When we were back in the car and rolling again, Davidson said to me, “Are you and the Old Man sure you know what you are up to?”
“I can make a mistake,” I said savagely, “but have you ever known the Old Man to?”
“Mmm. . . no. Can’t say as I have. Where next?”
“Straight in to WDES main station. This one won’t be a mistake.”
“Anyhow,” Jarvis commented. “I got good pick-up throughout.”
I did not answer.
At the toll gates into Des Moines the gatekeeper hesitated when I offered the fee. He glanced at a notebook and then at our plates. “Sheriff has a call out for this car,” he said. “Pull over to the right.” He left the barrier down.
“Right it is,” I agreed, backed up about thirty feet and gunned her for all she was worth. The Section’s cars are beefed up and hopped up, too—a good thing, for the barrier was stout. I did not slow down on the far side.
“This,” said Davidson dreamily, “is interesting. Do you still know what you are doing?”
“Cut the chatter,” I snapped. “I may be crazy but I am still agent-in-charge. Get this, both of you: we aren’t likely to get out of this. But we are going to get those pix.”
“As you say, chief.”
I was running ahead of any pursuit. I slammed to a stop in front of the station and we poured out. None of “Uncle Charlie’s” indirect methods—we swarmed into the first elevator that was open and punched for the top floor—Barnes’s floor. When we got there I left the door of the car open, hoping to use it later.
As we came into the outer office the receptionist tried to stop us but we pushed on by. The girls looked up, startled. I went straight to Barnes’s inner door and tried to open it; it was locked. I turned to his secretary. “Where’s Barnes?”
“Who is calling, please?” She said, polite as a fish.
I looked down at the fit of the sweater across her shoulders. Humped. By God, I said to myself, this one has to be. She was here when I killed Barnes.
I bent over and pulled up her sweater.
I was right. I had to be right. For the second time I stared at the raw flesh of one of the parasites.
I wanted to throw up, but I was too busy. She struggled and clawed and tried to bite. I judo-cut the side of her neck, almost getting my hand in the filthy mess, and she went limp. I gave her three fingers in the pit of her stomach for good measure, then swung her around. “Jarvis,” I yelled, “get a close up.”
The idiot was fiddling with his gear, bending over it, his big hind end between me and the pick up. He straightened up. “School’s out,” he said. “Blew a tube.”
“Replace it—hurry!”
A stenographer stood up on the other side of the room and fired, not at me, not at Jarvis, but at the scanner. Hit it, too—and both Davidson and I burned her down. As if it had been a signal about six of them jumped Davidson. They did not seem to have guns; they just swarmed over him.
I still hung onto the secretary and shot from where I was. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to find Barnes—”Barnes” number two—standing in his doorway. I shot him through the chest to be sure to get the slug I knew was on his back. I turned back to the slaughter.
Davidson was up again. A girl crawled toward him; she seemed wounded. He shot her full in the face and she stopped. His next bolt was just past my ear. I looked around and said, “Thanks! Now let’s get out of here. Jarvis—come on!”
The elevator was still open and we rushed in, me still burdened with Barnes’s secretary. I slammed the door closed and started it. Davidson was trembling and Jarvis was dead white. “Buck up,” I said, “you weren’t shooting people, you were shooting things. Like this.” I held the girl’s body up and looked down at her back myself.