"That hurt me worse than it hurt you," said Frank, and smiled. Kline watched the two uniformed officers behind him exchange glances. "I'm a peace-loving man. I tried to do this the easy way, but you weren't interested."
"I'm starting to get interested," said Kline, eyes following the pencil.
"That was then," said Frank. "We're past that now. You know what the difference is? Davis being dead, for one. Not that he was much of a cop, but he didn't deserve to die."
"I didn't kill him," said Kline.
"No," said Frank. "We'd basically determined that. Technically speaking, you didn't kill him. But what I want to know is why the man who was missing an arm and could hardly move, let alone walk, is alive while the police officer with all his limbs is dead?"
"I don't know," said Kline.
"You don't know," said Frank, and leaned forward.
"No," said Kline quickly. "I do know. He fell asleep."
"He fell asleep?"
"I didn't sleep."
"Does that seem fair to you, Mr. Kline?"
"I don't even know what fair means," said Kline. "Why aren't we having this conversation at the station?"
"I have a reputation to maintain," said Frank. One of the officers behind him looked even more nervous. "I don't want people getting the wrong idea."
He reached out and pushed the pencil's end against Kline's stump, twisting it slightly.
Kline winced. "What do you want to know now?" he asked.
Frank looked up, smiled. "Who says I want to know anything?" he asked, and pushed harder.
And then, just as the knife was pushing its way into his eye again, the world burst apart. The door burst open and a man with a gun in place of a hand stood there and there was a rattling and one policeman's head came quickly open to reveal what was inside. The other policeman had his gun partway out and was half-crouched and turning, and then the rattling came again and he jerked about and his side split open and he shot twice into the floor, spun about, and fell.
Frank had dived out the closed window and now flailed about on the fire escape, face and hands cut up by the glass, trying to free his gun from its holster. The mutilate took a few steps toward him and raised his gun prosthesis again and a look of amazement crossed Frank's face. He threw himself sideways, the bullets thudding into the window casement and sparking off the railing of the fire escape. Kline heard him falling or stumbling down the stairs, away.
The guard looked at Kline, who hadn't moved, and smiled.
"We've found you, Mr. Kline," he said. He pointed his gun prosthesis at Kline, gestured. "Up," he said. "Time to go."
Kline stood, raised his hands. The guard kept his distance, always training the gun on him, following him from behind and to the side, always there in the corner of Kline's vision.
"Open the door and take two steps into the hall," the guard said. "Slowly."
He did as he was told, the guard just behind him. The hall was empty except for people standing near their doors, watching his door.
"What do you see?" the guard asked, closer behind him now.
"What's going on?" asked a man three doors down.
"My neighbors," said Kline.
"No police?" he said.
"No," said Kline.
"Tell them to go back inside," said the guard.
"Go back inside," said Kline.
"What's going on?" the man said again.
"Nothing's going on," said Kline.
"I thought I heard shots," the man said.
The guard pushed Kline forward, almost making him stumble down. "Go back inside," he heard the guard say, and half-turned to see the guard pointing his gun-arm at the neighbor. This is the moment, Kline fleetingly thought, if this were a film I'd knock the guard's arm upward and overpower him. But Kline was twisted the wrong way around; the gun was on the same side as his missing arm.
He heard a door close, saw that the neighbor had disappeared.
"All right," said the guard. "Down the stairs."
He started for the door to the back stairs but the guard gestured him away, pointed toward the front.
"This way, Mr. Kline," he said. "We don't have anything to be ashamed of. We're going out the front door."
He went slowly, wondering with each step if another chance would come. He listened to the guard behind. The man's steps were careful and regular, no hesitation to them.
The gun jabbed into his back. "Hurry up," the guard said. "Make it quick."
He sped up a little, stumbled again, caught himself, then continued down the stairs. In the lobby was another mutilate, a man missing both ears, several fingers, most of his palm. He was pacing back and forth nervously. He had a gun but held it awkwardly-as if he'd never seen a gun before, let alone used one.
"Hurry it up!" he shouted when he saw them. "Hurry it up!"
"Where's the cop, John?" asked the guard, looking through the glass doors onto the street.
"What cop?" asked John, gaze darting nervously about.
"Never mind," said the guard. "Out the front door, John," he said. "After you, Mr. Kline."
Kline pushed the door open then lifted his hand back up above his head and went out. The light outside was brighter than he'd imagined. It confused him for a moment.
"Straight ahead," hissed the guard. "Black car. Back door. Run."
He saw the black car, double-parked just across the street, and made for it, John moaning with fear beside him. He reached the car and pulled the door open and threw himself in, John right after him and nearly on top of him, the guard right after that. "Go, go!" John was yelling to the driver, but the driver didn't move and when the guard prodded him the man's head fell to one side and a red gash gaped at his throat. John started to scream, a high-pitched sound, and then the window beside Kline cracked and went opaque and John was dead, the front of his face gone. The guard tried to get his gun-arm around, knocking it against the seat in front of him, and then the rear window cracked and went opaque and his head burst brightly over the headrest in front of him. The gun rattled briefly, slugs thumping through the ceiling, and then stopped.
The door opened and there was Frank, eyes still hard, looking unblinkingly at him, gashed and bloody, breathing heavily.
"I should kill you now," he said. "Save us all a lot of trouble."
"I wish you wouldn't," said Kline.
"Come on," said Frank wearily. "Get out."
Kline slowly climbed over the dead guard, trying not to touch him. He was still managing it when he heard a shot and Frank gave a little cry. Kline slid the rest of the way out and crouched, shielding himself behind the car door. Frank was there too, on one knee, one arm hanging limply as if it were no longer alive. The other arm was trying to aim the gun, failing. He tried to stand but seemed to be having trouble.
Another shot rang out and Frank was knocked down. Kline stayed crouched, wondering if he should try to run or if he should crawl back into the car. In the distance, faintly, sirens. He got his legs under him and got ready to run but instead just stayed there, waiting. What's wrong with me? he wondered. Frank lay on the sidewalk, coughing blood, still alive.
He would run across the street, he told himself, back toward the building. Or rather he would start running, he corrected himself, and then be shot dead.