Michael Prescott - Shiver

He returned to the car and drove west, gripping the wheel with one hand, while with the other he wrested a hunk of clay from the package and shaped it with his quick, dexterous fingers. There was no time to put in detail or to get the proportions exactly right. Still, the object in his hand took form. Four stumps for legs, twin bulges for wings, a tapering projection for a head.

The clay was moist and soft; air would not harden it for hours, long after the bitch was dead. That was all right. The figure would stiffen as she did, the clay becoming rigid while rigor mortis crept through her body on a tray in the morgue.

Grinning, Rood placed the statue in his pocket. A last gift for his love.

At ten-forty-five by the cruiser’s dashboard clock, he turned onto the Avenue of the Stars and parked in a red zone directly outside the office building.

He took a deep breath and smiled. He knew he would die soon, but he was unafraid. He would play his last and greatest game, win against all odds, then perish in a firestorm of glory.

“And so,” he whispered, “let the game begin.”

Next he was running up the concrete staircase, taking the steps two at a time, then streaking across the wide concourse to the lobby doors. He threw open the doors and entered shooting. Two men in business suits went down in a duet of moans. The security guard at the desk danced. In the bank adjacent to the lobby somebody was screaming.

Rood scanned the lighted directory. The offices of Iver amp; Barnes were on the eighth floor. He leaned his fist on the elevator call button till he heard the chime. The double doors parted, and a small crowd of people stood there staring at him with sheep’s eyes. He waved the shotgun at them, and they scattered, bleating in terror.

Boarding the elevator, he pressed the button marked 8. As he ascended, he was singing softly to himself. The song was “Desperado.”

He had power. He was in control.

On the eighth floor the doors slid apart. He strode down the gray-carpeted corridor under tubes of fluorescent light, loading more shells into the magazine to replace those he’d expended in the lobby. The reception area of Iver amp; Barnes Consultants, Inc., was framed behind a wall of glass. Rood pushed open the door and pointed the shotgun directly at the woman behind the curved mahogany desk.

“Wendy Alden,” he said quietly. “She in today?”

The woman’s eyes were wide and unblinking. A voice buzzed from the receiver of the telephone clutched forgotten in her hand. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Communications.”

“Where is that?”

She pointed feebly at a rear doorway. “End of the hall. On the left.”

“Thank you very much,” Rood said politely as he pulled the trigger once.

He left the reception area and entered the suite of offices, marching swiftly down the hall.

Wendy was at her desk working on a booklet for a chain of convenience stores when her telephone rang.

“Communications.”

“Wendy”-the voice was Delgado’s-“there may be a problem.”

Cold. She was cold.

“Problem?” she echoed blankly.

“I’m at the courthouse. Rood hasn’t shown up for the hearing. The jail can’t establish contact with the deputies assigned to him. It’s possible he got away somehow.”

The chair under her was suddenly unsteady. She leaned her free hand on the desk to keep from falling.

“Wendy? Do you hear me?”

From down the hall, a sharp crack.

“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered.

Another echoing report. Another.

Then… screams.

“He’s here,” she breathed into the receiver. “He’s here, oh, my God, he’s here!”

Rood strode briskly down the corridor, firing into rooms at random. He hosed an empty office and blew out the ceiling-to-floor windows in a tinkling rain of glass. In the office next door he found an executive in a three-piece suit screaming hysterically into the telephone; a cloud of buckshot cut him in half.

His glasses, secured by only one stem, kept threatening to ski off his nose. Impatiently he knocked them back with a swipe of his knuckles. He fished more shells out of his pocket and thumbed them into the magazine, his movements precise, controlled, efficient. He felt he could do anything. He was flying.

From behind him came the report of a handgun.

He spun, sinking to a half-crouch. At the other end of the hall, near the doorway to the reception area, a security guard stood with legs splayed in the classic firing stance, a. 38 revolver in both hands.

The guard fired again, the bullet kicking up a spray of splinters from the doorframe near Rood’s head. Coolly Rood stared down the Remington’s twenty-inch barrel, fixing the guard in the front and rear beads. One shot, and the guard’s shirt bloomed red. An abdominal wound, messy but not fatal. Before Rood could fire again, the guard took cover in an office, shooting wildly, bullets flying in all directions. Finally his revolver clicked, empty.

Rood sprinted for the office while the guard, kneeling as if in prayer, his pants soaked scarlet, frantically swung open the cylinder and dumped the empty cartridge cases, then reached into the ammo pouch of his gun belt. He was trying to reload with shaking hands when Rood finished him with a shot to the head.

Easy.

Turning from the office doorway where the guard lay motionless in a burgundy pool. Rood jogged down the hall toward the door marked COMMUNICATIONS.

Delgado’s voice was still buzzing on the line, but Wendy barely heard him. She dropped the phone and left her cubicle at a run.

The other writers were looking around in confusion. She had to get them out of the office. The only exit that didn’t lead to the hall was the door to the stairwell.

“Everybody!” Her scream cut through the babble of voices. “The stairs. Take the stairs!”

She hustled them toward the red Exit sign. The gunshots were closer now.

“What’s going on out there?” Monica was asking. Her black bangs flapped wildly. “Why are they screaming?”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Kirsten shouted. “The Gryphon?”

Wendy nodded once and heard Monica moan.

They reached the stairwell and streamed through the doorway as Wendy hurried them along. Kirsten was last in line. She looked at Wendy, standing outside the door, making no move to follow.

“Come on!” Kirsten shouted.

Wendy shook her head. “It’s me he’s after. If I go with you, I’ll get you all killed. And…” Another gunshot racketed down the hall. “And enough people have died for me already.”

“Wendy-”

“ Go!”

Kirsten went. The door banged shut behind her.

Then Wendy was alone in the room under the grid of fluorescent panels, with the deep, guttural coughs of gunfire closing in on her like the throaty growls of a hungry animal.

She ran toward the cubicles, thinking vaguely that she could hide in that maze of compartments, knowing her plan was hopeless, and then Franklin Rood rushed in through the open door, and his gaze swept the room and came to rest on her.

For a moment they both stood paralyzed, facing each other across a distance of thirty feet. Then Rood made a sound that might have been laughter.

“Got something for you, Wendy! Got a present for you!”

The shotgun bucked in his hands. She dived to the carpet, and the spray of shot whipped past her, cutting the windows at her back into a litter of jigsaw pieces. She snap-rolled behind the row of cubicles. Half-stumbling, half-crawling, she tried to outpace the hail of buckshot punching holes in the compartments’ thin particleboard walls. The hinged units swayed and fell like card houses. Computers exploded in showers of pinwheeling sparks.

The gunfire grew louder, nearer. Rood was circling around to the rear of the cubicles, chasing her down. At any second he would turn the corner and have her in his sights.