Jed Rubenfeld - The Death Instinct

'You had me kidnapped,' she said, still backing away.

'It was the most efficient thing in the world. We had some foreigners in town for another task — Serbs, weren't they, Samuels? — very well suited for the job.'

'You tried to kill me — and then proposed to me?'

'That is one of my great strengths, Miss Rousseau. I admit my mistakes. I learn from them. It was all a misunderstanding. Do you know why Amelia tried to see you at your hotel? It's because some of the girls overheard you at our factory in Connecticut saying that my company was killing people. But you didn't mean my paint was doing any harm. You meant that luminous watches divert radium from medical uses. How preposterous — that misunderstanding nearly killed you! It was I who came to your rescue. You owe your life to me, Miss Rousseau. I saw Samuels's mistake immediately after I heard you at the church. That's why I ordered the attacks against you to stop.' Brighton shook his head ruefully. 'But now look how things have turned out. What a pity. Samuels, can we keep her in the infirmary? If I can't marry her, that would be my second choice.'

'They'll come for her,' said Samuels.

Brighton sighed: 'You're right, as always.' While Samuels kept his gun trained on Colette, Brighton went to a metal barrel positioned on top of a worktable. Opening a tap at its base, he filled a glass measuring cup with greenish paint. 'Since you aren't receptive to me, Miss Rousseau, would you mind at least opening your mouth and holding quite still? Please say you'll cooperate. It will make things so much easier.'

Colette didn't answer. She was touching the wall with her hands behind her back, feeling for something. Where was it?

'Does your silence mean yes?' asked Brighton. 'I would be very impressed with you. Girls are usually so unreasonable. Most people are. I remember as a boy I would propose something perfectly sensible, and my parents would say it was "wrong." They would get that look on their faces. What does it mean — wrong? It's as if they were suddenly speaking in tongues. I don't believe the word has any meaning. I've asked people many times to explain it to me; no one can. They just give examples. It's gibberish. I look at people sometimes, Miss Rousseau, and honestly I think they're all cattle. I may be the only one with a mind of his own. Samuels, open Miss Rousseau's mouth.'

'You're going to make me drink your paint?' asked Colette, aghast, taking another step back

'Please don't be concerned,' said Brighton. 'We've done it before; it works splendidly. The paint will make you sick, and we'll rush you to the Sloane Hospital for Women, where a specialist named Lyme will treat you. He'll give you something that will keep you from speaking. You'll get weaker, and your hair may fall out. That will make you very unattractive, but it's all right — I won't come to visit. You'll be diagnosed with syphilis, I imagine. Then you'll die. It all goes very smoothly, I promise you. Won't you please open your mouth? You'll be doing me a great favor.'

'Mr Brighton, I beg you,' she said, turning her back to him. 'Shoot me now. Get it over with.'

'But I can't,' answered Brighton. 'If we shot you, Miss Rousseau, either your body would have to disappear, which would raise all sorts of questions, or else we'd have to turn you over to the police with bullets in you, which would raise even more. I assure you, the paint is much — '

Brighton never finished this sentence. Colette, her back to the two men, had taken hold of the red wooden handle of the light switch the master switch, which the working girl had warned her of earlier and she plunged the factory into darkness. Immediately she dropped to all fours as shots rang out and bullets ricocheted off the metal plate above her.

'Stop shooting!' ordered Brighton. 'There's nowhere she can go. Get the lights back on.'

Colette could see nothing except the glass measuring cup of radio- luminescent paint in Brighton's hands, glowing greenish yellow, casting an eerie light on his nose and chin. She darted to him, seized the cup with both hands, and threw the paint in his face.

'Get it off me!' yelled Brighton. 'Get it off!'

Colette rushed to the far wall, which had four great windows in it. The dimmest hint of light was coming back to the factory floor. Samuels had thrown the master switch, but the overhead lamps, with their thick filaments, only gradually came to life. Samuels stood next to Brighton with a handkerchief, trying vainly to rub the glowing paint off his employer's face.

'Never mind!' said Brighton. 'Where is she?'

Colette picked up one of the girls' stools and smashed it into the windowpanes, opening a gaping hole. Samuels fired in her direction, but the darkness saved her. She scrambled out of the window, the leather gloves preventing the glass shards from cutting her too deeply, and let herself drop to the street below. Heedless of direction, heart pounding, Colette ran from the factory. She didn't hear anyone pursuing her; still she ran on.

Turning a corner, she found herself on a short, narrow, empty street without a single streetlight. She came to a small park. She ran across it, under several trees, until she reached an old, high, massive stone building with wooden doors. It was Trinity Church. She was at a side entrance: the doors were locked. Breathing hard from running, she beat on the doors with all her might, but no one answered. Again she ran off into the night.

'Got to go to Grand Central,' said Littlemore to Younger as they walked down Wall Street toward the subway station at the corner of Broadway, where, directly facing them at the end of Wall Street, the dim Gothic spires of Trinity Church loomed up in the night sky. 'Want to come?'

'I'm meeting Colette,' said Younger. 'Here at the church.'

'Hope you aren't planning to take her some place fancy,' said Littlemore, looking at Younger's scarred clothing.

'Strange — where is she? She should have been here by now.' They were still a half block from the church, but there was a streetlamp outside its entrance, where Younger had expected Colette to be waiting.

'Say, how's the Miss doing?' asked Littlemore. 'Wasn't she meeting some bigwig tonight?'

'Arnold Brighton.'

'No kidding. You know, I wonder if-'

Littlemore had not finished this sentence when Colette came running frantically around the side of the church. She stopped at the iron lamppost, body heaving for lack of breath. Younger called out her name.

'Stratham?' she answered, full of alarm. Although Colette was visible to the two men, they were in darkness, invisible to her. She set off toward the sound of Younger's voice. 'Thank God.'

The twin doors of Trinity Church burst open, revealing an arched portal flooded with light from within the church. Beneath that arch stood Arnold Brighton, his face a glowing chartreuse orb, his eyes starkly white by contrast. Next to him was Samuels.

'There she is!' cried Brighton, pointing to the figure running down Wall Street. 'Shoot her!'

Samuels fired. Colette disappeared from below one streetlight and reappeared below the next. She hadn't been hit. Younger stepped forward to gather her in, trying to put his back between her and the gunfire even as Samuels fired twice more. Colette fell hard into Younger's arms. He whirled her off her feet and carried her into the darkness of a storefront alcove.

Littlemore had taken cover behind a mailbox, checking all his pockets for a gun, but he had none, having lost his firearm underground. Now he scrambled on all fours to Younger as Samuels's bullets flew over his head. 'Is she all right?' he asked.

'I'm fine,' answered Colette, still in Younger's arms. Samuels held his fire, evidently unable to see his targets.

'You with the girl,' said a different voice directly behind them, boyish but trying to sound commanding. 'Let her go.'