by Dan Simmons
The train tracks came to within a hundred yards of the mansion and then looped in a turnaround. The Cloud Nine kid-sized locomotive and cars were just visible in a long storage shed that straddled the tracks. Evidently the Major had kept the train and tracks maintained all these years.
The Huey landed and the four men half-pushed, half-dragged Rigby and Kurtz out of the open doors. All four were dressed in jeans and field jackets. Two of them carried M-16s that Kurtz was certain were illegally rigged for full auto; the other two carried even more formidable military firepower—M-60 machine guns.
Where are the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms pukes in their windbreakers when you need them? thought Kurtz. The man behind him shoved him through doors that a fifth Vietnamese man, this one from inside the house and dressed in a blue blazer, opened for them.
This butler or whatever he was led them through a foyer, down a hallway, through a library, and out onto the rear terrace on the cliff’s edge. Kurtz had noted every side room and everything else he could see during their short transit through the house, and he knew that Rigby was doing the same. The fact that they hadn’t been blindfolded bothered him a bit, since the simplest explanation for that was that they planned to kill both him and Rigby.
The house was large—three stories tall, comprising at least five thousand square feet inside—and it looked as if it had been built in the 1970s, around the time of the Major’s retirement to Neola. It was built to fight off Indians. The first story and a half were stone—not only faced with stone, but built of stone. The windows to the rear of the house, nearest the helipad, were all leaded glass, but the leaded parts were actually bars. Thinner, taller windows to either side of the main ones were too narrow to scramble through but would offer perfect firing positions. A five-car garage ran to the north of the house along the same circular driveway, but all five of the wooden doors were down. The house doors they’d come through—the house was situated so that its fancier front was facing the bluff rather than the heliport and driveway—were a thick hardwood reinforced by steel. Enough to stop a Kiowa war lance, that was for sure.
This side of the house facing the cliff was less defensible. The library opened onto the terrace through wide French doors that let in the view and afternoon light to the west. Off the library had been an adjoining bedroom—Kurtz only caught a glimpse but thought it was probably the Major’s bedroom, adapted from a huge parlor on the first floor, because of pill bottles and military photos on the burgundy wallpapered walls—and that bedroom also had wide doors opening onto the terrace. Kurtz guessed from oversized drape boxes above the doors that there were steel shutters that could drop down if necessary.
The Major, Colonel Vin Trinh, and three other men were waiting on the terrace. One man wore sheriff’s gray, a Colt .45 in a western holster, and a name tag that said “Gerey”—the name of the sheriff that Rigby had talked to little more man an hour earlier; the other two men were younger, white, muscled, and also armed.
That’s seven bodyguards so far, counting the servant in the blazer and not counting the chopper pilot and the sheriff, thought Kurtz as he and Rigby were shoved into the sunlight in front of the man in the wheelchair, which was in the shade of a striped canvas awning. And Truth, the Major, and this other old guy.
“Mr. Kurtz, Miss King,” said the Major. “How nice of you to drop in.”
Ah, Jesus, thought Kurtz. This old fart gets his material from villains in B movies.
“I’m a police officer,” said Rigby. It was the first full sentence she’d completed since Kurtz had been sitting on the grass with her.
“Yes, Miss King…Detective King,” said the Major. “We know who you are.”
“Then you know what a bad idea this is,” said Rigby, her voice low but solid. “Get these cuffs off us this minute and we’ll let it slide for now. We were trespassing.”
The Major smiled again, shook his head almost sadly, and turned toward Kurtz. “I think it was very clever of your masters to send the policewoman along, Mr. Kurtz. If circumstances were different, it might…might…have been a disincentive to what has to happen next.”
Aw, shit, thought Kurtz. He said, “What masters?”
The Major’s smile disappeared. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Kurtz. It makes perfect sense that they sent you—with your policewoman chippie here as an escort From what we can glean, you’re one of the few people that both the Gonzaga and Farino families do business with.”
“Chippie?” said Rigby. She sounded more amused than insulted.
