Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [173]
“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.”
Younger turned. The speaker was a fresh-faced soldier who had come running to investigate the gunshots. He pointed a rifle nervously at Younger,