Page 67 of Slow Burn

She forgot to finish. The cameraman had managed to get his shot stable, a crowd shot; the picture jerked unevenly as he pulled the focus, shocked confused faces, a blur of motion—he pulled back agair

Velvet screamed.

A burning man plunged down the steps of the arena, arms waving, bright enough to fuzz out the TV picture. People piled out of his way, mouths open, eyes wild.

Velvet fumbled for the remote, but Agent James got there first, found the mute button. Screams exploded into the cool air of the apartment, ringing, echoing. Over them, the announcers.

Not sure what we’re seeing here

My god, Jim, it looks like that man is on fire. Yes, he’s definitely on fire. As you can see, Security is right behind him

Anybody see how it happened? When did it start? He’s fully in flames now, folks, pushing a hot dog vendor out of his way

Agent James looked over at Velvet, his face tight and pale, and said, “I guess it’s a little late for damage control now.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Robby

It was a good thing that Mark had arrived to act as bank, because Kelly hadn’t bothered to show. Robby brushed past him on her way to the beer stand, passed him three thick wallets, and made sure he had them before she continued on her way. Of all of them, he was the only one with an actual pickpocketing conviction.

He had a tendency to cockiness that made her nervous. This time, he caught her eye and winked, an absolute violation of common sense and every rule. She swept her eyes blankly on and decided to tell Jim, once and for all, that she didn’t want Mark to bank for her. No matter what.

Two drunks were arguing ferociously near the beer stand, drinks sloshing as they gestured. One of them demonstrated high sticking with his forearm. Robby ducked the struggle and continued on. Ahead, a weaving couple of teenaged girls giggled and gossiped in line. The brunette had an open purse and a vacant look, but Robby decided against it; the blonde looked too intelligent and only a little drunk. She passed them up for a party of business people still dressed in wrinkled, beer-spotted suits and lightened two pockets and two purses, a heavy enough haul to make her immediately turn and scan for Mark.

He caught the signal and started in her direction, a loose easy walk. He’d lost most of his stiffness over the last year, but there was something about him, something that made cops’ eyes turn in his direction even when he was innocent. He was a bad choice for bank, she felt it in her bones. Something would happen.

He brushed past her, and she passed two of the wallets over—Jim could have taken three without breaking a sweat, but two was the limit of Mark’s agility—and watched helplessly as Mark fumbled the second one. It fell to the concrete floor with a meaty smack that sounded like a bomb explosion to her. As Mark bent down for it, she kicked it with the side of her foot and sent it sailing away into the crowd. When he straightened up, she fixed him with a glare.

He knew better than to try to pick it up. He’dalwaysknown better than that.

He mouthed,Sorry, and moved on. She blew out a shaking breath and decided to take a break. The hockey game sounded as if it had reached a fever pitch of excitement. She ambled through a short dark tunnel and paused on the crowded landing, thinking about lifting the wallet that stuck half-out of the blue jeans in front of her.

A hand grabbed her arm. She looked up into Jim’s chalk-pale face.

“What’s wrong?” She had to shout to be heard over the screaming of the crowd. He pointed. Directly down the stairs, toward the ice.

A man wrapped in white fire staggered down concrete steps, arms waving helplessly. People bobbed backward from him in waves. He missed a step and fell face forward, sliding down several risers and leaving a trail of burning flesh behind.

He was still moving. Oh, God, he was still moving.She watched as he clawed his way upright and smashed into the plastic screen around the ice, smearing it with oozes of blood and flaky black skin—and then the plastic slumped with him, as if it were tired of holding him back.

He slithered over the barrier and crawled onto the ice. Hockey players veered off to one side of the rink, like birds wheeling. The man crawled, or slid, another foot or two.

The ice bubbled. He was still burning.

She realized that her hands had gone to her mouth, turned to bury her face in Jim’s chest. His arm went around her. She could feel him shaking.

Somebody on the P.A. yelled, “Be calm, everybody please stay calm, there’s no cause for alarm, stay in your seats.” Nobody listened. Jim tugged her back down the tunnel, forced her into a run. She heard the rumble of feet behind her.

They attained the safety of the bathroom alcove as a wave of people erupted from the tunnel, shoving, screaming, blind with panic. A young black man fell only a few feet away, curled into a ball. Robby couldn’t see the kicks that hit him, only the blood. He crawled toward them, far enough that she could grab his hand and pull him into the relative peace of the alcove.

“Jesus Christ,” Jim kept saying, over and over, like a prayer. “Jesus Christ.”

The black man, sitting at Robby’s feet with blood streaming down his face, said, “Man, I hope somebody got that on tape.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Martin

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