Well, wounded, yes, but not alone…
No. No. Art repeated it again, over an over in his head, telling himself that there was no way, absolutely no way he could…
Then you die. And he…
Art looked to Simon, who had let his hands come away from his ears and was blinking and twisting, his body rocking where he sat on his knees, blood dotting one side of his face. Art’s blood.
Oh, God, why?
Do it! Now! Before it’s too late!
“Simon,” Art said, grimacing as he pushed with his feet until his back was against the wall. He let his weapon slide out of his hand and to the floor. “Simon. Can you hear me?”
“Simon hears Art. My friend, Art. There’s a loud noise.”
Art nodded. “Simon, I want you to do something for me. All right?”
“For my friend Art.”
“Simon…” Forgive me. Please. “…take out your cards.”
“So,” Angelo Breem said, then cleared his throat, all the while Anne’s gaze crossing the distance over the U.S. Attorney’s desk to peck at his frightened eyes whenever they chanced contact with hers. “We are extremely sorry for what has happened. But, you have to understand, this was an orchestrated ploy. We were as much victims of it as you and your husband.”
If her jaw had been removable it would have detached itself and taken the elevator to the lobby. Was he really saying this? Was this an apology? Did he learn tact from some Nazi?
“So…you are free.”
Lomax, standing behind Anne, could only shake his head. “Breem, you are one smooth fellow.”
“Pardon?” Breem said.
Anne slowly stood from her chair, still wearing the smock from her time in detention. “What are you doing about Art?”
“Well…”
The door to Breem’s office opened, and Janice Powach poked her head in. “Agent Lomax. Call for you out here. Urgent.”
“Be right back,” Lomax said, and left the office to take the call. “Lomax here.”
“Sir, it’s Nels Van Horn.”
“What is it?”
“Sir, I’ve got some strange message on my machine. I think you should listen.”
In the office, Breem stammered through what efforts were being made to find Art, to notify him that all charges had been dropped. Anne would not release him from her stare. Not until Bob Lomax burst into the office and grabbed her by the Arm.
“Bob? What is it? Where are we going?”
He pulled her toward the door. “Sears Tower. No time to explain. Come on.”
Keiko was now at the elevator core, where the base of the T began. She was about to begin her advance past the elevators when, moving from right to left, Art Jefferson bolted from one of the alcoves, arms dangling, and dove for the other.
She fired a quick burst at him, aiming low, but saw the bullets stitch along the base of the far wall. But even above the roar of the wind she heard a cry borne of a terrible pain rise from where Jefferson had landed.
They were hers. Him now, the kid later.
Keiko moved with cautious steps toward the alcoves at the top of the T.
Every square inch of skin on his arms felt as though someone had bathed them in hot oil, and had then taken a wire brush to them. Art pushed himself to the back of the alcove, though it wasn’t very deep. His arms lay almost limp at his sides, hands in plain view, his skin covered by curving streams of blood. He lay there and looked out of the alcove and saw Keiko Kimura ease into the space where she could see him and, in the opposite alcove, Simon.
Keiko gave Art a good look, her weapon covering him, and then a less careful once over of the kid, who sat on his knees, some sort of book thing that hung around his neck held in both hands. He looked to be reading from it. Good. Whatever kept him occupied.
She looked back to Art. She had quick work to do.
“Hey, big man,” Keiko said, a tributary of the wind pushing strands of black hair across her face. She brought the straight razor close to her cheek and touched the wound ever so gently. “Keiko’s gotta give you something.” She eased into the alcove, facing Art fully now, standing over him near his feet, the submachine gun held low and casual, the straight razor her weapon of choice. “Cause you gave her something.”
Her nails were blue, Art saw, and she made a face at him that might have been mistaken for a smile, but only because she was showing teeth. He saw it as a silent growl.
“I’m gonna cut you bad, big man,” she said, and took another step toward him, between his legs now. “Real bad.”
“Mayfly!” Art said as loud as he could, right at Kimura’s face, and she instantly puzzled over his use of that word.
Why in the hell would he say that?
But Simon knew why. He had his cards out. He had been listening. Art had said ‘mayfly’. And it said on his card: IF ART SAYS MAYFLY, THN TAK TH GUN OUT FROM UNDR YOUR SHIRT AND HOLD IT LIK ART SHOWD YOU AND POINT IT AT TH STRANGRS BACK
Art was his friend. The card told him what to do. He took the gun out and held it with one hand like Art had shown him. He looked over the long top part like Art had shown him. At the end of the long top part he saw the stranger’s back.
He was doing what the card told him. But there was more on that card.
“Say goodbye to your face, big man,” Keiko said, beginning to bend toward Art, the sharp flat blade of the razor coming his way.
“Kiwi!” Art screamed.
For a second Keiko paused.
Simon glanced at the card again.
IF ART SAYS KIWI THN PUT YOUR OTHR HAND ON TH GUN LIK ART SHOWD YOU AND PUT YOUR FINGR ON TH TRIGGR LIK ART SHOWD YOU AND PULL TH TRIGGR
Simon let the cards drop so they dangled by the lanyard around his neck, and he put the other hand on the gun like Art had shown him, and he put his finger on the trigger, and he pulled the trigger—
BOOM!
Bending as she was, the bullet that might have hit Keiko Kimura mid-back instead ripped through her spine and traversed her torso toward the front, cutting a swath of vital muscle from her heart and pushing her onto Art Jefferson like a puppet whose strings had been snipped.
The straight razor fell onto his chest. He felt a warm ooze trickle onto his stomach from the front of Keiko Kimura. She wheezed once, but never moved. He rolled her off of him with a lift of one knee.
In the alcove opposite him, Art saw Simon sprawled back on the pile of flattened cardboard boxes, the gun on the floor, his tiny head shaking from side to side. Art wriggled his way to his feet and went to Simon. “Are you all right?”
“That was a loud noise,” Simon said.
Art went to his knees and put his head against Simon’s. “Have you got your cards?”
Simon took them in hand.
“Take the card you just wrote, with ‘mayfly’ and ‘kiwi’ on it, and tear it out.”
Simon did, pulling the three-by-five piece of sturdy stock away from the tiny ring binders with a zipping sound.
“Fold it up,” Art told him, and when Simon had he said, “And put it in my pocket. Good. Like that.” No one is going to think you did this. I pray to God you forget that you did this.
Simon looked to the gun on the floor, eyes dancing all around it. “Loud.”
Art struggled to his feet and had Simon get up with him. “We’ve got to go up.”
“Up, up, up!” Simon said.
A smile beat through Art’s pain. Let that mean he forgot. Please.
“You follow me,” Art said. “Understand?”
“Simon follows Art.” Art was his friend. He would follow a friend.