They paused behind a raised skylight. Their only chance was to get to the Riva and the mainland. Gainer motioned Leslie to remain there. He moved quickly in a crouch further down the length of roof to a spot overlooking where the Riva and the Awesomes were tied up at the seawall. Through the lacy leaves of a tall locust tree he made out the figures of two armed men stationed at the boats. He observed them for several minutes and decided they were alert. Too alert.
He returned to Leslie, put his mouth to her ear and told her in a whisper hardly louder than his normal breathing the Riva situation as he’d seen it. Best to wait. They’d stay where they were concealed by the skylight. When dark came, maybe make a try for the boat. They sat, back pressed to back, so no one could steal up on them. Every so often they tilted their heads back and caressed with their cheeks.
Time to think about Chapin and Vinny now.
Little good it did for Gainer to label them with every obscenity the streets and salons of New York had ever taught him. Nor was there any psychological comfort in hoping Chapin and Vinny would somehow pay for their betrayal. They’d get theirs? Shit, they already had theirs. A billion plus. Gainer had never put any stock in the inevitability of retribution. That was something for the marks, the victims, to hang onto, to keep them from feeling all was lost. But fate was not an avenger.
In fact, Chapin and Vinny now stood a better chance than ever of avoiding knocks and living to be a hundred. They were up to their hard hearts in fuck-you money. Cashmere all the way. And when they did happen to be in the proximity of one of life’s falling trees, they now had the push to make it more likely it would not go down in their direction.
Chapin.
The prick etcetera.
He’d planned it, and Vinny, as usual, had followed him. Chapin with his circuitous, intricate mentality had had it in his head from the start, no doubt. That meant everything from him had been bullshit and selfishness, and the mutual trust and regard Gainer had felt had actually been one-sided. Shouldn’t have fallen for it, Gainer thought. Hindsight was having an eye for an asshole. He should have stayed with the money every minute, like his instinct had told him.
Except, ironically, if the money had been in that room down there, he and Leslie would be down there now—dead from holes. That they were saved, momentarily at least, by its not being there was because Chapin had taken it. Well, he got no gold stars for good intentions, the son of a bitch.
Hine, he’d never, of course, trusted. Strange, Hine’s indifferent reaction to the Southampton tape. The tape was supposed to be the saver, the equalizer. It still might be, Gainer thought. Hine just hadn’t believed such a tape existed—otherwise he wouldn’t have dared throw all this shit at them. Gainer blamed himself for not taking the time and care to convince Hine, to send him a duplicate of the incriminating tape. He knew he had it, but Hine didn’t—and that was what counted.
Well, Norma?
Leslie tilted her head back far enough to kiss him behind the ear, one of her special kisses that felt as though all of her was turned inside out and concentrated wet and warm on that spot. “I love you, lover,” she whispered.
“We don’t have much of a chance,” he said.
“How much?”
“Ninety-ten, maybe less.”
She didn’t agree. “I’d say eighty-twenty, maybe even fifty-fifty.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, again feeling responsible.
She turned so he couldn’t miss her look. “If I hear one more apology, I’m going to get up and walk right off the roof.”
A long silent moment.
Gainer looked over to Manhattan. The city looked motionless, apathetic. He had the illusion that he could reach out and rearrange it, pick up the Woolworth building by its spire and place it wherever he pleased. Topple one of the Trade Towers with the tip of his finger. His city.
“Tell you what,” Leslie whispered. “Let’s make a pact.”
“Sure.”
“Next lifetime, you come back as me and I’ll come back as you.”
“You said we had fifty-fifty.”
“I’m sticking to that. This is just in case. You be me and I’ll be you, next time around, okay?”
“Why?”
“I want you to feel all the marvelous things you’ve made me feel.”
“Maybe that’s what we’re doing this time,” he said.
“Possibly.” She smiled and he saw the pink pillow of her tongue. “God I wish I had some Rescue,” she said.
So did he. Any kind would be welcome.
AT that moment inside the building a security man came on the stair-way-up that the skylight served. He was, at that point, only twenty feet below Gainer and Leslie. His stalker’s instinct, working like a sensitive instrument, told him they were not far away. He’d been moving quietly and swiftly from room to room, not darting or otherwise making himself less of a target, because from what Sweet had said and he himself had seen, the man and the woman were not armed.
Now, he stood at the bottom of the stairs with his automatic rifle just a bit readier. Stopped breathing so he could hear anything. Heard the crunch of plaster dust beneath his shoes as he shifted his position, but nothing more. This place, he thought. He wouldn’t want to go up against anyone weapon-to-weapon here. Too many blind spaces and traps in all these rooms, and unpredictable debris.
As things were the plaster dust helped, the shoeprints in it. No one could move about without leaving a trail. He examined the stairway, found only rat tracks in the inch-thick dust on the treads. The man and the woman had not gone up there. He turned his head abruptly, hoping to catch sight of someone in the hall area to his left. All was still. No matter, something continued to tell him he was close.
The skylight above the stairway landing. He raised his eyes to it. Three panes missing, numerous others partially broken out. The density of light coming through some of the panes along the near edge suddenly altered, he noticed. A subtle but discernible change. He watched for it again. This time it seemed more pronounced and also cast a dull, soft-edged shadow on the wall below the skylight.
