by Jack Womack
"If she goes before we do-"
"Don't worry yet," she said. "'T'hat happens, they'll catch us soon enough. We'll be going to meet her not too long after that."
"If today was Christmas Eve, if today was Christmas Eve, "And tomorrow was Christmas Day-"
I'd sent Johnson up ahead to size the situation at closer range. Beyond a row of trees we heard shooting's sound come without pause. Drawing closer, we saw the house from which the snipers worked, ridgetopped just before the beach's stretch, standing at the edge of a wide field. The place was one of blankfaced neomodern, done with swoopcurved concrete, opaque glass and tubular steel pipe. Our compatriots had been pinned down on the beach as they landed, and slower ones lay scattered over the sand. I estimated Johnson was doing all right, though he hadn't yet returned. Under circumstance there was but one way to deal with such a threat as presented. At my word, Padilla directed two of his men to position rocket launchers. They awaited their cue. As I gave it, the house lights went up.
"If today was Christmas Eve-"
"Your friend hasn't gone anywhere else, has he?" Wanda asked after my next check of the tracker. We'd entered the outskirts; on either side of our street showed row houses and one-story shuttered shops, gas stations and brick churches, their names plain for all to read: St. Paul's Doctrinarian, the Valentinian House of God, St. Joseph's Holy Roman Catholic Church, the Albigensian Church of Jesus the Light, Reformed. Leaving city behind for the nonce, we drove past unending cemeteries, their stone markers stretched horizon close; I wondered how many had died like Oktobriana. In the rearview I -eyed them, one losing, one lost.
"No," I said.
"I'll park close as I can to where he is," she said. "That thing can narrow it down for us, right?"
I nodded. "Once we're ranged."
"When you get out just go in through the front," she said. "Don't stop to sign in, nine times out of ten you don't have to anyway. Walk in like you own the place and you shouldn't have any trouble. "
"Fine-"
"Not at first, anyway," she added. "Then it's up to you."
"Oh, wouldn't we have a time, baby."
From within the inferno we heard high-pitched screams. Fireballs rushed from the house, smoldering and snuffing once they'd flung themselves onto the field behind. Billowing black clouds dyed the blue sky, their smell rich with ash and frying grease, an excremental stench. My men neared the flames to judge the viability of housebound residents. Jets migrated above, flying in geese's formation. The ocean glimmered as if bejeweled, sum- merglory's light striking sparks from its waves.
They're small, said Klonfas, shouting back after examining one of the fielded.
`All I need's my little sweet woman, "Just t'pass th'time away-"
Brooklyn and Queens showed so gray as the sky had become; it was ever harder to spot the skyline ahead between the everrising factories and apartments around us. Our approach seemed unreasoned; I wouldn't have thought the Midtown Tunnel had yet been built, but towards its location was where Wanda seemed to aim. Soon enough it evidenced that while there was entrance to Manhattan from this direction, it was not through the underground. From Greenpoint, or thereabouts, a suspension bridge ran into Thirty-fourth. Crossing the bridge, reaching Second Avenue, Wanda headed downtown and then over again. At First Avenue and Twenty-fifth, on the right, Bellevue's redbrick hulk rose, stretching north for several dismal blocks, all replaced by newer outdated hulks in our day.
"You can tell where he is in there with that?"
"North building," I said. "Not far in but somewhere on high. Can't tell the floor till we're inside."
Shutting off his music, Jake, with care, lay Oktobriana down onto the back seat as he readied to step out. She remained no less still than she had been for the last hour. Wanda curbsided the car on Twenty-eighth and cut the motor. The building in which he showed stood just to left. Looking about, we saw none of law's minions, or prints left by the long arm's hand.
"Anybody wants to see your papers, just show'em that passport," Wanda said, giving further guide. "Say you're visiting from Mount Sinai, you have to. They got foreign docs running through all the time. Whatever you're going to do, be quick about it, if you can."
The entrance was off First; we strolled around, aiming downstreet, seeming nonchalant as if we'd stepped out to take the air. Shoving through dark wooden doors resembling the el station's, we entered. In our time hospitals generally are lit so brightly that to open your eyes within them is to risk blindness. All within Bellevue was steeped in shadow. Through the shade we saw the bile green walls, the hissing light fixtures above and the dirty, worn tile floors; the all-Caucasian mass of patients milling about, dotted amidst its rush with white-capped nurses and white-suited doctors. Throughout the entrance hall many smoked; doctors and nurses smoked. Ceiling fans did little but spread heat and odor, those familiar smells of alcohol, of fresh gauze, of oncoming death.
