37.
***
"Run!"
The words flew out of Kevin - or the person or thing that had taken Kevin's place - in a jumble. Scott understood them as words - there was no doubt they were English - but he had trouble following them beyond the obvious fact that Mr. Gray was somewhere near. And on the hunt.
"Run!" repeated the other Kevin. "He's stronger than ever, younger than ever. He's managed to insert himself into this timeflow for longer this time, maybe long enough to kill you all."
Scott noted - with a disinterested, detached part of him, the part that was able to visit horrific homicide scenes and think of the evidence rather than, say, the dead family beside him - that Kevin had said that Mr. Gray had "maybe enough time to kill you all." "...you all." Not "us all."
"Who are you?" he demanded. "Where's Kevin? Where's Mr. Gray?"
"Kevin's safe right now. He's safe until I leave, and then he's going to have to take my place again to preserve symmetry."
Again, the words didn't make much sense to Scott beyond the fact that they were English, unaccented, spoken clearly and - most important in this case - without the halting, somehow almost otherworldly quality of the typical speech of an autistic child.
The boy started phasing again, turning from sleeping child to wakeful one, then back.
"I don't have enough power to shape the nexus to do more," said the other Kevin. "Get Kevin up and run!"
Then the other Kevin blinked, and suddenly their Kevin - the real Kevin, as far as Scott was concerned, the one that they had to keep safe and protect at all costs - was back in the bed, still sleeping, as though completely unaware of the miraculous thing that had just occurred.
A slamming sounded nearby. Scott looked at Lynette, who was staring at him suddenly with a look of shock and horror on her face that he knew probably mirrored the one on his own.
"Get Kevin up, quietly," he said.
Lynette immediately went to her son, leaned over to him and woke him with the words, "Kevin honey, it's a-okay and morning to be borning."
Kevin opened blurry eyes that had had far too little sleep to endure the rigors he had gone through and, Scott suspected, would have to go through again. The boy looked around. "It's dark. Not morning, not borning," he said, and tried to burrow back under the worn and weathered blanket and sheet set on the cot.
"This is bad," murmured Lynette.
Bang! There was another slam nearby, nearer than the first had been. And Scott had no doubt who was behind the noises.
"What's wrong?" he demanded. "Sounds like someone's going door to door in the building."
"Kevin's not ready to wake up," she answered.
"We don't have time for this," he said.
"You think I don't know that?" she fairly hissed back. "I'm trying to think of how to get him moving without starting him screaming." She paused as another slam sounded. "How long do we have?"
"Some of the rooms in the building are pretty cluttered, but there aren't many of them. Say a minute. And I'm being generous there."
Lynette sat and cooed nervously to Kevin, rubbing his elbow and arm lightly. "Kevin, honey, morning to be borning."
"No," answered his muffled voice from under the covers.
BANG!
"That was maybe two doors down," whispered Scott.
Lynette looked at him with panicked eyes. Scott, in a surge of hopeful inspiration, grabbed Kevin's laptop off the nearby desk where they had deposited it when arriving only a few hours before. He quickly turned it on, then called up the document that Kevin had been working on the night before - the complex mathematical equations that he had written out and then proclaimed, "It's all wrong."
Scott erased Kevin's last words, the repeated "It's all wrong"s, and replaced them with three simple words.
"Kevin, buddy, I found something," he whispered.
BANG!
Lynette looked at him with horror. "That sounded like next door to us," she whispered.
Scott nodded. He didn't want to talk for fear of letting her detect how terrified he was at this moment. Instead, he focused on Kevin again. "I found something," he said, more urgently.
Kevin didn't react, just laying there like a slug wrapped in thin cotton bedding.
They could hear slamming around as someone - Mr. Gray - rummaged around through the office next to theirs.
Scott, desperate, leaned down and whispered in Kevin's ear, "Kevin, Witten was wrong."
That did it. Kevin's eyes flew open, and he positively glared at Scott. Not for long - there was no way that the autistic child was going to spend more than a moment or two looking in another human being's eyes - but it was long enough. Scott thrust the laptop monitor into Kevin's line of sight.
Again the boy's eyes widened, but this time Scott could swear he detected just the slightest bit of rage in the kid's usually peaceful and openly good-hearted face. The boy immediately sat up and began typing without further preamble.
The noises next door grew louder; more insistent.
"What did you write?" asked Lynette.
"I told him that everything he wrote proves that Witten was wrong. Apparently he really disagrees with that statement."
Lynette smiled at him, but the smile was thin and drawn tightly over a face that had been steeped in fear too many times in the past twenty four hours.