Colonel Vin Trinh stepped forward and slapped Rigby hard across the mouth. He wiped the blood from his knuckles with a silk handkerchief, took Kurtz’s holstered .38 from one of the Vietnamese men, and held his arm at full length, the muzzle inches from Rigby’s temple. Kurtz was reminded of a famous photo from the Vietnam era, taken during the Tet Offensive he thought, where a Saigon chief of police had summarily executed a Viet Cong suspect in the street.
Trinh cocked the pistol. “If you say one more word without being told to,” he said in almost unaccented English, “I will kill you now.”
Rigby looked at the tall man.
“What do you want?” Kurtz said to the Major.
The old man in the wheelchair sighed. The bodyguard in the blazer had moved behind the chair, hands on its grips, obviously ready to move the crippled man back deeper into the shade should the sun encroach or Kurtz or Rigby make any sudden move. Or to get him out of the path of any arterial sprays, thought Kurtz.
“We want the obvious, Mr. Kurtz,” said the Major. “We want an end to this war. Isn’t that what your masters sent you down here to discuss?”
War? thought Kurtz. According to both Toma Gonzaga and Angelina Farino Ferrara, they didn’t have a clue as to who was killing their junkies. They certainly had never talked about fighting back—about any war. Was all that ignorance a ruse to get Kurtz involved? It didn’t make much sense.
He said nothing.
“Did they send you with terms?” asked the Major. “Or shall we propose our own?”
Colonel Vin Trinh’s arm was still rigid, the hammer on Kurtz’s .38 was still cocked. The muzzle ten inches from Rigby’s head did not waver by so much as a millimeter.
Kurtz said nothing.
“For instance, what would it be worth to you for us to spare Miss King’s life?” said the old man.
Kurtz remained silent.
“She means nothing to you?” said the Major. “But you were fellow orphans together as children. You were in the army together. Surely that must have created some bond, Mr. Kurtz.”
Kurtz smiled. “If you’ve got my military records,” he said, “look at them more carefully. This bitch is one of the reasons I was court-martialed.”
Major Michael O’Toole nodded. “Yes, that fact is in your records. But you were not, as it turned out, dishonorably discharged, Sergeant Kurtz. The charges appeared to have been dropped. Perhaps you and she have…made up?” He showed hard white teeth.
“This isn’t about her or me,” said Kurtz. “What do you want?”
O’Toole nodded at Trinh, who lowered the hammer, stepped back, and slid Kurtz’s pistol into his belt The man had a stomach flatter than most fences.
“We need to meet, your masters and I,” said the Major, speaking in a rapid, clear clip that must have been perfected in a thousand briefings. “This war has become too expensive for both sides.”
Rigby glanced over at Kurtz as if seeking to find out if any of this made any sense to him. Kurtz’s face revealed nothing.
“When?” said Kurtz.
“Tomorrow. Noon. Both Gonzaga and the Farino daughter must come. They can each bring one bodyguard, but everyone will be disarmed before the meeting.”
“Where?”
“This town,” said the old man, sweeping his powerful-looking right arm toward Neola visible in the valley to the northwest. With the sunlight gone, all color had faded from the trees and the steeples visible were more a
dismal, chimney gray than a New England white. “It has to be in Neola. Sheriff Gerey here…” The Major nodded toward the sheriff who never changed his bassett-hound expression or blinked. “Sheriff Gerey will provide security for all of us and offer the meeting space. You still have that secure conference room in the back of the station, Sheriff?”
“Yeah.”
“There you have it,” said the Major. “Any questions?”
“You’re letting both of us go back, right?” said Kurtz.
The Major looked at Colonel Vin Trinh, then at Rigby, then at Kurtz, and smiled. “Wrong, Mr. Kurtz. Detective King stays as our guest until after this conference.”
“Why?”
“To insure that you do your absolute best at convincing your principals to be at the Neola sheriff’s office at noon tomorrow, Mr. Kurtz.”
“Or what?”
The old man’s black eyebrows rose toward his steel-colored crewcut. “Or what? Colonel Trinh? Would you like to demonstrate the ‘Or what?’ to Mr. Kurtz?”
Without blinking, Trinh pulled the .38 from his belt and shot Rigby in the upper leg. She fell heavily, arms still cuffed behind her, and struck her head on the flagstone. One of the Vietnamese bodyguards dropped to one knee, pulled his belt off, and rigged a makeshift tourniquet.
