“Maggie, for Christ’s sake …” Randall began, but the anger and disbelief in his face faded as he surveyed Maggie’s implacable, deadly expression.
“Shut up, Randall.” Maggie’s voice was still polite and even. “Where is he, Alicia?” And she cocked the gun.
“Come and get me, sweetbuns.” The mocking voice floated down from overhead, and Maggie looked up, way up, into the catwalks that crisscrossed the top of the cavernous sound stage. It was too dark and shadowy to see him, but his soft, evil voice called to her.
“Maggie,” Randall’s voice was a plea and a warning.
She ignored him, rising and moving out of his reach. “I’m coming, Bud,” she said grimly, and headed for the cement stairs.
The higher she climbed, the hotter it became. The air was thick and suffocating, but she refused to pause. She kept moving upward, flight after flight of cement steps, the gun held at her side, ready to jerk upward at the faintest sound, her heart cold as ice. Down below, she could hear the murmur of angry voices, could even pick out Randall’s outraged tones, but she didn’t look down. Bud Willis was ahead of her, and she was going to do to him what he’d done to Pulaski.
She reached the first catwalk and stepped forward onto the narrow walkway, all traces of acrophobia banished in her determination. The gun was unwieldy, and her palms were sweating, belying her calm. She heard a noise up ahead, a tiny scuffling that was undoubtedly a rat. Whether it was the human variety or a rodent remained to be seen.
She was halfway across the wide room when her instincts warned her. A second later, the walkway shook as Bud Willis dropped onto it from the catwalk overhead, and she whirled around to face him, the gun ready.
He looked like death, a grinning, horrifying personification of the grim reaper. His lips were drawn back in a smile, and the veins stood out in his forehead. Every nerve, every muscle, every cell in his body was geared for confrontation. He also had a gun in his hand, the smaller one Alicia had used before.
“You’ve got to learn not to let your emotions get in the way,” he said patiently. “You’ll never be any good until you shut out everything. Anger, revenge, even pleasure. Killing has got to be an instinct, not an emotional experience, unless you’re a real expert, as I am.”
She aimed the gun at him. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
“Sweetcakes, there isn’t going to be a next time,” he said sadly.
“You don’t think so? You’ve got a twenty-two pistol, buddy-boy,” she mocked. “I’ve got a sawed-off machine gun. I’m sure you’re quite lethal with that, but my firepower far outdoes yours.”
“But Maggie,” he said softly, “you can’t do it. You can’t stand there and shoot me in cold blood, no matter what I’ve done to you and yours. You can’t pull the trigger until I fire first—and my first bullet will kill you.”
She clicked the gun, one incredibly loud little click that brought it one step closer to a spray of bullets. “Try me.”
She could feel the eyes watching them up there on the narrow walkway, feel the tension radiating up toward them with the heat. Bud Willis’s grin was etched on his face like a stone carving. “I don’t need to. You’re a pussy, Maggie, in more ways than one. I’m going to turn my back on you and walk away, and you won’t be able to stop me. You won’t be able to shoot me in the back. But don’t worry, sweetbuns. I’ll be back for you.” And turning, he presented his back to her, walking away from her down the narrow catwalk.
She watched him go, knowing he was right, hating herself and her own impotence, torn with frustration. Then Willis began to whistle, a cheerful, insistent little song that Maggie knew far too well. It was a song about love and freedom that Mack used to sing when he was Snake the rock star. Something snapped inside.
She leapt at him, dropping the machine gun, but she ignored the sound as it tumbled four flights to the cement floor and smashed. She knocked Willis sideways against the wire handrails, white-hot rage blinding her. Then he slipped away, and she clutched at him, unseeing, with a low wail of helpless fury as she felt him escape. She lay there on the catwalk, panting, listening to the crashes, thuds, and screams that floated up to her. Slowly, she rose up to peer over the edge of the walkway.
Randall was looking up at her, an enigmatic expression on his face. Bud Willis lay at his feet, unmoving; he was either unconscious or dead—Maggie couldn’t tell which.
“I do wish,” Randall said, his voice floating up to her, patiently aggrieved, “that you’d let me rescue you just once.”
Maggie grimaced. “Is he dead?”
Randall nudged him gently with a toe. “I don’t think so. More’s the pity. Come down, Maggie, and have your explanations ready.”
Maggie had pulled herself into a sitting position, and a cold shaking had taken over. Her bones had turned to jelly, her muscles to yogurt, and all she could do was huddle in the heat and feel the cold sweat cover her body. She had never felt so alone in her life, and for one tiny moment she couldn’t stand it. She had to ask for help.
“I don’t think I can,” she said in a strangled voice. “Do you suppose you could come get me?”
A series of expressions flitted over Randall’s face. Exasperation, tenderness, and something possibly akin to love. “Watch her,” he ordered Caleb tersely, who stood with the battered machine gun trained on Alicia. It was a token gesture; Alicia was a broken woman; her garish fuchsia mouth was slack in her pale, freckled face.
Randall raced up the cement steps, taking them three at a time with his long legs. Moments later, he drew her trembling body into his arms, wrapped his strength around her, pulled her into his lap, and held her there.
“I know why you did this,” he said as his hand brushed the hair out of her tearstained face.
She moved closer, seeking his strength and warmth, cold, so very cold inside. “Why?” she croaked out.
“So I’d get a chance to rescue you after all.”
She laughed, a raw, rusty sound, and her fingers clutched his shoulders. “I’m ruining your suit,” she said.