“What do you mean, the lights are out again? ” Mirim demanded. “Can't you do anything about it?”
“Afraid not. Look out, that one's broken. No, I can't do anything about the lights or the stairs, because my lease-everyone's lease who lives here-has a no-liability clause. We can't sue, all we can do is withhold rent, and at what we pay, the owners don't much care.”
“Hmph. That's a hell of a thing. Have you got a tenant's union?”
Casper laughed. “Not in this building. The people who live here tend to keep to themselves. There's no clause in our leases to keep us from suing each other, after all. We have to pay for our low rent somehow. Here's my floor.”
They left the stairway, and Casper unlocked his apartment door while Mirim waited uneasily in the hall.
Once they were inside he carefully located Mirim next to the door, where she would be safer, before locking it.
He tried to keep his own windows reasonably clean, so the apartment wasn't as dim as the halls, but since his only view was of the building next door to the north the place had a certain gloom about it. He flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.
“Power's out for the whole building, same as usual,” he said. “Sorry if the place is a little untidy,” he added apologetically.
“I can't see well enough to notice.”
Casper smiled. “Wait right there, and I'll get some light.”
He stumbled into the kitchen, and returned a moment later with a candle in each hand. He set them both on the dinner table, saying over his shoulder, “I've got wine, milk, and diet cola.”
“Wine would be nice.”
“It's just cheap California white,” he warned.
“That's fine.”
“I'll be right back. The stereo is over there. It's on the UPS, and the backup battery should be good for a couple of hours if we don't use the computer for anything else, so feel free to put on some music. Your choice.”
When Casper returned with the glasses of wine, he found Mirim sitting on the couch, the stereo playing softly. The music was Beethoven. He handed Mirim her glass and sat down beside her.
There was an embarrassed silence as they sipped their wine. Casper put his glass on the end table.
“I'm not entirely sure why you came back here with me,” Casper said at last. “I mean, I'm very glad you did, and it was good of you to warn me about Quinones, but you didn't have to come with me. You've probably just thrown away your job, and it's not like it's easy to find work these days.”
“Well, you'd thrown away yours,” Mirim pointed out, “and you gave some very convincing reasons why the rest of us should, too.”
“I did?” Casper asked. Mirim thought she heard a concatenation of unhappiness, confusion, and pride in those two simple words.
“Yes, you did,” she said. “I was impressed.”
“But why?”
Mirim started to speak, and Casper cut her off. “I don't mean why were you impressed, I mean why did I do that? It's… it's not like me.”
“Oh, I don't know,” Mirim said. “I always thought you had it in you somewhere.”
He stared at her, his hand on his wine glass, not moving. “You did?”
Mirim nodded.
“But…”
Casper was interrupted by a knock on the door. Startled, he turned.
“Who could it be at this time of day?” he asked. “I'd be at work, ordinarily.”
“Maybe whoever it is tried there and they told him you'd gone home,” Mirim suggested.
“But who…” Casper got to his feet, puzzled. Then he looked at Mirim, understanding dawning. “A process server,” he said. “Who else could it be?”
“Data Tracers couldn't have one here that fast,” Mirim objected.
The knock sounded again.
“You're right,” Casper said. “I don't know who it is.” He stepped toward the door, then froze.
Part of him, the part he thought of as himself, the normal old Casper Beech, wanted to go ahead and open the door, put an end to the mystery, get it over with-but something else, something unfamiliar, something strange, held him back.
He rationalized; this was not a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't ordinarily be home now. It might be a burglar looking for vacant apartments.
It was probably a salesman or a Jehovah's Witness or something, but just in case…?
“Who's there?” he called, and without knowing why, or even that he was doing it, Casper stepped to one side, behind the door, out of the line of fire.
And the door burst in, the doorframe shattering as the latch and lock were kicked in; splinters flew, and then the stuttering roar of automatic gunfire began-only to be cut off short as Casper kicked the door back, hard.
Mirim yelped and dove for cover under the coffee table.
The gun roared again. Bullets tore through the thin wood of the door, stitching toward Casper-but Casper had already dropped below them, and as the window shattered noisily, as plaster puffed from the walls, he rolled away from the corner, reaching for a weapon.
The letter opener was too far away, the knives in the kitchen drawer out of the question; he snatched up an eight-inch splinter torn from the broken doorframe, and lay still.
The gunfire stopped; Mirim lay motionless beneath the table, hands clasped protectively over her head. Casper lay on the floor, on his belly, muscles tensed, splinter in his hand.
The ruined door opened, and Casper sprang; his empty fist took the stranger in the belly, and as the man started to double over the splinter rammed through his left eye and into the brain.
He dropped instantly, and Casper fell on top of him, grabbing for the weapon the downed man had held and scanning the corridor.
He didn't have far to look; the second man was close behind, pistol ready. His first shot went high, as Casper dropped below it; the second took his own companion in the back as Casper rolled aside.
He fired no third shot; by then Casper had the first attacker's Uzi and was muttering, “Acquire target and squeeze…”
The pistol-wielder had not bothered to take cover; instead, he took a stream of bullets in the chest as Casper emptied his weapon.
Casper ran, crouched low, into the hall; he slammed one foot onto the second man's neck to make sure he was down to stay, then switched the Uzi to his other hand and snatched up the pistol while he made a quick turn, 360 degrees, checking for further attacks. He pointed the pistol down the stairs, but found he was aiming at empty air.
“Mirim,” he called, not looking back, “are you okay?”
“I think so,” she said unsteadily.
“Then get out here. Now.”
“But there's… in the doorway…”
“Step over it,” Casper commanded. “Move! We have to get out of here right now! ”
“But…”
“No arguments! Before any more come!”
That did it; Mirim came, and together they hurried down the stairs, not running, Casper told her you can trip if you run, people hear you coming; they moved quickly down the stairs and down the hall, Casper in front with the pistol held ready.
Chapter Eight
“They've almost certainly got a car waiting out front,” Casper said, “and if they know what they're doing there's another in back. We go out the side.”
“But there isn't…” Mirim began, looking along the narrow ground-floor hallway.
“We make one,” Casper said, as he made a sudden whirling movement, bringing his foot around incredibly fast, kicking at an apartment door just below the doorknob.
Wood cracked, and the door burst open.
“How…” Mirim began.
“If they could do it to mine, I can do it to someone else's,” Casper explained, as he pulled her through a dingy living room.
The window was nailed shut, but Casper didn't worry about that; he used the butt of his newly-appropriated pistol to shatter the glass, then kicked out the screen. A moment later he had lowered Mirim to the alley below and jumped down after her.