Prodigal Son

brick barrier, flung himself at it, scrambled up like a monkey on a stick, but abruptly screamed as if torn by horrendous pain. He fell off the wall, rolled, sprang at once to his feet.
        Carson shouted at him to freeze, as if there were a hope in hell that he would, but she had to go through the motions.
        He went at the wall again, leaped, grabbed the top, too fast for her to sight on him, and clambered over.
        "Get out in front of him!" she shouted to Michael, and he raced back the way they had come, looking for a different route into the street beyond the wall.
        She holstered her pistol, dragged a half-filled garbage can to the end of the alley, climbed onto it, gripped the top of the wall with both hands, levered up, got a leg over.
        Although she was sure that Harker would have escaped, Carson discovered that he had fallen again. He was lying face up in the street, wriggling like a snake with a broken back.
        If their kind could turn off pain in a crisis, as Deucalion claimed, either Harker had forgotten that option or something was so wrong with him that he had no control of it.
        As she came off the wall, he got to his feet again, staggering toward an intersection.
        They were near the waterfront. Ship-chandlers' offices, ship brokerages, mostly warehouses. No traffic at this hour, businesses dark, streets silent.
        At the intersection, Michael appeared in the street ahead.
        Trapped between Carson and Michael, Harker turned toward the alleyway on the left, which led toward the waterfront, but it was fenced to twelve feet, with a wide padlocked gate, so he veered toward the front of a warehouse.
        When Michael closed on him with the shotgun, Carson held back, giving him a clear approach.
        Harker built speed toward the man-door at the front of the warehouse, as if he didn't see it.
        Following the usual protocol, Michael shouted for Harker to stop, to drop, to put his hands behind his head.
        When Harker hit the door, it held, and he screamed, but he didn't bounce off and go down as he ought to have done. He seemed to stick to it.
        The crash of impact was followed at once by Harker's cry of rage and the shriek of tortured metal.
        Michael shouted again, five steps from point-blank position.
        The warehouse door sagged. Hinges snapped with reports as loud as gunshots. The door went down, and Harker disappeared inside just as Michael halted and brought the 12-gauge into firing position.
        Carson joined him at the entrance. "He's going to try to get out the back."
        Once Harker was on the waterfront-the docks, the boats, the cargo esplanade-there were a thousand ways for him to disappear.
        Offering Michael her pistol, grip first, she said, "You two-gun him at the back when he comes out. Gimme the shotgun, and I'll move him through to you."
        This made sense because Michael was taller than she, stronger, and therefore could scale the twelve-foot alleyway fence faster than she could.
        He took her pistol, gave her the shotgun. "Watch your ass. I'd hate for anything to happen to it."
        The mantle of the black sky cracked. Volcanic blaze of light, volcanic boom. At last the pent-up rain fell in a volume to inspire ark builders.

CHAPTER 93
        
        TO THE RIGHT of the broken door, Carson found switches. Light revealed a reception area. Gray-tile floor, pale-blue walls. A few chairs. Low railings to the left and right, desks beyond.
        Directly ahead was a service counter. At the left end, a gate stood open.
        Harker might have been crouched against the farther side of the counter, waiting for her, but she doubted she would find him there. His priority wasn't to waste her, just to get away.
        She cleared the gate fast, swiveling the 12-gauge to cover the area behind the counter. No Harker.
        A door stood ajar behind the clerical pen. She pushed it open with the shotgun barrel.
        Enough light came from behind her to reveal a short hallway No Harker. Deserted.
        She stepped inside, flicked on the hall light. She listened but heard only the thunder and the insistent crash of rain on the roof.
        To each side stood a door. Signs identified them as men's and women's lavatories.
        Harker wouldn't have stopped to take a pee, wash his hands, or admire himself in a mirror.
        Assuring herself