looked like they were there strictly as a backup to the
plumbed-in system, a fail-safe j u s t in case the regular
system wasn't working. There was also a portable ethylene cylinder hooked to the metal safety rail on the
side of Andrew's bed. I cranked them all wide open,
and then sat down on the bed to wait for the gases to
saturate the room. W h e n this place went up, it was go¬
ing to be one mother of a boom.
Too bad I won't be around to see it.
W i t h the work done, I couldn't ignore Andrew any¬
more. I didn't want t o , anyway. I wanted to talk to him
while we still had the chance. He was sitting in his
chair with a funny look on his face, silently watching
me with an accusing glare that made it hard for me to
know where to start. Sure I was sorry he'd been forced
to watch me kill his father, but I wasn't the least bit
sorry about what I'd done. It would have been nice to
do it cleaner, but it didn't change the fact that N a t h a n
Marshall had to die—that he deserved to die—arid I'd
do it again without hesitation. Hopefully I could ex¬
plain my reasons to Andrew, but I wouldn't blame him
if he hated me.
"Listen, Andrew, my name is Michael Fox and I just
wanted you to know—"
"Are you going to blow this place up?" he asked.
His first question didn't have anything to do with his
dad and that caught me off guard. "Ah, yeah. That's the
plan, anyway. Look, I'm real sorry about—"
"Will it work?" he cut me off again. "I mean, you're
using more than just the gas in this room, I hope. This
is a big building."
I didn't know how to respond to the way Andrew was
acting. Didn't he want to discuss his father's death?
Maybe not. I decided j u s t to play along. "I know it is.
I've opened every gas valve I can find in the building,
and not j u s t the oxygen. I found a shitload of portable
ethylene and ether tanks down on the second and third
floors. Even better, before I started sneaking around, I
caused a massive oxygen and natural gas leak hi the base
ment. Gas has been free-flowing and mixing throughout
the building for quite a while now. I can't guarantee it,
but my guess it there won't be much left of this place
once I'm done."
"Good," Andrew said, and shocked me by smiling.
For a moment I wondered if he might be as crazy as
his old man, but I soon realized it was a genuine smile.
He was honestly happy and relieved to hear what I'd
been up to.
"You're okay with that?" I asked.
"Absolutely. Listen, Michael, if I could step out of
this chair, I'd do the same thing."
That was good to hear. N o w , for the hard question.
"And y o u r father? I hope you understand—"
"He was an evil bastard that got what he deserved,"
Andrew said, his quiet tone layered with years of bitter¬
ness and deep-seated, hatred for the man lying between
us on the blood-soaked floor. "I understand perfectly.
Don't get me wrong, there was a day I loved my father
dearly, thought he could do no wrong and was a saint
for trying so hard to help me. That was before I found
out how many people he was hurting on my behalf. I
begged him to stop, but he j u s t wouldn't listen."
"It's a shame," I said, trying to find some words that
might allay his guilty feelings. "Your father was a bril¬
liant m a n — "
"He was brilliant, sure, but his brilliance took a
detour into madness and crazy obsession somewhere
along the line, a downward spiral that eventually led
to this. I mean, look at us! That man lying on the floor
isn't my father anymore; hasn't been for a long time.
N o t the father I loved and respected, anyway. It might
sound cold, but I'm glad he's dead. Somebody had to
stop him."
I dug into my pocket and showed Andrew the Bic
lighter I had, getting it ready for the big show.
"The job's only half done. We have to blow this place
off the face of the earth so no one else can walk in and
take over where y o u r dad left off. I have no problem dy¬
your father you'd rather die than live like this. Did you
mean that?"
"Of course. I've wanted that for years now but I've
never been able to pull it off. I was either too sick or j u s t
didn't have the body parts to hold a gun or pop a bottle
of pills."
Yeah, I know that feeling. Poor bugger.
"Good, 'cause I don't think there's any way I can get
you out of here. Drake's security team is going to start
looking around soon. We're relatively safe up here, I
think, but I couldn't get you out the door. Besides, I'm
too busted up to carry you, so I guess we'll j u s t wait
here together and take it easy. Sound okay?"
"Sounds fine, but why do you need to die? I agree you
can't take me, I wouldn't go even if you could, but
there's no need for you to stick around."
"Sure there is. W h o ' s going to set off the explosion if
I'm not here?"
"Well, me, obviously."
"You? But you're paralyzed."
"I'm paralyzed for the most part, but not everything.