Scott turned to Kevin and said, "Explain to me why Witten was right." Then he handed him the keyboard and waited. Kevin immediately began typing, his nimble fingers a blur across the keypad of his notebook computer.
"Now what?"
"Now we leave."
But instead of moving to the front of the office, Scott began moving toward the back.
"What's back there? A bazooka, I hope?" asked Lynette.
Next door, the thumping suddenly stopped. Silence.
" Lynette, come here," whispered Scott from where he was standing. "Bring Kevin."
He watched as Lynette carefully maneuvered Kevin into moving toward Scott by picking up his laptop and, as he continued typing, leading him to where Scott was standing.
There was a sudden slam at the door. Lynette looked back toward the doorway, fear clouding her features. "He's here," she said.
"We've got a little time," said Scott. "The door is steel reinforced, so he's going to have to hit it pretty damn hard for it to get knocked down. And until then...." He gestured behind him, where there was a ladder attached to the wall. It led up to a trapdoor in the roof. "We go up," he said.
Scott led the way, going to the trapdoor and -
(Slam! went the door)
- unlocking it with one of the keys on his keyring.
Getting Kevin to move through the trapdoor was harder than it sounded, for it involved moving his computer slowly along, so that Kevin could continue typing while moving with it, like the computer was a carrot on a string in front of the proverbial donkey cart. Luckily, he was willing to climb the ladder once it became clear that his laptop was going up the ladder, with or without him.
Slam! The door was hit again, this time with more ferocity, as though Mr. Gray knew that his quarry lay behind the door and, sensing its proximity, was going into some kind of a frenzy, like a shark that had scented blood in the water.
Soon the three of them were on the roof of the office building, moving as quietly as possible over the crushed rock that covered the roof, listening to the doorway from the outside now as it slowly began to splinter beneath the not-so-tender ministrations of Mr. Gray. Scott would have commented on the old man's strength if they had not been in such dire straits.
"What about that?" whispered Lynette, pointing at the open door.
Scott slowly removed the padlock from the interior of the trapdoor, then swung it silently closed. The hinges screeched as he did so, and he could feel Lynette and even Kevin freeze at the noise. Had Mr. Gray heard it? Would he abandon his attack on the office door and come looking for some way to get up onto the roof?
For a long moment, no one moved a muscle. Then....
Slam! Mr. Gray pounded at the door again, apparently having either missed the hinges' noise completely or decided to disregard them. Scott tried to time his movements to the next hit by Mr. Gray, and when the door was hit again - sounding like it was going to tear off its hinges at any moment - he slid the padlock through a hasp on the outside of the trapdoor, effectively locking it from their side.
"What now?" asked Lynette in a whisper.
Before Scott could answer, the doorway below finally gave with a noisy splintering sound, crashing inward with more ruckus that Scott would have thought possible. The sound rent the otherwise silent night air like a pair of shears across thick fabric, heavy and final.
"We get off the roof," he whispered back to her.
"Are you crazy?" she asked.
They could hear the sounds of Mr. Gray, slamming through the cluttered office below them. Scott calculated the assassin would need about thirty seconds to make sure that the office was empty. He was sure to see the trapdoor, though whether he would make anything of it or would try to come through it was anyone's guess.
"Would you rather wait here for him to find us?"
As though in reply to his query, there was a thud on the nearby trapdoor.
Then another. Scott groaned internally. It looked like Mr. Gray, a trained killer, had been able to verify the absence of anyone in the office.
So why would he have focused on the trapdoor so quickly?
Then Scott cursed. The bed, of course. When they had come into the office, it had been made up and covered in a thin layer of dust. Even though they had taken care to shake off the bedding before allowing Kevin to crawl in, there would surely be tell-tale signs that the bed had not been used for a long period of time...until tonight, which use would be revealed by the fact that the bedding had been tousled and unmade by the small body of a boy. Surely Mr. Gray would have noticed the fact that the bed was unmade, that there was dust nearby the bed, but none on the bed itself, and have drawn the obvious conclusion, like the three bears in the story of Goldilocks: "Someone's been sleeping in my bed."
"Come on," whispered Scott through clenched teeth, and this time Lynette moved, quickly bringing Kevin with the lure of his computer before him.
Scott led them to the far edge of the roof. It ended in a lip that overhung the office behind his: the office of Mr. Randall, the other P.E. teacher at Meridian High. He quickly pantomimed to Lynette what he wanted to do, then grabbed her hands and lowered her down over the lip of the roof.
The trapdoor behind them, like the door to the office below, started to splinter. Time was running out, to be measured in seconds now, if that.