It went away.
In seconds reappeared.
There were ten steps up to the landing. He took them as separate obstacles. Not placing weight on a foot until he was certain there was nothing beneath it to crunch and give him away. He even squatted and swept the dust from some steps with his hands to reveal and then avoid pieces of plaster. He’d taken greater pains at other times for less than ten thousand, he thought.
When he reached the landing he was ten feet nearer his objective. That indistinct shadow was still on the wall. His eyes traveled from it up to where its source should be.
The panes of the skylight were coated with dust that was caked on by rain and dampness from the harbor. The security man gauged how opaque they were by comparing where a pane was missing. No shadow was possible through those dirty panes, he decided. He felt he’d gotten too carried away, gave the blame to the afternoon sun rather than his eyes—
But then … in the corner of one of the opaque panes, where a triangular piece no larger than an inch was broken away …
The color of nutmeg, for a moment.
The security man recognized it, brought his automatic rifle up, didn’t need to sight at that range. Firmed the butt of the rifle against the muscles forward of his right hip, leaned back and pulled off a burst.
And another burst.
The glass of the skylight shattered upward like a fountain of shards. Its frames split and flew in all directions.
SEVERAL of the .223 inch caliber bullets came so close to Leslie they singed her hair.
At once she and Gainer rolled away, got up and were on the run along the corridor roof for about fifty strides and then onto the roof of one of the medical ward buildings. The surface of that roof was interrupted by a slightly raised structure about three feet square. Apparently the lid of a trap door. Gainer and Leslie tried with all their strength to lift it off, but it was eith
er solidly stuck or bolted shut from the inside. They gave up on it, went to the edge of the ward roof. Found an exterior metal ladder fixed vertically to the side of the building.
Leslie was first to start down. The ladder hadn’t been used in fifty years. Rust on its rungs came off in flakes as Leslie gripped them. She climbed down swiftly, watching the placement of her feet, believing that Gainer was no more than a rung above her and in his hurry might accidentally step on her fingers. When she reached the ground and looked up she saw he was still at the top of the ladder.
He was standing on it with his arms through the top two rungs. His forearms rested on the edge of the roof, one hand steadying the other that gripped his ASP.
He figured they would come up, was hoping they would choose that way. He concentrated on the trap door, and after a couple of minutes saw the lid of it shift a little and then suddenly hinge open.
Gainer had expected they would be more cautious than that, thought he’d have trouble holding back long enough to take full advantage. But one, two of them came up and out of the opening with little more care than if they’d been city roofing inspectors. They stood there looking around, shielding their eyes from the sun.
They were only twenty feet away.
One of Gainer’s first shots hit within an inch of where he aimed. The .380 hollow point slug went into the man just a fraction above where his collarbones came together. It tore through his windpipe and esophagus and partly severed his common carotid artery. The slug was nowhere near spent when it struck and shattered the first dorsal vertebra at the top of the man’s spine. The man stiffened as the upper third of him was driven back by force of the slug. The rest of him crumpled, and he went down in a sort of extreme back bend.
Gainer’s next shot was nearly as sure, and required only a slight adjustment of aim. The second man had just time enough to get both hands on his automatic rifle before being hit. The bullet entered a couple of inches to the right of his sternum, smashed against the upper portion of his fourth rib. The impact divided the slug into several chunks that glanced off into different directions, ripping cartilages and the tissues of his organs, shredding through veins and arteries in his chest and abdomen. His automatic rifle went flying. For a moment he was balanced on one leg, like a discus thrower in bad form, arms flailing. And then he collapsed.
Gainer waited a few seconds, but no one else came up onto the roof. He holstered his ASP and practically slid the two stories down the ladder to the ground.
Leslie had taken cover, was kneeling among some tall weeds. She stuck her head up briefly for Gainer to find her. He hurried to her, kneeled beside her. Why was it such a relief to be off his feet? He hadn’t exerted himself enough to be breathing so hard or for his heart to be going at this rate. He worked up some saliva and moved it around the inside of his mouth but his mouth went quickly dry again. Told himself he shouldn’t react badly to having killed those two, especially not the deliberate way he’d killed them, without giving them a chance. That was street, that was smart. He had better learn to think even more like that. Take the sucker shots when he could, pick up the regrets and other pieces later.
Full deep breath.
Go away hollow.
Come back legs.
He was a quick, cold-headed killer, he was. At least he would be with some cooperation from his heart that was still zapping.
He looked to Leslie, believed what he saw in her eyes was both praise and fright.
She believed his wink. He hoped.
The weed patch, Gainer decided, was not a substantial enough cover. They moved in a crouch through it, beneath where some wild grapes had a many-season stranglehold on a dogwood tree. Fifteen feet further on was the rear of one of the buildings. Three concrete steps up to a concrete platform and a partially open door.
They made a dash for it.
The door was metal and its hinges had rusted in place. Maybe it could be pulled open more, but not quietly.