I can still wiggle my fingers, especially on my right
hand. H e r e , look—"
Sure enough, he could move a few of his fingers on
his left hand, and all of the ones on his right. I watched
him wiggle his right t h u m b rapidly up and down and I
couldn't believe it. It was almost as if fate, or some other
higher power, had preordained that Andrew would need
to use that digit for something important.
Like flicking the Bic.
I shouldn't have thought that. Shouldn't have even
considered it. I'd never for a moment envisioned the
possibility I might live through this day, but now that I
had, my mind started racing, my heart pounding, and
the short hair stood up on the back of my neck. A big
shit-kicker grin was slowly creeping onto my face and I
tried to kid myself it was only the oxygen-saturated air
making me feel so giddy.
Maybe Andrew's, right. If he can operate this lighter, I
could slip down to the fourth-floor hallway, use the back
stairs to get outside, and go hide in the woods. Get a front
row seat to watch the fireworks!
Those were bad thoughts-A-silly thoughts—and I had
to stop right now before they started making sense. There
was no way I could leave Andrew up here to finish this. It
was my j o b to do. My responsibility. Wasn't it?
Seeing the confusion on my face, Andrew pressed
the issue. "I can do it. I know I can. H e r e , let me show
you I can hold it."
Curious, but all the time cursing myself for starting
to get my hopes u p , I handed Andrew the lighter, help¬
ing him get it into the correct position and seeing if he
could hold on. He did. Easily.
"Wha
t did I tell ya?" Andrew said, probably more
excited and happy than he'd been in twenty years.
I could tell he really wanted to do this— needed t o ,
maybe.
"Are you sure you want to do this alone?" I asked. I
already knew the answer, but needed to hear Andrew
say it one more time before my conscience would allow
me to leave.
"More than you'll ever know, Michael. I'm the rea¬
son my father became obsessed with transplantation
and if it wasn't for me, none of this would exist. All
those people died because of me."
"That's not true," I said. "Your father's to blame.
Maybe Drake, too, but none of this was your fault."
Andrew sat quietly for a moment, a single tear slid¬
ing down his cheek. "I know that, I really do, but it still
doesn't make me feel any better. There's no denying a
lot of people would be alive today if I'd j u s t died at
birth. I can't do anything about that, but I can at least
do this. My fault or not, I started this madness; it's only
right I be the one that ends it. My life has to have had
some purpose. Maybe this is it."
How could I possibly argue with that? Life had been
cruel to Andrew. He'd been getting the short end of the
stick his entire life. If being the one who triggered the
explosion would give h i m a sense of satisfaction, closure,
or perhaps atonement for all the suffering and death in¬
flicted on his behalf, who was I to stand in his way?
I wheeled his chair over beside the cluster of emer¬
gency oxygen tanks. "Let the gas build up for as long as
you can, okay? The longer, the better. Soon as you see
a security guard's head pop out of this stairwell, let that
t h u m b of yours work its magic. Don't worry about me.
If I'm not out of here by then it's my own bloody fault.
Understand?"
"Get moving, then," Andrew said, a contented smile
on his face. "My trigger finger's getting mighty itchy."
I nodded, and headed for the stairs.
C H A P T E R F O R T Y - O N E
I picked up the gun off the top stair and made my way
down onto the fourth floor as quickly and quietly as I
could. I was in big-time pain, hurting all over, but there
was n o t h i n g I could do except clench my teeth and keep
moving. Turning the bend in the hall I made my way
toward the back stairs and was nearly at the exit when I
heard the sound of heavy boots stamping on the other
side of the door, getting closer.
Guards!
Had to be, which meant the search was on. Sound
echoed in the stairwell, so I wasn't exactly sure if they
were coming to this floor or were still down on level
two or three. Didn't matter; if they were on the way up
it meant I couldn't risk charging down the stairs to get
outside. That would be suicide, and now that I'd been
given the opportunity, I desperately wanted to live to
see this hellhole crumble. As much as I wanted out of
here, I needed to slow down and think. The front stairs
would be j u s t as bad of a choice, maybe worse, because
Drake would have his men trained well and I was sure
they'd post someone to man each stairwell, covering
the exits. There had to be another way—a safer, un¬
guarded way—out of here.
My mind drew a blank. I couldn't think of a single
t h i n g to try and I was seriously considering r e t u r n i n g
to the tower room to see this through to the end along¬
side Andrew. Either that or take the mad dash down
the back stairs and hope for the best. I had Drake's
gun if need b e , but I couldn't really picture myself do¬
ing a Lone Ranger sprint into a crowd of security guards,
gun blazing, and consequences be damned. Just wasn't
my style.