Quickly, Scott removed the computer from Kevin's grasp. This was perhaps the most dangerous moment of the entire operation. If Kevin chose to throw a tantrum over the loss of his treasured computer, then Mr. Gray was sure to hear that and would come after them that much faster, perhaps even leaving the office and running around to the other side of the building where Lynette was waiting, helpless and alone.
Thankfully, Kevin did not throw a tantrum when Scott took his computer. He just stood there, limp and unmoving as though a part of his soul had been stripped from him, rendering him insensate and immovable. Scott dropped the keyboard to Lynette below, then took Kevin by both hands and lowered the boy over the roof to his mother. He could feel the boy's form held by his mother as she grabbed him from below, then he was on terra firma again and only Scott was left on the roof.
The trapdoor started to give. One more hit by Mr. Gray would do it.
Only milliseconds ahead of Mr. Gray, having no time to move quietly or carefully, Scott threw himself over the edge of the roof. He hit the ground below with a sickening thud and a sudden pain in his right ankle, but forced himself to jump immediately to his feet.
Above them, he could hear the trapdoor splinter.
Before Lynette or Kevin could make a noise, he hustled them under the lip of the building. They could not be seen by anyone from on the roof, but all Mr. Gray had to do was look over the edge of the roof....
It was a gamble, a desperate play against house odds, but it was all there was time for.
The moment stretched out into eternity as they listened to Mr. Gray traversing the roof, the gravel and tar paper roof crunching beneath the man's leather shoes. Lynette's fingers suddenly dug into Scott's shoulder, hard enough that they almost drew a noise from him, which under the circumstances would have been fatal, but he was able to bite back a surprised shout before it left him.
She pointed, and Scott felt his own muscles tense, as well. Though it was still the very early morning, there was a bright moon and starry sky out, providing more than enough ambient light to cast shadows. And he could see the shadow of Mr. Gray on the roof, standing right above them.
They could hear the crackle of his shoes on the edge of the roof, as though he was pacing back and forth, deciding whether or not to jump down.
Scott felt himself tense for an oncoming fight, though he was not at all confident of his ability to overcome the hitman. Granted, Mr. Gray had aged impossibly in the time since he had killed Scott's family, but even so, Scott had not kept himself current in close quarters battle techniques in the years following his departure from the LAPD, so had very little faith in his own ability to overcome the insane strength and determined ability of the skilled killer on their trail.
But in spite of his misgivings, he dropped into a lunge position, ready to spring at Mr. Gray, hopefully taking the man by surprise and quickly gaining the advantage, if the killer dropped over the side of the office building.
His heart felt like it was pounding at a thousand beats per minute. He felt like the blood was no longer merely a fluid pushing through the vast system of veins, arteries, and capillaries that made up his cardiovascular system, but rather was the driving force behind all the universe, his pulse the heartbeat of the galaxy. He wondered how it was possible that Mr. Gray could not hear the pounding of his heart from where he stood, a few feet above.
But apparently he was deaf to the prodigious tympani of Scott's heart beats, for after a prolonged wait on the edge of the roof, they heard him return to the trapdoor.
"Go, go, go," said Scott in a low voice, and pushed Kevin and Lynette toward the door to Mr. Randall's office. As he had anticipated, the door had been broken down, leaving them easy ingress to the office, which was nearly a carbon copy to Scott's own - in layout at least, for it was quickly clear to any who looked that Mr. Randall was a much neater person than was Scott, running his office with an almost military zeal for fastidious cleanliness.
This in itself was a serious problem. They were inside at least, no longer simply waiting under the eaves for a killer to drop down and attack them. But they weren't in a much stronger position than they had been before. The office was so clean that if Mr. Gray did more than just glance in for a fraction of a second, he would be sure to see them.
And unlike the outside, where if Mr. Gray found them Scott would have had time to at least stage a small ambush, if the killer found them in the office, the advantage would be his, for they would have nowhere else to run to, and the ease with which he would be able to spot them would negate any ability of Scott's to attack from the shadows, as it were.
They could only push themselves into a corner that was as far away from the door as possible, and hope that Mr. Gray did not deign to re-check the offices he had already gone through.
Because if he did check, if he so much as looked into the room, he would spot them, and Scott knew what that meant: a quick, though by no means easy, death.
The ball was in Mr. Gray's court. The power was in his hands.
Death was coming for them, and whether it found them or not was a matter of blind luck on a night when luck had already shown itself not partial to their cause.
All they could do was wait. Watch. Hope. And perhaps die.
***