Kurtz had not moved and he did not move now. He made sure that his face showed no concern.
“Does that explain the ‘Or what?’ Mr. Kurtz?” said the Major.
“It seems like more trouble for you than it’s worth,” Kurtz said calmly. “Kill me, nobody much notices. Kill her…” He nodded toward Rigby where she lay, face sweaty, eyes wider, but not speaking. “Kill her and you’ll have the entire Buffalo Police Department on your ass.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Kurtz,” said the Major. “We’re not going to kill Detective King if you fail in your mission by tomorrow noon. You’re going to kill her. In Buffalo. Probably in that abandoned flophouse you call a home. A lover’s quarrel, perhaps.”
Kurtz looked at the .38 still in Trinh’s hand. “No GSR with me,” he said.
“Gun shot residue?” said the Major. “On your hands and clothing? There will be, Mr. Kurtz. There will be.” The old man in the wheelchair nodded again and two of the young men grabbed Rigby, lifted her—she moaned once—and carried her into the house.
The Major glanced at his heavy and expensive digital watch. “It’s after two P.M. You’ll be wanting to go. It’s a long drive back to Buffalo and it looks as if it might rain.”
Colonel Trinh slipped the .38 into his belt but pulled a Glock-nine from a holster behind his back. Two other bodyguards lifted their M-16s.
Kurtz looked toward the driveway to the north of the house.
“No, Mr. Kurtz, the easiest way out for you is down this way.” The Major nodded his head toward the almost vertical staircase down the cliff face.
Kurtz took a step closer to the edge, very aware of the two men behind him, who could push him over with a shove, and peered down.
It was not so much a staircase as a descending concrete ziggurat. The steps were oversized—each at least twenty-four inches high, maybe thirty inches—and cut into the almost sheer rock cliff face. Far below—two or three hundred feet at least and half as many sheer steps almost straight down—the stairway ended in the black asphalt of the curving driveway.
“You’re joking,” said Kurtz.
“I never joke,” said Major Michael O’Toole.
Kurtz sighed and held his arms up for someone to cut the flexcuffs.
“Perhaps later,” said the Major. “Sheriff Gerey will meet you at the bottom.” The old man in the chair nodded again and someone behind Kurtz gave him a hard shove.
He almost went over headfirst, staggered, and kept from falling only by jumping from the terrace to the narrow first step. The impact shocked up his spine and almost made him pitch forward again. He teetered there, raising his cuffed arms behind him for balance.
“Tell Mr. Gonzaga and Ms. Ferrara to be there tomorrow at Sheriff Gerey’s office precisely at noon,” said the Major. “One minute late, and there will be several dire consequences—the demise of Detective King being the least of them.”
The man in the blazer pushed the Major’s wheelchair through the doors and into the house. Colonel Trinh and four of the other Vietnamese with their rifles at port arms stood at the edge of the terrace and watched Kurtz descend.
At first, Kurtz thought it was going to be easy. That is, if the men above didn’t shoot him—which still seemed very possible. Or if he didn’t trip and fall with his hands cuffed behind his back—which seemed more probable on every step.
But at first it did seem easy. It was two or three hundred feet—it was hard to tell at this horrible angle—of almost vertical ziggurat slabs, each at least two feet above the other—although it rose to Kurtz’s knees, so he guessed more like twenty-eight or thirty inches—with just eight or ten inches of horizontal concrete on each “step”—but if he just balanced easily on the edge of each and sort of hopped down to the next, his hands behind his back but extended for balance—it shouldn’t be a problem. Easy as cake, as the Russians might say. A piece of pie.
Except that after nine or ten drops, with only a hundred and fifty or so to go, the impact had jarred his spine, hurt his knees, and pounded red-hot railroad spikes of pain into his aching skull.
Kurtz was glad that they’d pulled everything out of his pockets when they’d cuffed him, and tugged his Ray Charles glasses off his face and taken them as well, because all that junk would be flying out into space right now. It’d be a bitch, Kurtz thought, to have to stop and pick up all that stuff with your teeth. And Daddy Bruce would be mad as hell if he came back without Ray Charles’s sunglasses. He stepped to the edge of the tenth or eleventh step and dropped.
