. Everything was so disjointed now.
Let him burn! You want this! You earned it!
He found himself wanting to agree, starting to as that slithering black smoke gathered around him, thinking of standing there and watching this bastard burn. But then his eyes were drawn away. And there in the scorched mirror, Mallory saw his father.
For the briefest of moments, in one shattered piece of mirror blurred by smoke and flames, tilted just like their family portrait, his father stood, giving him that one nod of the chin.
You take care… of that Gina. … She’s something special.
Kiss my bananas for me.
Now go… do The Job.
Mallory grabbed a table cloth, threw it over Farrington, rolled him off the bar, slammed him to the floor. He grabbed another table cloth, used it to douse the rest of the flames, scorching his hands, not caring.
“What was that?” Farrington screamed, writhing under him now, rage gone, confused now, barely recognizable as the animal Mallory had hunted. “What was That?”
Mallory fought for breath now. “You … have the right … to remain …. silent…. Anything you say… can … and will … be used against you …”
He saw Farrington pass out … His own attention wandering through a graying haze … Gunner backing away from approaching flames, clutching his gun, shoulder bleeding freely … Father Carry kneeling in the haze over Danvers … firefighters rushing in through the darkening smoke … then … blackness.