Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [15]
Littlemore bolted back into the hall, heading for the elevators. Younger didn’t follow. Instead he went to Colette’s balcony door and stepped out into the night. Far below, in the light flooding out of the hotel’s front doors, Younger saw the man he somehow knew he would see, standing by the curb in his striped suit.
Younger called out: “You!”
No one heard. Younger was too high up, and the street noise was too great. A car skidded up next to the striped suit, its rear door opening from within. The sudden, swerving halt threw a small body—a little boy’s body—half out of the car. A moment later, the boy was snatched back inside by invisible hands.
“No,” said Younger. Then he called out at the top of his lungs: “Stop that car!”
This time Drobac hesitated. He looked up, searching but not finding the source of the cry. No one else took notice. Younger shouted the same futile words again as the man climbed into the backseat, and again as the car sped down Park Avenue, its headlamps and taillamps going suddenly dark, disappearing into the night. Two drops of Younger’s blood, flung from his hair as he cried out, drifted downward and broke on the sidewalk not far from where the man had stood.
By the time the echo of Younger’s voice had died, Littlemore was back in the room, having heard the doctor’s shouts.
“It was the man at the elevator,” said Younger.
“The guy with the hair,” replied Littlemore, “and the bulging pockets? Are you sure?”
Younger looked at the detective. Then he slowly lifted the coffee table—the one with Luc’s matches on it—off the floor and hurled it into a mirrored closet door. There was no satisfying explosion of glass. The mirror only cracked, as did the coffee table. Burnt matchsticks spun in the air, like maple seedpods spiraling down in autumn.
“Jesus, Doc,” said Littlemore.
“You saw something in his pockets,” Younger replied quietly. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
“For having something in his pockets?”
“If you had stationed a single man in front of the hotel,” said Younger, “we could have caught him.”
“I doubt it,” said Littlemore. “You know you’re bleeding pretty good.”
“What do you mean you doubt it?”
“If I put a uniform outside the front door,” the detective explained, “the guy doesn’t use the front door. He goes out a side door. Or a back door. We would have needed six men minimum.”
“Then why didn’t you bring six men?” asked Younger, advancing toward Littlemore.
“Easy, Doc.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You want to know why? Besides the fact that I had no reason to, I couldn’t have gotten six men if I had tried. I couldn’t have gotten one. The force is a little busy tonight, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m not even supposed to be here.”
Instead of responding, Younger shoved Littlemore in the chest. “Go back then.”
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Littlemore.
“I’ll tell you why you didn’t stop him. You weren’t paying any goddamned attention.”
“Me? Who waited four hours before noticing that his girlfriend had disappeared when she was supposed to be gone for half an hour?”
“Because you took her,” shouted Younger, taking a straight left jab at Littlemore’s head. The detective ducked this blow, but Younger, who knew how to fight, had thrown a punch designed to make Littlemore do just that. Younger followed it with a clean right, putting Littlemore on the carpet and taking a lamp down with him.
“Son of a gun,” said Littlemore from the floor, his lip bloody.
He sprang toward Younger, charging low and driving him backward all the way across the room. Younger’s head snapped back against the wall. When they came to a standstill, Littlemore had his right fist raised and ready, but Younger was staring blankly over his shoulder.
“How many died today?” asked Younger. “Thirty?”
“Thirty-six,” said Littlemore, fist still raised.
“Thirty-six,” repeated Younger contemptuously. “And the whole city’s paralyzed. I hate the dead.”
Neither man spoke. Younger sank to a sitting position on the floor. Littlemore sat down near him.
“I’m taking you to a hospital,” said Littlemore.
“Try it.”