Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [174]
“Are you there, Miss Rousseau?” Brighton called out from the glaringly illuminated arch. “Samuels, do you see her?”
“Oh, give me that,” muttered Younger to the soldier. In one motion, he set Colette on her feet, seized the boy’s rifle, kneeled, took aim at the doorway of Trinity Church, and fired. His shot hit Samuels in the joint of his shoulder, nearly amputating his arm.
“You got him, Doc,” said Littlemore.
“Did I?” Younger shifted his aim just slightly.
Samuels fell to his knees, blood flowing prodigiously from his subclavian artery.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Brighton, looking down at his secretary with a mixture of perplexity and indignation. “It’s only one arm. Shoot with the other.”
Younger fired again.
Brighton’s eyes opened wide. A dark red circle appeared in the middle of his green forehead. “Oh, my,” said Brighton, before collapsing.
Younger threw the rifle to the soldier’s feet. “How quickly can you get us an ambulance?” he asked Littlemore. “Colette’s hurt.”
She was in fact badly cut on her legs, and her long-sleeved gloves were ripped in several places, revealing lacerations to her palms and forearms.
“I’ll find a car,” said Littlemore, sprinting away. Within a minute, a dozen soldiers were running down Wall Street toward Trinity Church, where the bodies of Brighton and Samuels lay bleeding, and Littlemore had returned in Secretary Houston’s Packard. Younger made Colette get inside.
“But they’re only scratches,” she protested.
“We’re going to a hospital,” said Younger, lowering himself next to her in the backseat.
She looked at him and smiled. “All right. If you think we should.”
“Which hospital, Doc?” asked Littlemore, behind the wheel.
“Washington Square,” said Younger. “Wait—I thought you were going to stop a war tonight. Did you?”
“Not yet,” answered Littlemore.
“Well, go stop it.” The two men looked at each other. “Someone else can drive. She’ll be all right. Go.”
“Thanks,” said Littlemore, who persuaded Houston’s chauffeur to drive the car.
As they set off, Colette rested her head on Younger’s shoulder. She didn’t see him wince. “It’s finally over, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “I think it is.”
It wasn’t until Younger had failed to respond to the next several things she said that she noticed his closed eyes and touched the back of his shirt and felt it dampening with blood. Colette screamed at the driver to hurry.
At Grand Central Terminal, under the celestial ceiling of the main concourse, Littlemore found Officer Stankiewicz in plain clothes, together with Edwin Fischer, waiting for him at the round central information booth, which was capped by a gold sphere with clocks on all four sides. Littlemore shook hands with Stankiewicz, thanking him for doing unofficial duty. “Everything okay?” asked Littlemore.
“So far, so good,” said Stankiewicz.
“Anybody make you?” asked Littlemore.
“Hard to tell up here, Cap. Too many people.”
Littlemore nodded. The station was bustling with the comers and goers of a Saturday night in New York City. A constant din of loudspeaker crackle filled the concourse with announcements of train numbers, destinations, and tracks.
“Okay, Stanky,” said Littlemore, “you’re going to Commissioner Enright’s place. He’s expecting you. Here’s the address. And bust it; there’s no time to lose. When you get back, meet me downstairs exactly where I showed you. Fischer, you’re coming with me.”
Littlemore glanced around the concourse, then tapped his knuckles on the information counter. The attendant, whom the detective greeted by name, shuffled to a gate and let Littlemore and Fischer in.
“Why are we going in the information booth?” asked Fischer. “Are we looking for information?”
“We’re going down to the lower level. If they’ve got people watching the stairs and ramps, they won’t see us.”
In the center of the round booth was a gold pillar with a sliding door, which Littlemore opened. The detective cleared away boxes of old schedules, revealing a narrow spiral staircase.
“A hidden