Выбрать главу

Lydia plucked up the fork that had been Timmys, gripping the stem in her fist like holding his hand again, one last time. Touching what he had touched, because she would never touch him again. Here this object had opened his lips, felt the softness of his tongue, and been left behind. It held traces of him.

Whats the matter? Erich said. Are you all right?

I stopped being all right before you were born, she thought. What she said was, Theres something Id like you to do for me.

* * *

The streets of Baltimore didnt notice him pass through them this one last time. More than three million people lived and breathed, loved and lost, hoped and failed to hope that night, just as any other. A young woman hurrying home later than her fathers curfew dodged around a tall man with thinning hair and pants wet to the knee at the corner of South and Lombard, muttering obscenities and curses at him that spoke more of her own dread and fear than anything the man had done. Four Star Helix security employees, out of uniform and off-shift, paused at the entrance to an Italian restaurant to watch a civilian pass. None of them could have said what it was about him that caught their attention, and it might only have been that theyd operated on high alert for so many days at once. The civilian went on, minding his own business, keeping himself to himself, and they went into the buildings garlic and onion smells and forgot him. A bus driver stopped, let two old women, a thin-faced man, and a broad-shouldered amiable fellow come on board. Bus service was part of basic, and the machine followed its route automatically. No one paid, no one spoke, and the driver went back to watching the entertainment feeds as soon as the bus pulled back into traffic.

Nearer Oestras safe house, things changed. There were more eyes, more of them alert. The catastrophe of the churn hung thick in the air, the sense that doom might come at any moment in the shape of security vans and riot gear and voices shouting to keep hands visible. Nothing like it had happened that day or the one before, but no one was taking comfort in that yet. The guards who stopped Timmy were different than the ones hed seen earlier, but their placement on the street was the same. They stopped him, took the pistol that Burton had given him, scanned him for tracking devices, firearms, explosives, chemical agents, and when they found he was clean, they called in. Oestras voice through their earpieces was less than a mosquito but still perfectly recognizable, a familiar buzz and whine. They waved Timmy on.

Oestra opened the door to him, automatic shotgun still in the lieutenants hand, as if he hadnt put it down all day. Probably, he hadnt.

Timmy stepped into the main room, looking around pleasantly. The newsfeeds flickered silently on their screens: a street view from sometime earlier in the day with five security vans lined up outside a burning apartment building, a serious-faced Indian woman speaking into the camera with a dour expression, an ad with seven bouncing monkeys reaching for a box of banana-flavored cakes. The world cast its shadows on the bare brick wall and threw stories into the gray mortar. The churn, running itself to exhaustion. New stories from around the world and above it filling in the void.

Youre back, Oestra said.

Yup.

You do the thing?

It got a little complicated, Timmy said. The man still here?

Wait. Ill get him.

Oestra walked to the back, one set of footsteps fading into the safe house, then a long pause made rich by the murmur of voices, then two sets of footsteps coming back. The timestamp beside the dour Indian woman read 21:42. Timmy considered the curtains. Blue-dyed cotton with cords of woven nylon. The chair Oestra had been sitting on before, leather stretched over a light metal frame. A kitchen in through a wide brickwork archway. The bedroom in the back with its futon, and a bathroom somewhere behind that.

Tiny, Burton said. Whats the news, little man?

Burtons white shirt caught the light from the screens, dancing in a hundred colors. His slacks were dark and beautifully cut. Timmy turned to him like he was an old friend. Oestra walked past them both, taking his place by the window. Timmy glanced back at him only a few feet away, a shotgun across his thighs.

Well, Timmy said. Truth is, I ran into a little hiccup.

Burton crossed his arms, squared his shoulders and hips. Something you couldnt handle? he asked, his voice hard with disapproval.

Im waiting to see, Timmy said.

Waiting to see if you can handle it?

Well, yeah, Timmy said with a wide, open smile. Actually, its kind of funny you put it that way.

When the big man stepped back toward the window, the movement was so casual, so relaxed, that neither Oestra nor Burton recognized what was happening. Timmys thick fingers grabbed the back of the leather chair, pulling back and down fast and hard. Oestra twisted trying to keep from falling and also bring the shotgun to bear at the same time, managing neither. He spilled to the floor, Timmys knee coming down hard on his neck. Oestras muffled roar was equal parts outrage and pain. Timmy reached down and ripped the mans right ear off, then punched down twice, three times, four. Burton ran for the back bedroom. There wasnt much time.

Unable to use it with Timmy on his neck, Oestra dropped the shotgun and twisted, trying to get his arms and legs under himself, trying to get the leverage to push Timmy back. Timmy reached down and hooked his finger into the gunmans left eye, bracing the head with his knee and turning his wrist until he felt the eyeball pop. Oestras screams were wilder now, panic and pain taking over. Timmy let the pressure up, scooted to the left, and picked up the abandoned shotgun. He fired once into Oestras head and the man stopped screaming.

Timmy trotted across the room, shotgun in one hand. Burton boiled out of the bedroom, pistols in either fist and teeth bared like a dogs. The front window shattered. Timmy ducked through the brick archway into the kitchen, shifted his grip on the shotgun, and swung it hard and low, leading with the elbow like a cricket player at the bat as Burton roared in after him. The sound of the connection was like a piece of raw steak being dropped on concrete. Burtons feet flew out from under him, but the momentum of his rush carried him stumbling into the space beyond. Timmy lowered the shotgun toward the mans head, but Burton whirled, dropping his own guns and grabbing the shotguns barrel. The smell of burning skin was instantaneous. Timmy tried to pull back, but Burton kicked out. His right foot hit Timmys knee like hed kicked a fire hydrant, but Timmy still stumbled. The shotgun roared again, and the refrigerator sprouted pocks of twisted metal and plastic. Burton twisted, pulling himself in close. Too close for the shotguns long barrel. He hammered his elbow into Timmys ribs twice and felt something give the third time. Timmy dropped the shotgun, and then they were both down on the floor.

They grappled, caught in each others arms, each man shifting for the position that would destroy the other in a parody of intimate love. The fingers of Burtons left hand worked their way under Timmys chin, digging at his neck, pushing into the hard cartilage of his throat. Timmy choked, gagged, pulled back the centimeter that was all Burton needed. He pulled his right arm up into the gap, braced himself, twisted, and now Timmys arm and head were locked. Burton gasped out a chuckle.

You just fucked the wrong asshole, he hissed as Timmy bucked and struggled. Your little cripple boyfriend? Im gonna burn him down for days. Im gonna find everyone you ever loved and kill them all slow.

Timmy grunted and pushed back, but the effort only made Burtons lock on him tighter.

You thought you could take me, you dumbfuck piece of shit? Burton spat into Timmys ear. You thought you were tougher than me? I owned your momma, boy. Youre just second-generation property.