“Thanks,” Savich said.
“Maybe a dribble of blood down the side of your mouth.”
They followed her up the narrow back stairway, the wooden steps nine inches deep all the way to the top. They followed Pearl into a narrow, dim hallway, with a door at the end that had a sheet of black paper thumbtacked to it that said PERKY. “Here we go. This is her digs.”
She unlocked the door, shoved it open. Savich quickly pushed her behind them. “Stay put,” he said.
He and Sherlock, SIGs drawn, slowly walked in, Savich high, Sherlock low, careful to keep Pearl behind them. They were all the way in the small, shadowy space when the door slammed shut behind them and they heard the key turn in the lock, then the wild, fast flap of boots back down the stairs. Savich kicked the door open and, bending low, eased out into the small hallway. If he hadn’t been nearly bent double, he would have been shot in the chest. The bullet whizzed over his head, barely missing him. He fell flat on the hallway floor and fired. Two more bullets slammed into the wall above his head, then he heard the sound of running. Sherlock came down beside him. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, just humiliated.”
“Well,” she said, “I think we just met Perky. I gotta say, she’s not bad. I didn’t doubt her once.”
Savich pulled out his cell. “Dane, a girl—all Goth black—just did us in. It’s got to be Perky. No, no, we’re okay. She should be running out of the K-Martique any second now. She’s got a gun and she’s good. One of you go around back, just in case. If she already came out, go after her. Like I said, all Goth—long black hair, black clothes, black boots, real young, maybe early twenties. Be careful. I mean it, she’s dangerous.”
He listened for a moment. “Excellent, yeah, that’s her. Came right out the front door, did she? Pretty confident, our girl. Bring her down. Her real name is Pearl Compton. Maybe.”
Savich heard running footsteps, heard Dane shout, “Stop, Pearl! FBI, stop right there!”
There was a shot fired and Savich thought he’d swallow his tongue. He gripped his cell. “What happened? What’s going on?”
Three more gunshots. People shouting, screaming.
Savich and Sherlock dashed out of the shop to see Ollie and Dane running a block away, ducking into a Barnes & Noble.
“Not good,” Savich said.
They ran down the block and slowed only when they stepped into Barnes & Noble. They both knew the bookstore well, all three floors, the first floor a big open space, the clerks behind a counter extending along the left side, the books to the right. At that moment, the place was fast becoming a mad-house, clerks and customers shouting and yelling, some on the floor, a couple of bookshelves overturned, books tossed everywhere, and a man’s voice—Steve Olson, the manager—yelling for everyone to get down. Dane and Ollie and the two surveillance agents were weaving their way in and out of the aisles, following the screams and yells, looking for Perky.
Savich saw her shoot at Dane from behind the travel aisle, then leap onto the down escalator from the second level and begin to run up, flat out, her black skirt flying, her boots thudding loudly on the treads, a gun in her right hand. He knew to his gut she was heading to the third floor, the children’s section, to find herself the perfect hostage. Of course she could grab anyone. He called, “Sherlock, get everyone over here. Steve, buzz up to the children’s area. Get the kids on the elevator, fast, or in the restrooms, just out of sight. Everyone, stay down!”
He heard Steve yell again and again, “They’re FBI, everything will be okay. Don’t panic, stay down!”
Perky turned as she jumped off at the top of the escalator and for one long moment, she stared at Savich. Then she grabbed a teenage girl by her long hair as she was crawling away and hauled her to her feet. “See what I got here, Mr. Agent?” She shook the girl like a rat. But while she spoke she looked over at Sherlock, who was approaching them, slowly, eyes on Perky, keeping real close to the books. “Say good-bye to the little cutie,” Perky yelled, and fired not at the girl she was holding but at Sherlock.
Sherlock twisted against the bookshelf. A Linda Howard novel took the bullet. Three more shots, but Sherlock couldn’t fire back, none of them could, not with Perky holding the girl in front of her.
Perky said, “Well now, this is what I’d call an impasse.”
Savich called out, “Give it up, Pearl, it’s over.”
She brought up her gun, fast as a snake, and fired at Savich. He threw himself to the side, not wanting to fire back and risk hitting the girl. But that pale, terrified teenager leaned down and bit Perky’s arm. Perky clouted her in the head with her fist, dropped her, whirled toward Savich, and fired again.
“Get down!” he yelled.
The teenager tried, but she fell onto the escalator and began rolling down toward him. She tried to flatten herself, but it was impossible. He yelled, “When you hit the bottom, run as fast as you can!”
Savich heard people yelling, saw parents clutching their kids, a teenage boy holding up his pants as he tried to shield his little brother behind him. The teenager hit bottom, rolled once, and came up running.
Perky stood at the top of the escalator and slowly raised her gun while she looked down. There were so many people—she had a fine selection.
No choice, no choice. Savich rolled and came up, moving faster than the teenager. He had to take her down, and do it now. He brought up his SIG.
He heard Dane shout, “Perky! Hey, girl, don’t you love me anymore?”
TWENTY-NINE
Perky jerked around, her black hair lashing her face. She found Dane, crouched a dozen feet behind Savich, to his right. She raised her gun.
There were two little boys suddenly close to Savich, shrieking—he didn’t know where they’d come from. One of them tripped over him and went sprawling. Savich rolled on top of the kid to protect him, twisted around to see Dane fire at nearly the same time that Perky did. The world slowed to a crawl. Dane’s bullet slammed hard into her right shoulder, knocking her sideways onto the down escalator. Perky grabbed for the railing but her fingers couldn’t make purchase. Dane watched her slowly sink down onto the moving steps. He ran up to her, grabbed the long flowy black sleeve of her dress but it ripped off in his hands as her body spilled out onto the floor, her black skirt twisting around her thin body, her long black wig pulled half off her head, long blond hair spilling out. She lay motionless. Savich knew she must be covered in blood from the wound in her shoulder, but he couldn’t see any. The blood soaked into the black. Black on black.