"Forearm," said Kline, "and I was the one who removed it."
"Voluntarily, Mr. Kline? Or were you coerced?"
"Coerced," said Gous.
"Thank you, Paul," said the chief Paul. "'A' for effort. But I was asking our friend Kline. How can you ever live a normal life," he said, turning back to Kline, "until they're dead?"
"I'm not looking for revenge," said Kline.
"This isn't vengeance," said the chief Paul. "It's holy wrath."
Kline stared at him for a long moment and then began to pace, first in one direction then in the other, the crowd of Pauls rustling out of his way. What sort of life do I have left for myself? he wondered. There was still the satchel full of money, secure in a safe deposit box, assuming he could still locate the key. He could simply leave here, get the money, and vanish.
But they'd be waiting, he knew, they'd try to stop him before he could even get the money. Could he make it? Could he really vanish? Even if he did, would he still flinch every time he saw the absence of a limb?
"But of course, there's always vengeance as well," said the chief Paul, and there was a rumble from the Pauls behind him. "Wouldn't you like to kill the man who took your arm?"
"He's already dead," said Kline. "I already killed him."
"Borchert?" said Gous, and laughed. "He's far from dead."
Kline stopped moving, his missing hand tightening into a fist. "You're lying," he said.
"I assure you, he's not," said the chief Paul. "Borchert survived your little fire."
"He was dead before the fire," said Kline.
Gous shook his head. "If he was, he came back to life again," he said.
"This is a trick," Kline said, voice rising, "just to get me to kill them."
"It isn't," said the chief Paul. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
Kline started to pace again. Curiosity is a terrible thing, he was thinking. How is it possible to stop oneself from needing to know? He moved back and forth, trying to figure the best way out. Was it possible simply to walk away and disappear, to leave all this behind forever?
For him, for this, he realized, it wasn't. At least not yet.
"If I do this," said Kline. "I want never to see any of you ever again."
"Agreed," said the chief Paul.
"Even me, Mr. Kline?" asked Gous, a hurt look on his face.
"Even you, Gous," said Kline.
"Paul," said Gous.
"My point exactly," said Kline raggedly. "All right," he said, "so be it."
PART THREE
I
What is the fewest number of them that I will have to kill? Kline wondered as he drove. Just Borchert? Will that be enough to keep them from coming after me?
No, he thought. At the very least he'd have to kill the guards at the gate, then three or four guards in the building. And what about the other high-level amputees? Would one of them be poised to take over from Borchert, and would he continue to hunt Kline? Would he be safe if he killed everyone with twelve amputations or more? Ten? Eight? Could he risk stopping before they were all dead?
About a mile away, he pulled the car off the road and down between some trees, out of sight from the road, then stayed there a moment, gripping the wheel, staring through the windshield at the flutter and wave of leaves in the wind. I could turn around, he mused. I could drive to the police station and turn myself in, he said, knowing even as he thought this that he wouldn't do it, that it was already too late.
He loaded the clips of each of the four pistols on the seat beside him, not easily done with one hand, then clicked them in, then affixed silencers to the end of each gun, awkwardly screwing them into place. The remainder of the bullets he placed in his jacket pockets. He placed one gun in the shoulder holster, one in the holster at his waist. The third he held in his hand. The fourth he wasn't certain what to do with, so he left it in the car.
Angel of destruction. . he thought . . like a thief in the night. . not with an olive branch but with a sword. .
He got out of the car and started walking, sticking close to the edge of the dirt road, always near enough to the trees that he could scramble for cover. His palm was sweating; soon, he had to put the gun down and wipe his hand dry against his shirt. When he picked the gun up again it was sticky with dust. Hardly an auspicious beginning, he thought.
He trudged on. Once he came in sight of the gates, he threaded his way down into the undergrowth, working slowly and carefully until he was in the last clump of bushes before open ground.
There were two guards, perhaps fifty meters away, just inside the gate.
And now what? he thought.
He stayed watching them. From time to time, one would wander in either direction down the fence and then wander back, never more than twenty or thirty meters from his companion. After a while, one guard was relieved and replaced. Kline looked at his watch. Then he waited.
The other guard was relieved two hours later.
Two hours, he thought. In and out.
He waited, thinking it through. He could shoot one of the guards as he wandered down the fence, but could he get back to the other and kill him before he raised the alarm? Should he wait for darkness and try to get them both at once? Where had the alarm system been? And when did they turn the lights on? He tried to remember what it had been like on his trip out, but he had been too crazed, had lost too much blood; he only remembered scattered images, he couldn't make any sense of it. One thing was as good as another, he thought; he might as well just go ahead and rush in now.
But he stayed there, waiting.
Besides, he told himself, it doesn't matter which way I do it. I can't be killed.
The light had started to deepen, shadows lengthening, the sun turning a dark orange and falling lower.
If I use only one clip, he told himself, maybe I can still come out of this human.
He balanced the gun on his knee, wiping his hand dry on his other knee. He took the gun up again. He tried to start forward, but couldn't make himself move.
Easiest thing to do was simply to lift the barrel of the gun and put it snugly into his own mouth and pull the trigger. As Frank had said, it would save everybody a lot of trouble. But then he thought of Borchert, of strangling him with his single hand and trying not to pass out. One clip, he told himself, just one clip, but realized as he thought this that he didn't care how many clips it took, nor what it might do to him.
The sun crossed the edge of the horizon and slowly went, and it was twilight. The lights hadn't yet come on, and one guard had just replaced another, and one guard was wandering out along the fence, bored, near him, and was just starting back, his back turned. Kline, crouched, came out of the bushes, and ran lightly toward him and shot him in the back of the head, the silencer giving off a dull cough as he fired. The guard went down in a heap without a sound. Kline kept running along the fence and there, at the gates, was the other guard, raising his gun prosthetic and looking at him. Kline fired and the shot, skew, struck the guard's gun arm, sparking off it. Kline fired again, the bullet this time striking the guard in the chest. The guard went down but not before a few rounds thunked out of his gun and into the dirt.