No. Breaking glass, like a window shattering somewhere in the distance.
Gordon frowned. He took a step toward the door that led to the entryway closet--and suddenly flew backward as it crashed open.
A figure, holding a short metal crowbar, charged into the room, blinking to orient himself to the darkness.
Falling hard, the wind knocked from his lungs, Gordon dropped the Taser. Wincing, he climbed to his knees and reached for the weapon but the intruder swung the metal bar hard and caught him on the forearm. The killer screamed as bone cracked.
"No, no!" Then Gordon's eyes, tearing in pain, narrowed as he gazed at his attacker.
The man cried, "You're not so godlike now, are you? You motherfucker!" It was Robert Jorgensen, the doctor, the identity theft victim from the transient hotel. He brought the crowbar down hard on the killer's neck and shoulder, two-handed. Gordon's head slammed into the floor. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, lying completely still.
Sachs blinked in astonishment at the doctor.
Who is he? He's God, and I'm Job. . . .
"Are you all right?" he asked, starting forward.
"Get these papers off me. Then take the cuffs off and put them on him. Hurry! The key's in my pocket."
Jorgensen dropped to his knees and began pulling the papers off.
"How did you get here?" she asked.
Jorgensen's eyes were wide, just like she remembered from the cheap hotel on the Upper East Side. "I've been following you ever since you came to see me. I've been living on the street. I knew you'd lead me to him." A nod back at Gordon, still immobile, breathing shallowly.
Jorgensen was gasping as he grabbed huge handfuls of paper and flung them away.
Sachs said, "You were the one following me. At the cemetery and the loading dock on the West Side."
"That was me, yes. Today I followed you from the warehouse to your apartment and the police station and then to that office building in Midtown, the gray one. Then here. I saw you go into the alley and then when you didn't come out, I wondered what had happened. I knocked on the door and he answered. I told him I was a neighbor looking for a delivery. I looked inside. I didn't see you. I pretended to leave but then I saw him go through the door in the living room with a razor."
"He didn't recognize you?"
A sour laugh as Jorgensen tugge
d his beard. "He probably only knew me from my driver's license photo. And that was taken when I bothered to shave--and could afford haircuts. . . . God, these are heavy."
"Hurry."
Jorgensen continued, "You were my best hope of finding him. I know you have to arrest him but I want some time with him first. You have to let me! I'm going to make him undo every bit of agony he's put me through."
The sensation began to return to her legs. She glanced toward where Gordon lay. "My front pocket . . . can you reach the key?"
"Not quite. Let me get some more off you."
More papers flew to the floor. One headline: DAMAGE FROM BLACKOUT RIOTS IN MILLIONS. Another: NO PROGRESS IN HOSTAGE CRISIS. TEHRAN: NO DEALS.
Finally she squirmed out from underneath the papers. She clumsily rose, on aching legs, as far as the cuffs would allow. She leaned unsteadily against another tower of paper and turned toward him. "The cuff key. Fast."
Reaching into her pocket, Jorgensen found the key and reached behind her. With a faint click one of the cuffs unlatched and she was able to stand. She turned to take the key from him. "Fast," she said. "Let's--"
A stunning gunshot sounded and she felt simultaneous taps on her hands and face as the bullet--fired by Peter Gordon from her own gun--struck Jorgensen in the back, spattering her with blood and tissue.
He cried out and slumped into her, knocking her backward and saving her from the second slug, which zipped past and cracked into the wall inches from her shoulder.
Chapter Forty-nine
Amelia Sachs had no choice. She had to attack. Immediately. Using Jorgensen's body as a shield, she lunged toward hunched-over, bleeding Gordon, grabbed the Taser from the floor and fired it in his direction.