Chapter Eight
Chief of police brian irons was standing in one of his private corridors, trying to catch his breath, when he felt the shuddering impact rumble through the building. He heard it, too - heard some- thing. A distant splintering sound, heavy and abrupt.
The roof, he thought distantly, something on the roof. . .
He didn't bother following the thought to any kind of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn't make things any worse. Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could. They'd be at the elevator in a moment, then there was just the short walk to his office; he could rest there, and then. . . "And then," he mumbled, "that's the question, isn't it? And then what?"
Beverly didn't answer. Her perfect features re- mained still and silent, her eyes closed - but she seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender bodycurling against his chest. It was his imagination, surely. Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful, stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guiltydreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up. By the time he reached the lift, his back and armswere aching. He probably should have left her in his private hobby room, the room he'd always thought of as the Sanctuary - it was quiet there, and probablyone of the safest areas in the station. But when he'd decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a few personal items, he found that he simply couldn't stand to leave her behind. She'd looked so vulnerable, so innocent; he'd promised Harris that he would watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his absence? What if he came back from the office and she was just. . . gone? Gone like everything else. . . A decade of work. Networking, making the connec- tions, careful positioning. . . all of it, just like that. Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all that he'd lost. Beverly was the important thing now. "Going to keep you safe," he murmured, and did one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care of her? When she was a child, when he used to frequent the Harrises' for dinner, she'd called himthat. "Uncle Brian. "
She knows. Of course she knows.
He half-dragged her into the lift and leaned her in the corner, gazing tenderly at her angelic face. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of almost paternal love for her, and wasn't surprised to feel tears well up in his eyes, tears of pride and affection. For days now he'd been subject to such emotional outbursts - rage, terror, even joy. He'd never been a particularly emo- tional man, but had grown to accept the powerful feelings, even to enjoy them after a fashion; at least they weren't confusing. He'd also had moments when he'd been overcome by a kind of strange, creeping haze, a formless anxiety that left him feeling deeply unsettled. . . and as bewildered as a lost child.
No more of those. There's nothing else that can go wrong now; Beverly's with me, and once I collect my things, we can hide away in the Sanctuary and get some rest. She'll need time to recover, and I can, can sort things through. Yes, that's it; things need to be sorted through.
He blinked the already forgotten tears away as the metal cage started to rise, unholstering his sidearm and ejecting the clip to count how many rounds were left. His private rooms were safe, but the office was another story; he wanted to be prepared. The elevator came to a stop and Irons propped open the gate with one leg before lifting the girl, grunting with the exertion. He carried her as he would have carried a sleeping child, her cool, smooth body limp in his arms, her head rolled back and wobbling as he walked. He'd picked her up awkwardly, and her white gown had hiked up, exposing the tight, creamy skin of her thighs; Irons forced his gaze away, concen- trating on the panel controls that opened the wall into his office. Whatever harmless fantasies he'd had be- fore, she was his responsibility now, he was her protector, her white knight. . . He was able to hit the protruding button with one knee. The wall slid open, revealing his plushly deco- rated and thankfully empty office; only the blank, glassy stares of bis animal trophies greeted them. The massive walnut desk that he'd had imported from Italy was right in front of him and his stamina was going fast; Beverly was a petite woman, but he wasn't in shape the way he used to be. He quickly laid her on the desk, pushing a cup of pencils to the floor with his elbow. "There!" he exhaled deeply, smiling down at her. She didn't smile back, but he sensed that she would be awake soon, like before. He reached under the desk and tapped the wall controls; the panel slid closed behind them. He'd been concerned when he'd first found her, asleep next to Officer Scott in the back hall; George Scott was dead, covered with wounds, and when Irons had seen the red splash on Beverly's stomach, he'd been afraid that she was dead, too. But when he'd taken her to the Sanctuary, to his safe place, she'd whispered to him - that she didn't feel well, that she was hurt, that she wanted to go home. . .
. . . did she? Did she really?
Irons frowned, snapped out of the uncertain memo- ry by something, something he'd felt when he'd laid her on his hobby table and straightened her blood- stained gown, something he couldn't quite recall. It hadn't seemed important at the time, but now, away from the hidden comforts of the Sanctuary, it was nagging at him. Reminding him that he had suffered one of those confused moments when he'd, when he'd. . . felt the cold, rubbery jelly of intestine beneath my fingers. . . . . . touched her.
"Beverly?" he whispered, sitting down behind his desk when his legs went suddenly weak. Beverly kept her silence - and a turbulent flood of emotions hit Irons like a tidal wave, crashing over him, crowding his mind with images and memories and truths that he didn't want to accept. Cutting the outside lines after the first attacks. Umbrella and Birkin and the walking dead. The slaughter in the garage, when the bright coppery scent of blood had filled the air and Mayor Harris had been eaten alive, screaming until the very end. The dwindling numbers of the living through the first long and terrible night - and the cold, brutal realization that had hit him again and again, that the city - his city - was no more. After that, the confusion. The strange and hysteri- cal joy that had come when he'd understood that there would be no consequences for his actions. Irons remembered the game he'd played on the second night, after some of Birkin's pets had found their way to the station and taken out all but a few of the remaining cops. He'd found Neil Carson cowering in the library and had. . . tracked him, hunting the sergeant down like an animal.
What did it matter? What matters, now that my life in Raccoon is over?
All that was left, the only thing that he had to hold on to, was the Sanctuary - and the part of him that had created it, the dark and glorious heart inside of his own that he'd always had to keep hidden away.
That part was free now. . .
Irons looked at the corpse of Beverly Harris, laid out across his desk like some delicate and fragile dream, and felt that he might be torn apart by the feelings of fear and doubt that warred inside of him.
Had he killed her? He couldn't remember.
Uncle Brian. Ten years ago, I was her Uncle Brian.
What have I become?
It was too much. Without taking his gaze from her lifeless face, he pulled the loaded VP70 from its holster and began to rub the barrel with numb fingers, gentle strokes that reassured him somehow as the weapon turned toward him. When the bore was pressed firmly against his soft belly, he felt that some kind of peace might be within reach. His finger settled across the trigger, and it was then that Beverly whis- pered to him again, her lips still, her sweet, musical voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
. . . don't leave me, Uncle Brian. You said you'd keep me safe, that you'd take care of me. Think of what you could do now that everyone is gone and there's nothing to stop you. . . "You're dead," he whispered, but she kept talking, soft and insistent.
. . . nothing to stop you from being fulfilled, truly fulfilled for the first time in your life. . .
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Tortured and aching, Irons slowly, slowly pulled the nine-millimeter away from his stomach. After a mo- ment, he rested his forehead against Beverly's shoul-der and closed his tired eyes. She was right, he couldn't leave her. He'd prom- Ised - and there was something to what she'd said, about all of the things he could do. His hobby table was big enough to accommodate all kinds of animals. . . Irons sighed, not sure what to do next-and won-dering why he was in such a hurry to decide, anyway. They would rest for a while, perhaps even take a nap together. And when they awoke, things would be clear again.
Yes, that was it. They would rest, and then he could sort things through, take care of business; he was the chief of police, after all.
Feeling in control of himself again, Brian Irons slipped into a light and uneasy doze, Beverly's cool flesh like a balm against his feverish brow.