"If asked," said Jake, "we're specialists."
"Doctor Zuckerman," an unbodied voice called from wooden loudspeakers wallbolted above us. From downhall came screams' sounds; Jake appeared not to notice. "Please report to the emergency room. Doctor Zuckerman-"
"Where's he kept, Luther?" Jake asked, striding ahead as if to the firing line; in his whites he appeared as might any surgeon adept at sliding the knife. Keeping the tracker hidden within my hand, I looked.
`Almost above us," I said. "Sixth floor."
"No higher?"
"No," I said, eyeing elevator doors. "Over here."
As Wanda predicted we'd experienced no interference; all seemed involved in their own matters of mortality too much to be concerned with ours. Some did eye Jake's suit overclose, as if admiring the cut and style. We stepped aboard the elevator as the door slid open; saw that it had been pulled open by the elevator operator, a short black man seated within.
"What floor, sir?" he asked me, a faint smile round his lips.
"Sixth," I said. "Thank you."
As we rose Jake stood silently, facing front, his mind somewhere distant. Whether Oktobriana would still be alive by the time we returned-if we returned-I had no idea, and I suspect that lack of certainty only made him all the more assured in his action. As the man twisted a lever to halt our ascent, we readied; I'd sized Skuratov's locale as being elevator-near. In a deep alcove close by, hidden from immediate view, showed an unmarked door with translucent window A policeman slept in a chair just to door's right.
"Bottleneck," Jake muttered, moving ahead. "Let's unclog the drain."
"Move with reason, Jake," I said.
"As always."
The cop snorted himself awake, started rising as he saw us head for him. "Better have a good reason for wantin' in-" he started to say. Jake's right hand, palm up, flew out; landed on the nostrils with solid punch, sending the small bones deep within, pithing the brain. As the cop's eyes crossed, a blood strand dripped towards his lip. Jake shook his hand free of mucus and pushed open the door, looking in; a short hall led to another, unguarded door. Through my jacket's cloth I heard the tracker's beep.
"The best," Jake responded, dragging the late one off his chair into the hall as he entered, leaving him floored as we moved on.
"Jake," I reminded. "Careful."
"An enclosed space ahead," he worded, lowvoiced. "They won't attempt overkill even if they're prepped in this event." He readied something undercoat. "They expect communion. We give them surprise. "
He surprised, kicking open the door and leaping in. Within, a middle-aged man wearing a brown suit sat upon a chair facing a curtained space. Before he could move Jake floored him, thrusting the Omsk into the man's mouth with undue passion. I shut the door behind me, quietly, so as not to disturb.
"Looking for someone?" Jake asked. "Where's the guest of honor?"
The man pointed towards the curtain, his eyes showing full white. Pulling the drapes away I found Skuratov, bedded flat, both arms needled with intravenous tubes. Another tube sent breath throug
h his nose. Only his eyes showed awareness. His legs were bound thick with plaster; I saw no sign of those twotone shoes. Around his head a heavy pad and bandage were wrapped.
"Mal?" I said; he offered no more harm than a nursery's denizen.
"He won't answer you," said the suited man, his face tight as he awaited Jake's sentence. "He can't talk-"
"Can't talk?" I said. "Who took his tongue?"
"For God's sake get this guy off me-"
"Unarm him, Jake," I said. "Why can't he talk?"
"Poor bastard probably won't last till morning," he said. "Broken legs. Internal injuries. Fractured skull. Crash threw him sixty feet-"
Jake refigured. "Thirty," he said, taking the man's single pistol, keeping his own shooter straightaimed. Skuratov seemed so much smaller than he was.
"You guys must be the ones came with him," he said.
"You're FBI?" I said. "What's told, then. What did he say?"
"Nothing. Truck driver saw the wreck out there around dawn yesterday, told the Secaucus police. They found him lying out there in the swamp, found the plane. Called us, called the New York cops. Jersey claimed jurisdiction but Mister Hoover said as a Russian plane was involved it was a federal matter. And now, with this Stalin stuff-"
Skuratov's breath came in gasping spurts, as if it were being squeezed free by other's hands. Jake tossed me his Omsk so that I might continue live coverage. Stepping calmly over to where Skuratov lay, Jake bladed his longest switch, meal's companion; twirled it round his fingers and then slashed Skuratov's intravenous tubes. One recognized the other, undoubted. In the room's ill light I saw Skuratov's lips slapping wordlessly together as if to wet themselves. So small.
