

Torn Apart

By Jacob Magnus

Copyright 2011 Jacob Magnus

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

He knew it was going to hurt. A stray burst tore up the leaves overhead, and Corben Jatthew dropped into a ditch on his side, cradling the chunky gun in his arms. A few drips of yellow splashed down on the mossy dirt, inches from his face. Another burst sounded from nearby, followed by excited shouting. He patted a tree. "I'm getting close; help me hide," he said, and laughed.

He was tucked into a shallow defile running behind a row of trees and bushes. The air held the scent of sap and earth, and the hint of distant honeysuckle. Not far off on his left, he saw a pool of water choked with weeds. Not a pleasant sight, he imagined that he'd dropped into it, diving in by accident to avoid the flying paint. The thought made him shiver. It reminded of another time, standing at the edge of a lake, and wading in...

Dappled summer sunlight made odd patterns of light and shade on his green and black camouflage gear, and, for now, he was invisible. He sometimes wished the years of jogging hadn't made him such a lean man, feeling it took away from his presence. Today it had been of use, making it easier to hide behind trees. It hadn't been easy to sneak so far without being caught. He felt like a ninja. "Don't be stupid," he told himself. "Ninjas wouldn't be caught dead playing paintball." But Ninjas didn't have his problems. A lot of the shirt and tie boys at Hagger Industrial Inc. thought they were wasting money on a consultant, and they thought they were wasting even more money on a silly whimsy when he'd suggested they go paintballing. How could paintball help a company in such strife? "The boss is clueless," Jorthens, his executive escort had told him, "and everyone is too busy watching his own back to look out for his buddy. As a result..."

"You got a buddy shortage," Corben had said.

"That's like saying hell has a snowball shortage. Jatthew, we don't have no trust."

"So we'll go paintballing," Corben had said, and then he'd spent two days selling it to everyone. Jorthens had done it more than once, and he'd been a help in getting the boss, Sam Largo, to agree. Now they were out, having all the thrill the human animal can get when you take him out of a boxy office, stick a gun in his hand, and tell him that that guy over there with the blue uniform is a bad guy, "and you best get him, son, before he gets you."

He sidled up to a tree, and peeked around it. His cheek pressed against cool, rough bark. Ahead, he saw four guys in blue camouflage gear, and the token of their 'base', a blue flag. A breeze caught it, and it rippled out, to show the design: a red snake in a circle, eating its own tail.

He'd circled around and found the enemy base, coming at it from behind. They were blues. He was a green. He knew what he had to do. He found he was already holding the gun up, taking aim at the enemy without meaning to. He could do it, that was certain. They were watching the open approach, a path in the forest, on the other side. Now and then they let off a burst at random, but they couldn't see him, and they wouldn't expect his attack. He could take them. He could win.

"Win at paintball," he said. "Lose in the office. What do you want to trade?" He hadn't set up this battle so he could run around shooting the guys who had hired him. True, sometimes he felt like shooting them, but every other consultant he'd spoken to had, when pressed, after at least five or six glasses of expensive poison, confessed to the same fantasy. "I don't get paid to act out my fantasies. Would be good if I did, though. Maybe a market for that idea." He swore, as he remembered his uniform had no pockets. No paper, no pens. "I could improvise something from tree bark, perhaps..."

Then he saw what he was waiting for. Heard it first, actually. A flash of green showed up on the path on the other side of the blue base. His team was coming up, getting ready for their assault. This was the tricky bit. The green leader, Largo, was also the manager who should have welded his people into a team in the first place. Well-meaning, but he was an idiot, and needed a lot of help to get his office working. In the mess he'd made, though, acting on random impulses, kind on Monday and ferocious on Wednesday, no one trusted him, and they didn't trust one another, either. All Largo needed was to get a few people like Jorthens, people with brains, tied together, and they'd give him a structure. That structure would turn into a culture, and the office would work. It would. Jatthew had done this before. But those guys, those few essential guys, they had to have a reason, an emotional reason, to get in with Largo like that.

The greens were coming on like awkward corporate ninjas, and it was only because the blues were arguing over whether it was possible to shoot sparrows with their paintball guns that the greens were spared a sticky yellow doom. He watched the blues talk in loud voices, and point right at him. He ducked down, pressing himself against the earth, trying to get as close to the old mother as he could. A single shot flew overhead, brushing a few leaves as it went. He rolled on his back, and saw a streak of yellow on the broad green leaves. He laughed when he thought about it; the blues were shooting yellow and the greens were shooting blue. It made no sense that he could understand, but then, he was consulting for Hagger Industrial, and not for the Forest Wars company. "I can't worry about that right now," he said, wishing he had some company to help him keep an eye on things. He sure could have used some help, what with getting his flight home that evening, and getting back to Mimi in time for their special day.

Another shot flew overhead, and Corben Jatthew decided to shift along the defile. He wasn't sure if they were shooting at him or not, but he was sure as a corpse not going to let them hit him before he'd seen this thing through. A third shot went by off to the left, and he heard an excited twittering. "Stupid bastards think they're on a duck hunt," he said. Sure enough, there was some kind of bird, maybe a corncrake or a hornbill, or a fat ugly sparrow, perched on a branch over the pool. The next shot shook the tree next to it; no marksmen, but they were getting closer. "Aw shit," he said. The bird looked like it was drugged or something, it sat there calm as a comatose Buddha, as gobs of lethal yellow paint whizzed past it, close enough to make its feathers tremble.

