Sara was slumped in the corner. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back at a strange angle. Her normally pale complexion was frighteningly white, colorless. Her trembling lips were thin and blue. She looked so pitifully small and helpless, huddled in the corner like a wounded animal trapped in a cage.
“Sara?”
No response. Her breathing was labored and uneven. Her shoulder drooped into her chest; her arms hung limply at her sides.
“Sara?”
Still nothing. Her eyes remained closed. A choking noise, like something was stuck in her air passage, came from her throat. Part of him wanted Sara to stay unconscious, but most of him wanted her to be awake. He wanted her to be conscious when he killed her, to have the right to stare at him with accusing, hateful eyes as he pulled the trigger. The haunting image would never leave him, he knew. It would be his own way of serving penance.
He kept his distance on the off chance that she would regain consciousness and try to surprise him. From where he stood near the doorway, he would have plenty of time to raise his gun and fire should she try to cross the room. Not even someone with Michael’s quickness would be able to cross a room that fast.
For a moment he considered using the knife in his pocket on her. It would, no doubt, be quieter. But no, he would stick to the gun. The gun was more impersonal. It could kill from a distance. Stabbing someone, slicing their throat from ear to ear or jutting the long blade into the heart . . . only a certain sort of man could do such a thing.
Harvey found it too painful to stare at Sara’s pathetic form crouched in the corner. He swerved his eyes toward the neat row of test tubes on the top shelf. He read the labels. So close was he to his project that he had each patient’s code and every chemical in this room memorized.
87m332 was Ezra Platt. 98k003 was Kiel Davis. The next one should be, yes it was, 39kl0, Kevin Fraine . . .
“Sara?”
Still nothing. Her troubled breathing had deteriorated into struggled gasps and arduous intakes. Harvey felt tears push into his eyes, but as he had done when he ordered Bruce’s death, he forced them back down. His eyes moved down the row of beakers.
NaOH, SO2, H2SO4, next should be H3PO4, and then...
. . . where was the HCl . . . ?
Sara’s slumped arm moved like it had been spring-released. The arm shot toward him as he raised his gun. In her hand Sara held a large glass beaker filled with HCl. Harvey’s eyes widened.
HCl. Hydrochloric acid.
There was no time to react. The liquid flew across the room and splashed onto Harvey’s face.
He screamed.
The acid ripped at him. It burrowed into his face, eating away at his flesh, shredding his corneas and pupils, tearing apart the milky whites of his eyes. Pain engulfed him, but the pain in his skin was nothing compared to what was happening in his eyes. Thousands of sharp flaming darts punctured the soft gel of his eyeballs.
His hands flew to his face; his fingers pulled at his eyes in a futile attempt to lessen the pain. He could hear his skin and eyes sizzle, smell the burning flesh on his own face.
As Sara struggled to her feet, she saw the gun fall from his hand and bounce underneath a shelf. She thought groggily of trying to get it but decided against it. It would probably take too long and give Harvey the time he needed to recuperate. Better to make a run for it.
Before she took a step, Sara heard Harvey manage his first words since the acid had landed on his face. They started low, almost inaudible, but they grew louder with each syllable. He repeated the same words over and over as though they were some sort of ritual chant:
“You must die, Sara. You must.”
THE elevator moved so damn slowly. After thirty seconds of pushing the close-door button, the door grudgingly obeyed by sliding shut. With a grunt it began to ascend.
“You check the second floor,” Max said to Willie. “I’ll go up to the third. Yell if you see anything.”
“Right.”
The elevator stopped on the second floor. The door had not yet opened when Max and Willie heard what sounded like a long, primal scream.
“Third floor,” Max shouted.
Willie repeatedly pressed the third-floor button, but the elevator’s course had already been set and it was not about to be rushed by a human scream. The door opened slowly on the second floor and then paused.
Impatience overcame Max. He sprinted across the portal. “I’ll take the stairway. Meet me up there.”
Willie withdrew his revolver from its holster. “Got ya.”
“YOU must die, Sara . . .”
Sara wasted little time. Summoning up strength she did not have, she maneuvered past Eric’s body, shoved Harvey aside, and hobbled toward the door. Even with the adrenaline flow, her movements were slow. The cold had stiffened her limbs and constricted her lungs. She had spent so much energy on the quick swing of her arm and pushing Harvey that she feared she might not be able to make it.
Have to. The baby . . .
A few minutes earlier Sara had been ready to give up. Trapped in the cold room, no way of escape, no hope of a last minute rescue . . . no Michael—in truth, she had almost welcomed defeat. There was nothing left. Her spirit had been crushed. Michael dead. What difference could survival make when there was no Michael?
She had begun to drift away. Delirium took control, and it too was welcome. Anything was better than reality. She would just drift and drift, not think about Michael, just drift, look around, let her mind replay “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper.” She could almost hear Buck Dharma singing about the Grim Reaper’s visit . . . “It was clear she couldn’t go on, / Then the door was opened and the wind appeared, / The candles blew and then disappeared . . . ”
She was looking around, looking at all the test tubes and fancy equipment on the shelves, looking until too exhausted to look anymore, eyes beginning to close . . .
. . . “the curtains flew and then He appeared . . .”
. . . yes, there were all the various test tubes and glass dishes and beakers . . .
. . . “saying ‘Don’t be afraid, come on, baby’ . . .”
. . . lots of beakers, so many sizes with all the fancy codes labeled on the front.
. . . “and she had no fear . . .”
. . . Sara had not held a beaker or test tube since tenth-grade chemistry. God, she hated that class. Seemed like all they did was the damn periodic table. She remembered very little of it now, like the Spanish she took for four years and never used again. A few words she remembered. Hola was hello . . .
. . . “as she ran to him . . .”