Leslie was able to squeeze sideways through and in. It was tighter for Gainer, and at once point it seemed the door and its sharp-edged jamb had him unable to move at all. Leslie pulled on him. He gritted and scraped painfully in.
What they’d gotten into, they discovered, was a large old toilet area. Evidently for men. Situated along the length of one wall were ten toilet bowls, and along the wall opposite were as many urinals. The floor where it was still intact was made up of white octagonal ceramic tiles. Years of grime on everything. The ceiling had surrendered long ago, dropped its plaster in uncountable chips and some huge chunks. Almost in the middle of the room stood four displaced sinks, two-legged porcelain sinks meant to have a wall to lean against that now depended haphazardly on one another. Other sinks of the same sort were thrown in a six foot high pile in one of the deepest corners. Directly above them was a leaky ventilating shaft, so those sinks were layered with wet mold, like someone had poured a scummy green topping on them.
An unlikely, and safer, place, they decided. They sat in the corner behind the pile of sinks.
Gainer’s watch told him five after five. Another hour and a half or so before sundown and even then there would be leftover light for quite a while. He watched the sweep hand of the watch complete the circle and he drew encouragement from thinking only ninety more of those, which then didn’t seem so terribly long. He recalled how Sweet had coveted that watch. An Audemar Piquet from Norma two years ago. Gainer could practically measure his life by the various watches Norma had bought him in Zurich. From the first Phillip Patek to the Baume Mercier that had been his favorite next to this one.
He pictured Sweet rolling him over dead and unbuckling the watch from his wrist. He hated the thought of Sweet telling the times of his life from this watch. Sweet would never get it, Gainer vowed. He’d smash it first, would smash it now if he didn’t have the need for it.
Ten minutes went by.
Leslie snuggled in the cave of Gainer’s right arm. Part of her was remembering little luxuries, giving them their due and including them in things she’d miss. At the same time, most of her was listening. Even the most innocent sounds made her start.
She elbowed Gainer. Walked fingers on her thigh to convey that she thought she heard footsteps.
Gainer couldn’t hear them.
And then he did. The pulverizing of chunks of fallen plaster under someone’s weight. Not stalking steps, not someone trying to be stealthy, but a regular stride at an easy pace, like that of someone who knew where he was headed.
Closer footsteps, louder.
Bound knowingly for Gainer and Leslie, it seemed. Bringing a certain confrontation.
Gainer drew his ASP.
So did Leslie.
Their view of the entrance of the other end of the room was blocked by a three-quarter partition, making it impossible for them to see who it was that passed by the entrance and continued on.
The footstep sounds receded.
They stopped.
They returned to the toilet area.
The man appeared from behind the partition like a performer making an entrance from the wings. He stood there in the low light facing only as much as he could see, an audience of toilet bowls and urinals. One hand held the automatic rifle by its grip, as though its seven and a half pounds were next to nothing. The rifle seemed undersize compared to him. There were white smudges of plaster dust on his black trousers and jacket. He glanced right at the pile of old sinks in the far corner and then let the muzzle of his rifle relax.
Gainer wanted to shoot him. So did Leslie. However neither had a positively sure heart or head shot. The four sinks that were propped up in the middle of the room were in the way. A miss or mere wound would trigger an answer from that automatic rifle. Better not to risk it.
The sinks would save the man.
He was about to turn and leave when he noticed a door. Only four steps and a reach away.
He opened it.
They were too quick for the rifle to do him any good, although
in reaction he did squeeze off one wild burst. He had no chance to run.
They had known he was there, and in their chronically nervous manner had anticipated the intrusion. The single hole in the rear of the large old mop-and-pail closet could not accommodate a swift enough retreat for so many. They had to accept that they were hemmed in, and when the opening came they attacked. Some were old four-year-olds, most were at least full grown. They could leap four feet ahead and two feet straight up.
They were afraid of humans.
They hated humans.
This was human.
They went for his legs, his calves and thighs. Got onto them, clawed in, sunk their teeth as they climbed around and up him. He tried to beat them off with the butt of the rifle, tried to knock them off with his hands. Their bites clamped them to his hands.
When they reached his shoulders he hunched his head to protect his neck, and he did not scream until they got to it. He threw his weight against the wall, hoping to crush them with himself. Some were stunned and fell off him. He scraped his body along the wall. But as many as brushed off, twice as many leaped onto him.
The man knew if he went down they would finish him. He stayed upright, used the walls, reeled from one wall to another. Fell over one of the urinals, managed to regain his feet only to go off balance again against the sinks in the middle of the room. The sinks would not save him. They fell over. The man collapsed awkwardly among them, and was reduced to kicking and flailing.
Gainer stood up. He squeezed off two shots that thudded into the rats. Two more shots caused a squeal rather than a snarl, and as though that was a signal the pack scattered, scurried back into the closet and out the entrance, except a few that slunk along the edge of the room behind the toilet bowls, peering, quivering.
Gainer approached the man.
His clothes were shredded. He was bitten a thousand times. Both his ears had been chewed off. His eyes were open, apparently dead eyes.
Gainer avoided those eyes. He retrieved the automatic rifle and found a spare magazine in the man’s jacket pocket. Took the time to put a full clip in the ASP.
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