The shock, ran up through his spine and exploded in fireworks in his head. His vision blurred.
Not yet. Not yet. He’d do a deal with this fucking headache; it could make him throw up, or even faint, once he was all the way down—or even on any of the bottom three steps. But not here. Not here.
Another three steps down. He tried just stepping down the mere twenty-eight inches or so. That was better. But the pain still jagged up his back to his skull and exited through the crack in his skull on the right side every time he dropped the other leg and foot. And it was harder to keep his balance that way with his arms behind him. The overly tight flexcuffs had long since cut off circulation to his wrists and hands, and now his forearms were going numb, with a line of pain moving up above the pins and needles of numbness advancing like little forest creatures running from a forest fire.
What? Stay focused, Joe. He paused on the narrow concrete shelf, his toes hanging over, panting, sweat in his eyes—sweat he couldn’t blink or rub away—and looked up the near-vertical ziggurat steps at the dark forms looking down at him. The Major wasn’t there, but Colonel Trinh was. He wasn’t smiling. The other Vietnamese men were. They were enjoying this, probably betting on when he’d fall. Trinh looked like he was enjoying it as well, just too much so to smile.
Stay focused. The cliffside here on either side of the steps was slippery limestone with some granite mixed in—a steep mish-mash of slabs and dirt, with some lichen and low plants and the occasional scrub oak. But getting off the steps would be suicide here; even if his hands were free and circulation flowing, it would take a mountain climber to deal with that slippery slope.
Kurtz hopped down another step, waited for the fireworks to quit going off behind his eyes, and dropped another.
I don’t think Dr. Singh would recommend this as therapy for the concussion.
Who was Dr. Singh? Kurtz wondered dully. It was interesting how the headache pain flowed in like breakers along the surf, never stopping, never pausing, just rising and falling and then crashing down.
He dropped to another step, teetered, caught himself, stepped to the edge, and dropped to the next. Was it his imagination or were the horizontal pa
rts of each step getting narrower? The backs of his heels scraped when he tried to put his feet down solidly, even with his toes hanging out over space. Kurtz had started down being glad that he’d worn his sneakers today, but now he wished he had his old combat boots on. His ankles felt splintered. His heels were already bloody.
He dropped again. Again. The sweat stung his eyes and burned in counterpoint to the real pain.
It can’t get no worse…ran a line from some old army song. Kurtz didn’t believe that, of course. If life had taught him one thing, it was that things could always get worse.
It started to rain. Hard.
Kurtz’s hair immediately matted to his head. He tasted the rain and realized that blood from his scalp wound was mixing in. He couldn’t blink away the water in his eyes and on his lashes, so he paused on a step. He didn’t know if he was halfway down, two-thirds the way down, or a fourth the way down. His head and neck hurt far too much for him to crane his neck to look up again. And he didn’t want to look down anymore.
It can always get worse.
Lightning flashed so close he was blinded. The thunder almost knocked him down. The world was filled with the stink of ozone. Kurtz’s wet and bloody hair tried to rise off his head as the hillside around him glowed white from the blast.
Kurtz sat down heavily, his legs flying up. He was panting, disoriented, and so dizzy that he doubted if he could stand again without falling.
The rain pelted him like fists pounding his shoulders and neck. It was cold as hail fell and hurt his head. Cold as hail, he thought again, trying it out with a Texas accent Everything hurt his head. Why the fuck didn’t that Yemeni kid aim better? Get it over with? Only it hadn’t been the Yemeni kid, had it? He’d already shot the Yemeni kid by then. Then someone else shot him, Kurtz knew. The someone else who had brought the Yemeni kid there to kill…who? Peg O’Toole, he thought. Pretty Peg O’Toole, who just one year earlier had risked her job as PO to stand up for him, hell, to save his life, when a detective on the Farino’s payroll had ramrodded him into county lockup on a bogus charge in preparation to send him back to prison where the D-block Mosque and a hundred other guys were waiting to get the bounty on him…
