The siren woke something in Harvard. It gave him back whatever grip on reality he had, for he shook his bleeding head at the sound and, at a half-run, headed for the escalator, passing the security guard who had just arrived at the top, his hand twitching on the holster at his hip, his eyes full moons of blood.
Chelsea scrambled up and, still shouting, followed.
I called after her. “Chelsea! Stop!” Pain pierced my side, and it hurt with each gasp, but I kept going. For I did not doubt that Harvard would c***k her skull as easily as he’d cracked the little monkey’s. My haste, however, proved unnecessary. The man had all the speed of mania to propel him – mania in fear of persecution – and not even a woman’s grief and vengeance could outpace that. By the time Chelsea reached the main floor