"Where you got Uncle Joe, anyway?" the man asked.
"We don't," I said, noting the bruises on Skuratov's face. "If legs are broken, doesn't that infer a particular landing pattern?" I asked the man.
"What?"
"How'd he split his skull if he settled footways?" I asked, pressing the barrel into his forehead, breaking the skin. "You'd beat an injured man?"
"God, don't. During the interrogation. City cops. You know how they are. They got kind of rough-"
"So you break his head like an egg? To what purpose?"
"He wouldn't talk-"
"You will?" I asked, taking his collar with my free hand, wringing tight but no more; no Jake, I. "I wish answers."
"You two came with him. From Russia-"
"AO," I said. "What was possessed?"
"You two must've been the ones in Harlem last night-"
`As you must be the one here, now. Where're his goods?" I asked, driving the barrel in even harder, choking him with greater vigor as I tried to keep back memory's blight. "What was on him? Where are they?"
"H-headquarters," he stuttered. "D-don't hurt me-"
Small ones? I asked Klonfas as I walked across the field, seeing the lumps there grounded. No sounds came from the house but those of crackling flames.
Kids.
In the new-mown field, its rich dirt unturned for planting, lay the black crinkles that preteens left. How many had been male, how many female-couldn't tell any longer; didn't matter.
See how many, I said, breathing through my mouth.
"On him should have been a plastic and metal camera," I said, clearing my mind, calming myself though stupidity ran rich around me. "Was it found?"
"It was a camera, then," he said; his face brightened, as if with victory. "Most of 'em didn't think it looked right, but I did-"
Jake stepped back, leaving Skuratov undisturbed in body. Unreeling and opening his jacket's line length, he looked round the room as if judging its proportions. Near the radiator a long pipe ran from ceiling to floor. Looping one end, he knotted it tight with doubled squares and a half hitch, saying nothing, listening to all.
"Was a camera?" I said. "Is or was-"
The door banged open; a new suit and a fresh cop entered, guns leveled.
"Get 'em-" yelled the agent I held. As if allowed by ones on high, I became as Jake, firing the Omsk with instinct's aim, blasting the cop's chest with a softball-sized blow. Jake, as figured, had swung round as the door opened; as I triggered, he sent his own regrets, blading the fed in the throat with quick-thrown switch. The G-man's machine gun dropped from his hands as he lingered, grasping neckways. Face first he fell with crunching thud. I looked out to see if the far door remained open; it didn't. Positioning the policeman with care I certified that the inner door could not be immediately reopened. Jake left his knife where he'd pitched it, an odd action; unreeled his line, assuring its firm fix upon the pipe, finding the opposite end, some thirty curled meters from the knot.
"This won't be long," he said, approaching Skuratov's bed.
"God," our more animate prisoner whispered. "Don't hurt me. Please don't. Please-"
Please, I heard; heard the calming shot, didn't turn to look. The day's count was seventy-nine; doubling the count as pro forma per HQ's wish, Klonfas tallied our success and forwarded records. Shards of blown containers within the rubble evidenced that there'd been a gasoline stockpile within. No adults turned up; the place was no traditional school. In a basement refrigerator two had crawled in, pulling the door shut after. Whether they'd suffocated or baked, we couldn't say. The Long Island War ran a twenty-year run before Mister O'Malley rang down the curtain; its residents would have fought to the last child. These, that afternoon, were among the first. Those within we left entombed. Those who'd made it onto the field I wanted buried; the beach seemed likeliest to allow a quick dig.
If we just leave 'em out, sir, they'll be gone before the month's out, said Sergeant Rich.
Bury them, I said, going to find my own shovel.
"Semantics are all," I said, settling us both by lowering my voice, showing I meant no harm. "Again. Is a camera, or was a camera?"
"Luther," Jake said, pulling terrycloth towels from dresser drawers; padding across the room he heaved open the window, knocked loose the screen and bent it in, removing it. Traffic's breath sounded clear. He leaned forward, looking down. "If he's not helpful-" With good arm he wrenched the line; it held. "-thumb out his eyes."
"Answer," I said.
