Warhol's Prophecy

118

‘ADAM, PLEASE,’ HAILEY said, the colour draining from her cheeks. ‘For God’s sake, don’t make me choose. I’ll do anything. but, please God, don’t kill them.’

‘God has very little to do with this, Hailey,’ said Walker flatly. ‘He’s had very little to do with anything in my life. Now choose.’

‘Shoot me, you mad fuck,’ snarled Rob.

‘Shut up,’ Walker snapped, pushing the barrel hard against the back of his head.

‘Come on, do it,’ Rob insisted, raising his voice.

‘Perhaps I should start with Becky,’ Walker announced, trailing the barrel of the Scorpion over her silken hair.

‘Please,’ Hailey begged.

‘Put the gun down,’ Walker ordered.

‘Come on, shoot me – or are you too gutless?’ Rob persisted, half turning to look at his captor.

Hailey felt the Steyr wavering in her grip. Its weight seemed to increase by the second.

‘Choose, Hailey,’ Walker said again.

‘I can’t,’ she said, her voice a whisper.

‘Choose,’ he said loudly. There was anger in his tone.

Becky was crying uncontrollably now, seeing the anguish on her mother’s face.

‘I need you as my witness, Hailey,’ Walker told her. ‘I need you to tell people what happened here tonight. I need you to tell them my name.’

Hailey felt faint. She looked from one face to another.

Her daughter?

Her husband?

The guns at their heads.

No, this wasn’t right. No one should have to make a decision like this. Madness lay along that road.

Rob avoided her gaze.

Was he trying to make it easier for her?

Hailey could feel tears running down her cheeks as she continued looking from face to face.

Becky was crying. ‘Mum,’ she whined, that plaintive agonized call for help more devastating than all the furious blasts of fire that had gone before.

Again Hailey felt faint.

‘Choose,’ Walker told her.

She raised the Steyr so that it was pointing at his face.

Walker merely shook his head.

Hailey looked at Rob.

I love you!

He met her gaze. Nodded almost imperceptibly.

He wants Walker to shoot him. Save Becky. Save your daughter. Save our daughter.

There was an unearthly calmness in Rob’s eyes. A resignation.

It said, ‘I understand.’

She studied his ravaged features. The cuts on his face. The blood on his jacket. The wound in his shoulder.

Some of his red fluid had splashed onto Becky’s little party dress.

Becky?

The Scorpion machine-pistol pressed against her skull.

So much love.

‘You know what?’ Walker observed. ‘You’re right: no one should have to make a decision like that, should they? How would you choose?’ He shook his head. ‘Let me decide for you.’

He pulled both triggers simultaneously.