He’s not dead, he justwantsto be dead. Head like a supernova, black fuzzy sparklers in his vision. His stomach is sliding around, and his rib cage is too small. On hands and knees, he pants and tries not to vomit. Concentrates on what he can feel: crumbs on the buffed concretefloor, cold air on his face. Pulsing pain in his left cheekbone and eyeball, maybe some swelling around the zygomatic arch. His breathing is occluded; he presses his thumb against his nostril, clears his blocked nose onto the floor, wipes his face with the sleeve of his coat.
Ai-ai-ai, this is wool,his landlady, Sofia Rosa, would tut.You should take better care of your clothes.
But he can smell now: the scent of rust and perishing wood, like mulch under a tree in spring; the acerbic tang of ammonia; the stink of food scraps. There’s probably a bucket in here that Brittany’s using for a toilet and a trash can. Or maybe it’s the smell of the street outside.
“Are you okay?” Brittany repeats, somewhere in the upper atmosphere.
“Fine.” Simon grunts, pushes himself back, clambers dizzily up to standing.
Perspective is good. The room is eight feet wide by twelve long, and the walls are eight feet high. If he calls the window north, there are drums and shelving against the east wall, the door to the south, a narrow wooden desk and more shelving at the west.
The window: Holding the desk, then the upper edge of a drum, he totters his way toward it. It’s small, placed six and a half feet up the wall—he can just see over the bottom sill. They’re at ground level. Rain dashes itself against the glass, seeps into a water stain under the sill. There’s the damp brick wall of a fence, then another building about twelve feet away, a cramped alley between them.
Where the hellarethey? Are they still in Manhattan? He can’t hear traffic, only the whistling of the wind and rain. He hopes they’re still in the West Village—it’s ridiculous to be getting a rush of longing for the filthy, disreputable streets that he knows, but Simon’s been cut loose from his personal geography before. He hates this feeling of disorientation, like he’s a snipped thread.
He pulls his coat tighter against the chill, tries to concentrate. Hard to tell what time it is because of the storm, but he can’t have been out that long; it’s probably still midafternoon. This is an industrialbuilding, a warehouse. Nomi followed Lamonte’s flunky to a warehouse off West Nineteenth Street last night. So what’s the likelihood this is the same place?
“I climbed up to that window,” Brittany says, “but it’s blocked off.”
Simon angles to see, and she’s right; the window is covered with wire mesh on the outside.
Lightning cracks like a flash grenade outside: Bright light suddenly spears through the window, jags into him like a glass knife to the eye. He hisses, presses his hands against the wall, tries to breathe. This is worse than his regular headaches.
His teeth are clenched, his shoulders bunched. The doctor would be telling him to let his muscles relax. Flores’s deep voice always had a calming burr:You tense up; you hurt. Let go. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but just try it.
Simon relaxes, lets go. Lets his chin hang down to his chest. The pain in his temples subsides to a dull throb.
Brittany again. “Head’s hurting, huh?”
“You have no idea.” He turns around, props himself against the wall.
She’s standing up. She’s surprisingly tall for a seven-year-old, but her mother is a tall woman. “Yeah, I think they beat you up pretty good.”
Simon huffs air. There’s a certain comedy in it, he’ll admit. Then Brittany grins, and he sees a dark gap—she’s missing two of her bottom baby teeth. He winces at how, in these circumstances, she might have lost them.
“I’ve got a bottle of water, if you’re thirsty,” Brittany offers, “and some gum, if you—”
She stills, eyes flicking. Then he hears it, too, over the noise of the rain.
He quiets his own voice. “Is that them?”
Brittany nods. The whites of her eyes show stark against the brown of her skin.
“How many?”
“Four,” she whispers. “That’s all I seen.”
Something like mercury—cool and calm and alien—is easing into his veins. “They have weapons, Brittany?”
She nods again. “Usually.”
The sounds are clear to both of them now: the clump of heavy boots, the clipped echo of arriving voices. Simon can smell cigarette smoke. A door is rolled open, farther away, the rumble distinct from the low growl of thunder outside.
Brittany steps closer. She grips the sleeve of his coat with both her small hands. “Simon ... What are we gonna do?”
Lightning cracks out the window behind them once more. Simon looks around the room, at the size and shape of the space, the objects it holds, the cold light in the air, the little girl by his side. Considers the ripe-bursting pain in his head, the quicksilver under his skin. How is he supposed to answer?
We can get out, but I’ll need to slaughter some people first. If I remember how to do that. If my new conscience allows. And once I let the beast out of the box, will he want to go back in?
