Jan Burke - Nine

At the top was a clock face. Beneath the clock was a clear, narrow cylinder filled with eight shiny metal balls about the size of billiard balls. The balls were stacked within the cylinder, one on top of the other.

At the end of the cylinder, and to its left, was a trough that sat at a slight angle, so that a ball entering it would roll onto a tilted strip. The strip opened on to nine channels, the channels also tilted down at a slight angle. Metal tabs could be seen at the end of each of these channels. They reminded Alex of the tabs that touch the ends of batteries in a battery-powered device. A ninth silver ball was in the first slot.

Alex saw then that there were thin metal gates at the tops of the channels. The gate above the channel holding the ball was closed. The gate for the channel next to it was the only one in an open position. The next ball to be released could fall only into that channel.

This whole platform of channels appeared to be supported from beneath by a thick pipe, but then he saw that it was not a stand but a conduit, and that it bent at the floor and continued toward the sandbags.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Everett said with pride. “I built it myself. But I see we really are running late.”

To Alex’s dismay, Everett blindfolded him. They were alone now, Alex thought. It might be best just to try to take him out. If he moved that close again…

“We’re going to walk over these bags,” Everett said. “The trick will be to do so without tripping a number of pressure-sensitive devices I have hidden beneath them. You understand, I’m sure, the need to move exactly as I guide you.”

“Maybe I’ll just set one off and send us both to meet our Maker. I think I’d come out better in the long run, don’t you?”

“Really? I hope your nephew has led an equally pure life, then. I did a little remodeling near the top of the tower. Once my guests were installed in their suite, I had fun with an electric saw. They slept through it all, poor dears. I did consider turning them into morphine addicts, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time for every form of revenge that occurs to me.”

“Chase?” Alex called, lifting his face. He heard his voice echo, and silence.

But then a distant, faint voice called back, “Uncle Alex?”

He felt his hopes rise.

There was another voice now, raised in sharp reprimand, and a brief argument. He heard it more clearly a moment later. “If you’re really his uncle Alex, shut up, okay? He’s too dizzy to stand out here. He’ll fall and crack his head open again.”

“Spooky?”

“You know Kit?”

Behind him, Everett suddenly screamed, “Put out that match, you idiot!”

Alex paled. “Yes. Spooky, honey, put the match out, okay?”

“Don’t call me ‘honey,’ you macho asshole.”

But apparently she blew the match out, because Everett sighed in relief. “I wish I had known she was a girl,” he said.

“Who said that?” she asked. “Is he the one who called me an idiot?”

“The man who put you up there. Listen-there are explosives in here, so no more matches, okay, Spooky?”

She was quiet.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I want down from here. Where’s Kit? Where’s Meghan?”

Before he could answer, he heard the sound of a small chime. In the quiet that followed, he heard a click and the sound of a silver ball rolling. It seemed to him as loud as a gutter ball in a bowling alley. It came to a halt with a snap.

“Where the hell is that woman?” Everett said angrily. He jabbed Alex’s back with the barrel of the gun. “We’re wasting time. I simply wanted you to be aware of the risks.” Alex felt a painful grip on his shoulder. “Now, Detective Brandon, step up onto the sandbag directly in front of you.”

He continued to call directions, and Alex followed them, trying to memorize them. The nervousness in Everett’s voice forced him to abandon any hope that there were no pressure-sensitive devices, that it was only a ruse. He could smell the sharp scent of Everett’s sweat, feel the other man’s palm dampening on his shoulder. Alex tried to rid himself of his own dread of tripping over the uneven surfaces of the bags by telling himself that he had a better sense of balance than most and that Everett wouldn’t risk a fall. But the fear of setting off an explosion was never far away.

When he stepped down into the cleared section, Alex found that he was shaking with relief. He forced himself to breathe more evenly. Everett turned him around several times, like a child playing blind man’s bluff. Then Everett removed the blindfold.

As Alex blinked up at him in surprise, Everett smiled.

“Take the end of the rappelling rope and sit down on the floor,” Everett ordered. “Tie that around your ankles.”

“How am I supposed to do that with my hands bound?” he asked.

“Don’t take me for a fool. You can do it. Hurry.”

He took hold of the rappelling rope and awkwardly sat down. This, he realized, was why Everett had insisted on his being handcuffed in front. As he tied the knots, he felt his hands trembling, his fingers growing clumsy and numb with fear. In the next instant, he again felt a surge of anger and bitterness overpowering that fear, raw fury at being made to do Everett’s bidding. But he thought of Chase and Spooky, and kept himself in check. If he could delay long enough for Kit to come in through that door, or bring help…

When he had finished, Everett took something that looked like a television remote control and aimed it toward the winch. There was a click, and suddenly he felt a sharp pull on his ankles-the winch had been turned on.

He quickly lay flat on his back to avoid being yanked off balance, and felt the slow, inexorable pull of the rope as it began to lift him. His heart hammered.

Get a grip, he told himself, and felt himself calming. You can get out of this. You will get out of this. Think.

“I thought Ciara wanted you to wait for her to have all this fun,” he said, as his hips began to feel the pull of the rope.

“She’ll get her turn with Kit,” Everett said absently. He was staring up at the staircase.

The rope went higher, and Alex’s hips left the floor. Change fell out of his pockets, jangling as the coins struck the concrete floor below him. Then his spine and shoulders lifted, and with his blood already rushing to it, his head. His jacket fell around his shoulders and neck, covering his face and dropping pens and his PDA to the floor with a crack. The scent of dried blood on the jacket came to him with every breath. He had visions of being dropped onto the floor headfirst. Let the rope hold. Let the knots hold. Let them hold.

He felt as if he were on the rack, felt the pull of his weight on joints that weren’t meant to sustain it in this direction for long. The rope pinched and abraded his skin, and his injured shoulder began to throb as his arms stretched beneath him. He gritted his teeth as he was pulled higher. The rope began to slowly twist and spin, he with it, in a motion that soon became dizzying.

He heard the winch stop.

Everett had to dodge him-Alex was swaying slowly like a human pendulum, and still spinning as well, about three feet above the sandbags. Alex’s blood had already rushed to his head. He felt the strain on all his joints and was certain that his ankles were going to rip away from his feet. They burned from the pressure of the rope.

“What are you doing to him?” Spooky called.

“I’m okay,” he called back. “Don’t worry.”

“Kit!” Spooky shouted frantically. “Kit!”

For a brief moment, Alex wondered if Kit and his rifle were inside the tower. But the echoes of her shouts faded into silence.

But her cries had distracted Everett, who lost track of Alex swinging near him.