Gregor was stuck halfway through the broken window, his vast middle too big to squeeze through, caught on the remnants of the safety glass at the bottom of the frame. The tiny chunks of glass were like baby teeth, and the more he struggled, the more the glass nibbled into him. Gouts of blood drifted through the interior of the car.
The Engineer lunged toward his own open door, gripped the jamb, strained to pull himself free, but his seat belt held him tight. Eyes wide now, he punched at Thorpe, hitting him in the face, but his blows were weak, slowed by the water.
Thorpe didn't try to defend himself-just let himself be hit, watching tiny bubbles pop out the sides of the Engineer's mouth like a broken strand of pearls. The Engineer kept beating at him, his eyes darting from side to side, but Thorpe stayed calm. Exertion used oxygen. So did fear.
The Engineer grabbed at something under his seat, pulled out a gun, but the weapon slipped out of his hands. Thorpe ignored the gun, just as he had ignored the punches, concentrating only on the buckle of the seat belt. The flame in his lungs was growing. Hard to keep it under control. The Engineer strained against him, his face contorted, thrashing wildly now, as though shot with electricity. They watched each other and Thorpe saw the light in the Engineer's eyes grow dimmer, saw the rage flare one final time and then go out. The Engineer's movements became fluid, racked with grace, his arms like seaweed on the tide.
Thorpe's chest was ablaze, head throbbing, spots dancing in front of his eyes. He didn't know what was funny, but it was all he could do to keep from laughing. He wanted to tell the joke to Claire. He fumbled at his seat belt, released it, his feet rising, his neck still affixed to the headrest. He braced himself, put both hands on the headrest, and lifted. It didn't budge. He felt sleepy. He thought maybe he should take a nap, then try again. Bad idea. He pushed at the rails of the headrest. It should have been easy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gregor, still lodged in the window, no longer struggling, his purple jogging suit rippling.
The cold worked its way deeper into Thorpe as he tugged at the headrest, slowly inching it up. He got his feet under him now, squatting on the seat, lifting with his hands and his legs. The headrest popped out of the seat. Free… free… free.
The Engineer watched him, dead eyes bulging.
Thorpe started out the window, felt a tug on his foot, looked back. It was shadowy in the car, paper and trash suspended in the murk, but he could see the Engineer's fingers bumping against his ankle, moving with the current, as though waving good-bye. Thorpe kicked away from him, squeezed out through the window, out and up to the light, the leather belt still around his neck, trailing the headrest.
44
Billy jerked awake, sat up in bed. He blinked at the darkness. "Hello, Frank."
"Hey, Billy."
Billy wore silk pajamas, red or black-Thorpe couldn't tell which- and he thought of Missy Riddenhauer in her silk robe the morning after the party, making snake sounds as she moved.
"You don't snore, Billy, not a bit, but you were talking to somebody in your sleep. What were you dreaming about?"
Billy forced himself to breathe.
"The things you were saying, the sound of your voice… was somebody chasing you?"
Billy's face was illuminated by the numerals of the digital clock beside his bed: 4:41. The bedroom was on the thirty-eighth floor, the penthouse. Billy had chosen the site for its isolation from the world below, but now it made him feel vulnerable. He smoothed the covers around his hips. "I don't know how you found me, but I'm glad to see you."
"If I didn't know better, I'd believe you."
"Be nice. I've sent you several e-mails. What's it been… a couple weeks since the Engineer and his bodyguard were pulled out of the water? I looked at Warren when the news came on, told him that no matter what the police determined, it was no accident. Congratulations, Frank. You must feel very gratified."
"I know it was you, Billy."
Billy traced the embroidered monogram on the pocket of his pajama top, reading it like braille in the darkness. The room smelled faintly of his cologne, some exotic blend he had personally prepared for him in Paris. "It all comes down to body chemistry, Frank," he had said when Thorpe had asked about it the first time.
"A couple days ago, I had lunch with Nell Cooper, Meachum's former assistant at the gallery," said Thorpe. "She is working at the Guggenheim, just like she wanted… but it's in the gift shop. She says it's just temporary, and I believe her."
"I've never met the woman, but I trust your judgment."
"Nell didn't feed the information about the fake Mayan art to Betty B. You did that, Billy."
"I saw an opportunity." Billy yawned. "I'd used Betty B in the past to float stories. The old shrew was very reliable. I had no idea she was going to get herself killed."
"No, I think you knew just what you were doing. I didn't know who Clark and Missy were when I flashed my fake ID, but you did. I have to give you credit: You did your research. It was just a wake-up, Billy. You made it something bigger. Something worse."
Billy hesitated, put off by the self-control in Thorpe's voice. He functioned best when the other party was off balance, angry or upset, but a soft voice was reason to worry. "Your wake-up was small and petty, no challenge at all for a man of your gifts."
"Yes, but it wasn't your wake-up. It was mine."
"Well, Frank, you could hardly expect me to put you back to work without first finding out if you were ready for the task. I had to put you through your paces. After what happened at the safe house… well, better men than you have lost their edge. I had to be certain."
"I was never going to work for you. I told you that at the bowling alley."
"People like us, Frank… we can't change who we are. We couldn't stop even if we wanted to."
"You should have believed me."
Billy reached toward the lamp on his nightstand.
"Leave the light off. I can see you just fine."
Billy complied, pulled the covers up, fuming.
"Hey, what's going on?" Warren stood in the doorway. Thorpe had heard him approaching down the hallway, trying to be quiet. "The hallway light's not working."
"Go away, Warren," said Billy. "We're quite all right."
"I heard voices… I got worried about you."
"Warren… thank you for your concern, but I'm in no danger."
"That's not your decision," said Thorpe. "You should go back to bed, Warren."
"Frank? Is that you?" Warren peered into the darkness. "What are you doing here?" He took a step into the bedroom, stepped back out. "How did you get in? I got a gun."
"Go back to your room, Warren," said Thorpe. "Go back to your room, close the door, and put the gun back in the Tibetan nightstand."
"Say thank you to the nice man and leave, Warren," said Billy. "Now."
Warren hovered in the doorway, then gave up and walked quickly away.
"Are you enjoying yourself, Frank?"
"Not yet," said Thorpe.
"You should thank me for slipping Betty B the information." Billy was uneasy now, his pajamas rustling. "This pathetic crusade of yours, just to gain an apology to an injured child… it was beneath you. I upped the stakes. You should be grateful. I saved you."
"You didn't save Betty B. You didn't save Ray Bishop. They're dead." Thorpe still hadn't raised his voice.
"I don't even know who Ray Bishop is."
"Your loss, Billy."
A car horn blared in the distance, the sound mournful, echoing off the other buildings around them. Billy stirred in his bed. Thorpe seemed closer now. "Don't expect me to feel guilty. Some people pull the strings; the rest of the world have their strings pulled. You and I, Frank, we're the lucky ones. It didn't used to bother you."