"We couldn't figure out how to get it open," he said. "One of the guys decided to take a hammer to it. Just tap it, that's all. Damn thing flew all to pieces, like it was made in Hong Kong or something. Nothing inside it looked like anything, all those boards with the little things on 'em-"
"Within," I said. "A small blue box. Where?"
The man closed his eyes, undoubtedly certain they were about to be thumbed. "It wouldn't open either."
What he awaited, what he deserved, never carne. Opening again, he saw; saw me staring at Jake, wondering if he'd even heard, so intent he seemed over whatever it was he did. As if ribboning a giftwrap Jake wound the line's loose end twice around Skuratov's neck.
"When we drop keep the towels tight round your hands or they'll burn," he said, slipping Skuratov's nasal tube loose, dragging him into vertical, grunting with the effort of lifting dead weight.
"You heard?" I asked. "That's it." Jake nodded, working his better hand beneath Skuratov's plastered legs.
"Heard plain. Stand aside, Luther."
As I watched I recalled the rest, unable to contain the flood. Three remained to be planted and I chose to be their farmer. They were no heavier than papier-mache, I thought, carrying them one by one to the beach. As afternoon became evening I designed their final homes. We had time overmuch, now; orders were to hold position until dawn, when again we could attempt entry townways. Additional planes would toast aboveground survivors during the night hours. As I readied the last slot, Johnson appeared from beach's direction, shouldering a heavy bag, his stumble slowed by its weight. In the fading light I discerned that half his shirt was burned away; closer, I saw that he wore no shirt. The men of our unit and the survivors of the others had set camp beyond the ridge, near the ruin. We alone, alive, walked the beach.
>
Let me know it's fireworks hour before you give the AOK next time, he said.
You got inside? I asked. He nodded.
Then got blown out.
Lifting myself from the grave with shovel's support, finding feet again on unearthed ground, I stared down into the pit.
Why didn't you report?
Look here, Lieutenant. He unshouldered the bag, dumped its contents onto the sand. I saved one for you.
She was seven, perhaps, crowned with blond hair matted with sandy mud. But for her bloodied thighs her body remained whole, though covered with bruises and scratches. Her wide eyes, long cried dry, held no more life than Jake's. As she stared my way she held her breath, keeping it, at least, from attacker's touch. Johnson grinned when he looked at me, showing steel braces.
Lieutenant?
"Jake-"
While trying to haul Skuratov upward, Jake's foot tripped over his dangling line; inadvertently he crushed Skuratov's leg against the window frame, splitting the plaster. "I'm sorry," Jake said, balancing him on the sill so that his stiff extremities countered his seated weight. Guiding his torso forward and down, Jake took care not to strike Skuratov's broken head against the sash. He paused then, as if for effect; probably for thought. With good hand, he pushed. Skuratov sailed through Sunday haze. Inertia took its course; the line tightened as if to give tune, and then as quickly went slack once more. Jake wrapped towels round his hands, considered the view.
"Not a far drop," he said. "Let's slide, Luther."
I answered Johnson, swinging the shovel full-force against his head. Nothing gave; pitching forward, he whumped into the hole. The little girl sat on the sand, squeezing herself together; she looked on as if watching a puppetshow of uncommon design. The shovel's sound came as shuff as I rescooped what I'd thrown, lifting a load, tossing it onto Johnson. Sunset's colors inflamed the horizon; night tinted the sky's other side. Ocean's breeze ruffled our hair. Without warning Johnson rose from his uncompleted vault, turning in his grave, stretching out his hand; sand poured from his eyes, his mouth, his wound.
Nigger, he said. Can't keep a good man down.
Repeatedly I applied the shovel: swung it flatside, drove it in edgedown, clubbed and reclubbed until the sharp crack first heard muffled into the sound of a smashed melon. My arms free of ache, my mind clear of thought, I shoveled all the more quickly, heaving in sand atop blood, shortly building a fresh dune. Dropping the shovel I sank onto the beach, rolling over it as if to make sand angels, pressing my head between my hands as if to burst it. Looking up again, I saw the little girl, sitting there still, seeing and not seeing; she shivered, as though cold. I'd seen a tenth of what she'd seen, felt a twentieth of what she felt, knew nothing of what she knew but knew she shouldn't know it, so early on. There was one thing to do, I knew, for mercy's sake. I unholstered my sidearm. There remained but one mercy more to grant.
