Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [157]
When he hit bottom, the ugly thump came back simultaneously with a hollow-sounding gunshot, as if his finger had reflexively jerked the trigger.
“Am I ever glad to see you,” whispered Diana, hoarsely.
“You okay?”
“I think so.”
“He was trying to throw you down the shaft.”
“It was the damndest thing.”
The door from stairwell B opened, and four men wearing MSAs and full bunkers entered in a whirl of smoke, their helmet shields identifying them as crew members from Ladder 7. They carried spare bottles and rope bags. The door opened again, and four more firefighters appeared.
“You the ones set up the rope system?” the officer asked.
“We are,” Diana whispered.
“Is it working?”
“So far.”
“Can you show us what you’ve done?” asked the officer.
“Maybe she can,” said Finney, backing against the wall where he slowly lowered himself to the floor. “I have to take myself out of service here.”
When they opened his coat, his T-shirt was soaked with blood from his navel down. The bullet had gone in at an angle, had zipped around the outside of his rib cage so that, using their fingertips, they located it just under the skin near his spine.
“What the hell happened?” asked the officer.
“It’s a long story.”
“Where did you guys come from?” Diana asked.
“Reese got this great idea of using ropes in the elevator shafts. The stairs cleared a little bit, so we came up to try it.”
77. A PAIR OF FEET UNDER A BLANKET
As they reclined in lounge chairs on the deck atop Finney’s houseboat, the late autumn sun glinted off Lake Union; boat traffic paraded across the surface of the lake like colored geegaws in a shooting gallery.
Diana doing the lion’s share of the work, they’d kayaked all morning in the double sea kayak, up the Montlake Cut to Lake Washington, past the razzle-dazzle homes and condos on Lake Washington Boulevard, and then along the lee side of the new floating bridge. They’d tied up at the sailing club at Leschi and lunched, then paddled back to Lake Union.
Their leisurely day was to have been capped off with a medal ceremony at the Seattle Center, a commemoration of heroes at the Columbia Tower that Finney had, at the last minute, decided to boycott for reasons he could not explain.
Diana and Finney were sitting in deck chairs so they could absorb the sunshine and watch the sailboats while they listened to the football game at nearby Husky Stadium on a portable radio, the announcers occasionally drowned out by the drone of a seaplane dropping down onto the water. In order to keep them warm, Diana had tucked her stocking feet into a provocative nook under the blanket in Finney’s lap.
They were both still on disability leave, and she had spent the last week at his place, returning home only to pick up fresh clothes, check messages, and water her mother’s houseplants. “What’s the score?” he asked.
“You just asked. Twenty-seven ten. Sure you don’t want to go to that ceremony?”
“When I think about medals, all I can see is that plaque over Reese’s desk.”
“If you’re not going, I’m not going.”
“That’s silly. Go ahead.”
“Not this time.”
After a minute or two, Diana said, “Rumor has it, when you get back from disability, Smith is going to make you a lieutenant.” Smith had been appointed interim chief of the department following Charles Reese’s abrupt resignation.
“That would be nice.”
“Is that all? Nice.”
“Yeah.”
Once Reese had staffed the upper floors of the Columbia Tower with truckmen, it had been a relatively simple, though time-consuming, process to evacuate the last of the wedding party out of the tower. Since Oscar Stillman was no longer available to manipulate the air pressurization system,