He managed to take her hand, which seemed impossibly warm. Which meant that he was chilled, blood rushing to his centre, where the pain danced.
“I … thank you. Uh, help, you said? How—”
She raised the silencing finger again. “Listen.”
They rose a bit on their haunches, and now Warren heard the strong voice of the standing man. Shaggy, bearded, arms spread wide, the fierce eyes showed white.
“We are the
“The blacks will soon
Warren felt the impact of Manson’s voice, seductive: he detested it. In that rolling, powerful chant lay the deaths to come at 10050 Cielo Drive. Sharon Tate, eight and a half months pregnant. Her friend and former lover Jay Sebring. Abigail Folger, heiress to the Folger coffee fortune. Others, too, all innocents. Roman Polanski, one of the great drama makers of this era and Tate’s husband, was in London at work on a film project or else he would have shared their fate, with others still—
The thought struck him—what if, in this timeline, Roman Polanski was there at 10050 Cielo Drive? Would he die, too? If so, Warren’s mission was even more a mercy for this era.
Manson went on, voice resounding above the flickering flames, hands and eyes working the circle of rapt acolytes. “We’ll be movin’ soon.
Manson went on, telling the “family” they might have to show blacks how to start “Helter Skelter,” the convulsion that would destroy the power structure and bring Manson to the fore. The circle laughed and yelped and applauded, their voices a joyful babble.
He sat back, acid pain leaking into his mind. In his joggs Warren had seen the direct presence of evil, but nothing like this monster.
Serafina said, “This will be your greatest mercy.”
Warren’s head spun. “You came to make …”
“Make it happen.” She pulled from the darkness behind her a long, malicious device. An automatic weapon, Warren saw. Firepower.
“Your 0.22 is not enough. Without me, you will fail.”
Warren saw now what must occur. He was not enough against such massed insanity. Slowly he nodded.
She shouldered the long sleek weapon, clicked off the safety. He rose beside her, legs weak.
“You take the first,” she said. He nodded and aimed at Manson. The 0.22 was so small and light as he aimed, while crickets chirped and the bile rose up into his dry throat. He concentrated and squeezed off the shot.
The sharp splat didn’t have any effect. Warren had missed. Manson turned toward them—
The hammering of her automatic slammed in his ears as he aimed his paltry 0.22 and picked off the fleeing targets.
He was thrilled to hit three of them—shadows going down in the firelight. Serafina raged at them, changing clips and yelling. He shouted himself, a high long
Manson had darted away at Serafina’s first burst. The man ran quickly to Warren’s left and Warren followed, feet heavy, hands automatically adding rounds to the 0.22 clip. In the dim light beyond the screams and shots Warren tracked the lurching form, framed against the distant city glow. Some around the circle had pistols, too, and they scattered, trying to direct fire against Serafina’s quick, short bursts.
Warren trotted into the darkness, feet unsteady, keeping Manson’s silhouette in view. He stumbled over outcroppings, but kept going despite the sudden lances of agony creeping down into his legs.
Warren knew he had to save energy, that Manson could outrun him easily. So he stopped at the crest of a rise, settled in against a rock and held the puny 0.22 in his right hand, bracing it with his left. He could see Manson maybe twenty meters away, trotting along, angling toward the ranch’s barn. He squeezed off a shot. The
