And that's when it turned into one of those days; big time.
8
Matt knew he was coming. The son of a bitch was going to get through Paul's stupid defenses, he'd go through Paul like a saber through a baby, and here was Matt, stuck, in this useless body, in this miserable wheelchair!.
Paul had shut off the stairclimber. He'd run it on down to the ground floor, by that door he'd nailed shut—as though that would do any good—and then he'd cut off the power, so that Matt couldn't use it, couldn't move, couldn't get out of here, couldn't defend himself!
He hated this body. He remembered who he used to be, when he was someone who wasn't afraid of anybody, when he was stronger than anybody and more reckless than anybody and tougher than anybody, so if anybody ever had reason to be afraid, it was the people who had to deal with Matt Rosenstein.
If only he had a gun. He was trapped in these rooms, the kitchen at the front, the living-dining room in the middle, his room at the back. He had windows to look out of, front and back. He had staircases up and down, which he couldn't use. He had knives, in the kitchen, but what good were knives if you couldn't reach the guy?
He had telephones, kitchen and bedroom, but they were merely little metal mockeries, jeering him. Who would he call? Who could he call? After the trail he'd cut through people, the first part of his life, who was there in the world for him to phone right now, and what would he say? "Hi, this is Matt Rosenstein, you remember me, I broke your jaw one time, I'm stuck here paralyzed in this wheelchair with a guy coming to kill me, I was wondering if you'd like to come help me out."
His arms were still strong, and his brain still worked, you could be sure of that. He had taken a cleaver from the kitchen drawer, not the longest one but the strongest, a solid slice of steel with a firm black handle, shaped for his fist. It was concealed now in the wheelchair against his left hip, blade down, handle toward the front, so he could reach over with the right hand, bring it up and out in one steady motion. If he could get Parker within range ...
That was the damn thing of it. If he could get his hands on Parker, he had a chance. He might even be able to do him with just the strength in his arms, not even using the knife. But why would Parker get that close?
What could Matt do to bring Parker close? He thought of lying doggo, pretending to be dead, maybe with the knife slack in his hand, blood smeared on the knife and blood smeared on his throat, as though he'd killed himself. Got in a funk because Parker was coming, and checked out.
Would Parker come over to study the situation up close, make sure Matt was really dead? Or would he stand across the room and pump bullets into him from there, just to be on the safe side? Matt put himself in Parker's position, gunning down a man in a wheelchair, finding him maybe dead with a knife in his hand, and what would Matt do? He knew what he'd do.
Money. Not the knife, the knife concealed at his right side, held in his right hand, a wad of bills clutched in his left in his lap, very obvious, as though he'd been scheming some escape route out of here, somebody to pay off. A wad of bills, make sure there was at least a century showing at the top, or better yet a Cleveland, if they had one here.
They did have stashes of money in the house. Paul and Matt both came from a life in which it was a good idea to keep ready cash on tap, just in case. Matt had money in the well behind a dresser drawer in his room, but he didn't think there was anything larger than a hundred there.
Would Paul have a thou? Would he give it or loan it to Matt? Would that son of a bitch Paul do anything to help Matt out, the bastard?
He could hear Paul walking around, upstairs. Usually, Paul was on the top floor, as far as he could get from Matt—as though Matt wouldn't have noticed that—with Pam Saugherty's room on the floor between. But now Pam was gone, and Paul was afraid of Parker coming down through the roof somehow, so he'd moved down to Pam's room. Changed the sheets, too, Matt had heard that laundering, the machines being up there on Pam's level, and had a good sardonic laugh over it. No, Paul wouldn't like to sleep on sheets smelling of some woman, would he? Oh, no, not Paul.
Pam was the last woman Matt had ever had. He realized that all at once, with some surprise, then some regret, regret yet again, in another and equally biting way; all those women he hadn't been able to get his hands on.
Too bad the last one couldn't have been a better article.
Restless, he wheeled around and around his tiny cage, these few rooms, like a lab rat in an experiment, captured and hobbled and placed here in a "natural" environment. Paul had given him canned soup and salted crackers for dinner, and a bottle of beer that had made him giddy for just a few minutes—he couldn't handle booze any more, not at all the way he used to— and then silently Paul had cleaned up the dishes and gone back upstairs, leaving Matt here to wheel himself back and forth, back and forth.
Look out the front windows at the nighttime street, people walking by, to and from their own dinners, cabs going by, sometimes a horn sounding, every once in a while a siren farther off. Look out the back windows at darkness below, lit windows all around covered by shades or drapes or blinds.
Would he come from down there, from that lake of darkness behind the house? Climb up the brick wall like Spiderman, smash through this window, this window right here. Matt spun the wheelchair wheels, spinning away, rolling forward again, out of the bedroom, around the dining table, forward to the front windows, where every lone pedestrian could be Parker.
He'd come late at night, wouldn't he? Matt had wanted to sleep during the day, but his mind was raging too much, furious and afraid, and the parts of his body he could feel ached with tension, across the shoulders and the back of the neck.
Ten-thirty at night. When would he come, three, four in the morning? If only Matt could sleep now, to be ready then.
Paul kept moving around upstairs, small mouse-like rustlings. I need him, Matt thought, and the thought grated on him, it was like acid. But it was true. He couldn't get through this on his own.
So at last he wheeled himself to the stairwell, waited there a minute, red-eyed, glaring at the steps he couldn't climb, before crying, "Paul!" But it came out hoarse, not loud enough, a rusty croaking sound. He didn't speak enough, had nobody to talk to, nothing to say. He inhaled, burning his throat, and tried again: "Paul!"
This time Paul heard, up there, and Matt followed the sound of his hurried footsteps, then saw Paul at the top of the stairs, gawking downward, his own fear naked on his face. "What is it? Did you hear something?"
"No, I didn't hear anything, I didn't see anything, I don't know anything." He gripped the wheelchair arms, knowing he had to be less hostile, he needed Paul now. "Come down," he said, and paused, and shook his head, and said, "Paul, please come down. We got to talk, we got to work this out."
Paul hesitated. "Do you need your bag changed?"
Hell! That was the most disgusting part of it, the worst part of it, the most degrading part of his helplessness. "No!" Then he made fists, and punched his dead thighs, and squeezed his eyes shut. "I want to talk," he said, as calmly as he could, inside the blackness with his eyes shut. "I just want to talk, figure this out. Figure out what to do."