I knew what he was wondering. Does she know how to shoot it? Did she learn, watching Walter? And if she did, will she or won’t she? And if she’s undecided, can I move fast enough to interfere? Throw a rock, like Miss Alien. Slide down and tackle her before she makes up her mind.
I yelled, “Walter taught me how to use it.” I thumbed the lever away from safety lock, to single fire. Hap saw that and let out a low whistle. I said, “Lie on your belly.”
He sank smoothly to the trail like the athlete he was.
I saw now that I should never get close enough to tie his hands. Okay then, what’s the plan? Just keep him believing. He already thinks you’ll shoot. Or at least he’s not ready to call your bluff. Just keep him away from any place that could be hiding the explosives, and hold him there until Soliano comes. You’ve got him under control. Now increase the odds in your favor. I said, “Roll onto your back.”
He turned over.
“Take off your pants.”
He rotated his head to peer down at me. “Hey Buttercup, change your mind?”
I said, cold, “I know what you were after that night at the pool.” Blow a fog of romance into my eyes so I don’t see clearly. “It won’t work now either.”
“Was after a little bit of life.”
My heart hardened. “Take off your damn pants.”
He put his legs in the air and peeled down the parachute pants. He wore the purple swim trunks underneath.
I filed that piece of information. “Wad the pants. Slide them down to me.”
The bundle rolled down the slope and I put out a foot to stop it.
“Roll on your belly and clasp your hands behind your head. Arms out like wings.”
“Like in them cop shows?”
“Damn you do it.”
He rolled, and clasped.
I squatted beside the orange bundle. There was no danger of radioactive beads being caught in the pants because Hap had worn hazmat when he’d waded into the reservoir to get Milt. There was a danger that I’d fall into the pool while trying to muli-task here. Balancing the subgun on my knees, holding my aim on Hap, I freed one hand to unwad the pants and fish in the deep pocket to retrieve my field knife. I returned it to my own pocket, glad to put it beyond his reach. The familiar weight threw me, like I’d pocketed the knife for the field and come up here for the rocks. Some joke. I leaned back to dip the pants in the water, then slapped them flat on the decking, tugging the ankles to spread them out wide. Orange parachute flag.
Hap called down, “What if nobody comes looking?”
I stood. “They’re on their way.” Sooner or later Soliano was going to shift his attention from the search for Jardine and the mess at the Inn, and notice that we hadn’t checked in. Surely, I thought, he’s already noticed. He’s surely already sent choppers. Only, the searchers missed us earlier because we were inside the mine so long, and Dearing’s body would not have been visible. So they widened their search grid. But that’s okay. Walter’s going to come out of the mine and Pria will tell him where I went and he’ll phone Soliano. Maybe he already has. So the choppers are on the way, right now. Or ten minutes from now. And if they pass anywhere in the neighborhood they’re going to spot my orange flag.
Hap groaned. “Arms’re cramping.”
I bet they were. “Tell me where the explosives are and you can drop your elbows.”
“Have a heart.”
“You need to blast the chockstone, right? To let out the water.”
“You had one an hour ago.”
“That was pity.”
He grimaced. “Then extend it.”
“Here’s my heart. It won’t let you contaminate anything or anybody else.”
“Not even to wake up John Q Public?”
“Not even that.”
“I’m hurting.” His elbows dropped.
I raised the gun.
He unclasped his hands and pressed them to the ground and when I yelled stop he let out a cry and flexed his arms. Everything slowed then — Hap lifting his torso, shifting his weight back to his knees, preparing to make his play, and I had all the time in the world to recall him making his play with Walter and to think, now I’m the one on the frontier with two hateful choices — and then time speeded up and Hap was up on his knees and I had a nanosecond to choose, and I fired.
He crumpled and collapsed and lay still on his belly.
For a long moment I did not believe I’d hit him, I thought he was pretending, and when he swiveled his head to look down at me I thought he must see how the weapon shook in my hands. I gripped it harder, before he could make his next move.
And then I saw the thin soil beneath him darken, to hematite red.
I shook harder. All my will was bent toward stopping the shakes. I clenched my muscles until they screamed. This is what it’s like to shoot someone, I thought. It hurts.
He was making a sound. A harsh exhalation.
I said, “Where are you hit?”
He stared at me. Incredulous. Like I thought I was some kind of EMT, assessing the victim she’d come to attend. Like the gun had shot itself. He rolled onto his side then, making another sound, a low moan. He bent his knees and then I saw the hole I’d made in his right thigh. Black against white skin, edges puckering like goose bumps, oozing red. He pressed his palm against the hole. The blood seeped out between his fingers.
“Pants,” he gasped, looking down at the orange parachute pants on the deck. “Tourniquet.”
I almost went to get the pants. But that was my flag. I almost took off my shirt to give him. But I feared to get that close. I said, “Use your T-shirt.”
He gasped, “Fuck you.”
I thought, if he loses enough blood he’ll pass out, and then I can go bind his wound.
We watched each other, waiting.
And then with a shout of pain he pushed himself up to a sit and peeled off Blinky the Three-Eyed Mutant Fish. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped the T-shirt around his thigh, twice, and then tied it off. The cotton wicked blood. He clamped his hand on the wound again and sank back to the trail.
I shook all over. My own legs gave out. I sank to the smooth rock deck. I propped the gun against my knees, keeping it aimed at Hap. He watched me. His eyes closed. I saw that the T-shirt had stopped reddening, beneath his splayed fingers. He did not move. I began to relax. I gave in, catching the heat from the rock and the warmth from the dying day’s sun. My shivers died. His eyes flicked open, closed again. Neither of us spoke. Too drained to re-engage, like an estranged couple on vacation distracting ourselves with hiking and sunning and spatting and now, exhausted by our day in the sun, wary of the evening ahead. Wounded.
“Cassie,” he said at last.
Here we go. I tried to rally.
“You recall the SFP?” His voice was thin, but steady now.
The spent-fuel pool. I glanced down into the silty water. Not this pool. Another pool entirely.
“Recall that dude?”
Collier. Drew Collier. Guy who beat the crap out of Hap over a spilled glass of ale. Diver at the nuke plant who got too close to the fuel rods. Guy who died, whose death gave Hap a new nickname. Doc Death.
“Listen.”
I listened — to Hap’s raspy breathing on the sheep trail above me, to the hiss of the current in the pool below me, to my own shallow breathing as I took in the heated air. I could sit on this hot rock forever.
“Waited too long,” he finally said. “Watching on RC.”
Radiation Control — initials no longer cryptic. I remembered well enough. Hap waited too long on radiation control, didn’t warn Collier soon enough that he was in a high-dose area. “By mistake?” I stirred. “On purpose?”