Limping back along the corridor, my heart nearly
stopped when I heard shouting coming from j u s t around
the corner. I tensed up, brought my gun into what I
thought was a respectable policeman's shooting stance,
and waited. Ten grueling seconds went by but n o t h i n g
happened. I lowered my weapon and peeked'around the
corner only to find the hallway empty. I was starting to
relax when I heard the voice again, this time coming
from inside the room on my right.
The Bleeders' room.
I approached the door, noticing that it was half open.
I tried to recall if I'd left it that way when I exited the
room but I couldn't remember. With my heart doing a
drumroll within my chest, I shoved the door wide open
and prepared to shoot anything that moved.
The room was empty. Well, empty of living, breath¬
ing, ready-to-kill-me people, at least. Dr. Marshall's
blood bank looked j u s t the way I'd left it—a sticky red
mess and stinking of death. The phantom voice sounded
again, but this time I realized where it was coming
from and what was happening.
Drake's walkie-talkie.
The voices I kept hearing were the other security
guards shouting for Drake and communicating amongst
themselves via radio. I felt like a goof, wasting precious
minutes and nearly giving myself a heart attack over
nothing, but it wasn't a total loss. If I grabbed Drake's
radio and carried it with m e , I'd have a better idea where
the guards were and where they might be searching next.
That kind of information might get me out of here alive
so I walked in and slipped the walkie-talkie out of the
leather case on Drake's belt.
Maybe I can say something on the radio and send the
guards all running on a wild-goose chase toward the front of
the building. Then I can slip out -
Something caught my attention and shut me u p , midthought. The curtains in the room were pulled open to¬
day and outside of the window I could see the woods off
in the distance across the grass-covered field. I wasn't
looking that far away, though. W h a t caught my eye was
the mass of green ivy leaves visible on the left side of the
window.
The metal trellis!
The same ivy-covered trellis I'd used to climb out of
my guarded room and up here to the fourth floor so
long ago, back when I was j u s t starting to figure out the
truth about Dr. Marshall and his little castle of horrors.
It ran all the way up the side of the building to this
window, and, more importantly, all the way down to the
ground. I could crank open the window, climb down
the trellis and make a dash for the woods. From the
chitchat still going back and forth on Drake's radio, the
guards were busy doing a sweep of the third floor and it
was doubtful anyone would be watching the outside
grounds. Sure, someone might look out a window and
spot m e , but at least I'd be outside and have a chance.
Definitely the best option I was likely to get, so I stuffed
Drake's radio in the front of my pants and decided to
go for it.
W h e n I cranked open the left
-hand window, a freez¬
ing blast of air hit me in the face, stealing ray breath.
Man, it was cold out today. I wouldn't make it very far
outside in this weather, not the way I was dressed.
I needed a coat.
Turning around, I glanced at my own old coat I'd
discarded on the floor earlier, but it was ripped and
torn and so covered in Drake's blood I dismissed it im¬
mediately. That left only Drake's big security bomber
jacket. It was bloody, too, but not nearly as bad as my
own. Better yet, it was practically brand-new, and was
made for this kind of frigid weather. I hated the thought
of touching Drake again, but it had to be done. Thirty
seconds later, I'd manhandled Drake's considerable
deadweight and managed to wiggle the coat off his arms.
Wrapped up in my nice warm coat that had a large
gold patch proclaiming me the new chief of security
around here, I headed back to the window and started
to climb out.
Getting onto the trellis was tricky, only having one
good hand, but once I'd swung onto the metal ladder,
climbing down wasn't a problem. I had no way of know¬
ing if anyone would be watching the windows, so I just
started hobbling as fast as I could toward the entrance
to the wooded trail, hoping my luck would hold up for
a few more minutes.
It was a strange feeling, moving toward the relative
safety of the woods, seeing it get closer but with every
painful step fully expecting to get a bullet in my back. I
didn't dare turn around and look, but in my imagina¬
tion I could clearly see the members of Drake's security
team all lined up in the windows taking aim at the cenA
ter of my back, waiting for the signal to let the bullets
fly. I'd hear someone shout, "FIRE!" on the radio tucked
in my pants and half a second later feel the sting of a
dozen bullets rip through my body, the sharpshooters
peppering me with lead even after I went down and
sprawled face-first in the frozen grass.
I reached the wooded trail without incident.
As I'd done earlier to stay out of sight, I lay down on
the ground off to the side of the path and spent a few
seconds camouflaging myself with a blanket of leaves
before finally looking back in the direction of the cas
tle. Everything looked quiet. No one was rushing out
into the cold after m e , and n o t h i n g that was being said
on the radio indicated that I'd been spotted. Somewhat