"Move, you stupid bird," he said in a loud whisper. It blinked. "Move!" It sat there, resolute, defiant, brainless. It was going to get hit. A little bird like that, it was going to topple and croak. Even if it survived the shock, the paint would dry and freeze it up, leaving it an easy target for any stray cat or fox. "God damn all budgies," he said, and crawled up close, then, risking paintball death and the cold horror of the pool, Corben smacked the tree. It shook, but the bird didn't get the idea. "Move! Move, move, move, you feathered slob!" He hit the tree with his gun, and this time the bird shifted. It twisted its head, shook out its wings, and gave Corben a hateful look as it lumbered into the air. He dropped back down to the dirt, rolled on his back, and sighed.

There was no time to relax, though. The greens should be making their assault on the blue base at any time. Jatthew peered out from his hiding place, and saw the blues were in a huddle, but at that distance, he couldn't hear one word. Looking past them, he saw Largo's boys, the greens, had stopped moving. They were having some kind of argument. He couldn't tell, but it looked as if Largo, a large, muscular man, was preparing to give one of his team mates a demonstration of leadership with the butt end of his gun. Jatthew scratched his chin. It was a start, but they needed more than that. He'd made sure that Jorthens was on the blue team, but he couldn't tell if he was with them. Largo would have to cope.

He looked back at the blues and almost gave himself away by swearing. They had seen the greens, and they were getting ready to ambush them. They were holding a whispered discussion, and he could see jerky hand signals; they were getting into the war movie spirit. They spread out and took positions behind a few rusty barrels put there for that purpose. He shook his head, and started to sweat. The greens were walking into a trap.

"If Largo leads his boys into a firing squad, they'll call him Largo the Lunatic. They'll make jokes about him, and never trust him again. They'll make him go paranoid, and that'll turn their company into a bad example, fit for the annals of buggered business. I could still run up and take out the blues myself, but that'll make everyone feel cheated, like I set this up for my own fun. And Largo will feel like his gun was out of paint."

The third choice was the one he liked the least. It was going to hurt. If the boys out there had any brains, or decent leadership, it would never have come up, but they were making it necessary. They were forcing him to do it. And it was going to hurt. "God bugger it, if you can't take the pain, don't be a consultant."

He waited until he judged the time was right. It gave him a moment that, under other circumstances, could have been a real delight. It was a pleasant day in a green forest, and if he hadn't been about to get shot, he would have enjoyed it. Shaking his head, and cursing his ancestors, Corben Jatthew stood up, hefted his gun, and started running. Running, he yelled. Yelling, he fired paint, blue splattering globs of paint, straight up into the sky.

"Oh shit, they're behind us," said one sharp boy in blue, and he and his mates turned and started firing. Jatthew swerved and ducked, and kept firing. A ball of paint shot by his face, so close he could see the yellow flash. He laughed. Then a ball nicked his knee. "God!" He halted, swearing, and a second ball caught him square in the solar plexus, hard as a punch from a plucky teenager. The air whooshed out of his mouth, and then a third ball smashed against his helmet, jerking his head back. He staggered forward, stars blazed across his field of vision, and then a barrage of yellow balls exploded across his once-green uniform. He stumbled, and tripped, dropping to the soft, grassy ground. A pebble came between his shoulder and the grass, and the impact sent another flare of pain through his bruised body.

"Now, boys!" Largo cheered his men on as they stormed the stronghold of the blues. It was all over in a few more paint-splattered seconds, and then the greens were cheering, and Largo was being lofted and carried away, the hero, the conqueror, the leader.

Through gritted teeth, Jatthew forced out an angry, primal laugh. Then, wincing, he picked himself up, and went to help the fallen blues.

...

"Stay for drinks, Corben," said Sam Largo. He, Jorthens, a guy named Cubar, and Jatthew, were in the back of a chunky black Hagger Industrial SUV, heading for the Hagger Industrial Inc. office building in downtown Detroit. The car smelled of leather, soap, and loitering sweat; the Forest Wars showers had been on the cold side. Since his team had won, Largo had started using everyone's first name. His guys hadn't reacted to it; they were his boys now, tight as a vise, and even the blue team looked on him with a glow of respect in their eyes. Respect, and ambition. After paintball, every man came home a hero, eager to show off his bruises, and swap stories of bluff and nerve. Jatthew made a bet with himself that the paintball match would become a regular event among the Hagger boys.

"That sounds great, Sam," said Jatthew, "but I have to catch a plane. It's my anniversary tonight."

"My wife would understand," said Largo.

Jorthens shook his head. "Mine never did." He gave a rueful grin.

Largo shrugged. "You've gotta take care of your family, Corben. I understand that." Family, thought Corben. Maybe after her doctorate. He hoped so, and willed his face and body to radiate confidence. Largo was in a new place, a world he'd never known. The boys looked up to him, for now, but would it last? He hoped so. As much as he liked to get a fresh cheque, he loathed going back to same client over and over again. Whenever he did, it meant they hadn't learned to solve their own problems, and that always made him feel he'd done a lousy job. What good is Ben Kenobi if Luke can't pick up the sabre and stride on without him?

The car rocked as it went over a bump, and Jatthew winced. He was glad it was Friday. Largo jabbed a thick finger at him. "Say, you took a lot of knocks today. How do you feel?" Largo was large, and it wasn't from donuts. He filled his shirt with muscle, and his face might have been the model for a sculpture of Hercules. Jatthew was pretty sure that if he'd taken a hit, he wouldn't let it show.

"I feel like the dough right before it goes in the oven," he said. "Do I look that bad?" He checked out his reflection in the darkened window. His black curls were a bit squashed from the helmet, but his face looked just as healthy, and as bony, as ever. "If you need anything more," said Jatthew, "you've-"

"I've got your number, all of that," said Largo. "It's true what they say about you. 'Corben Jatthew gets it done'."

"One last thing," said Jorthens, as Jatthew had coached him.

Largo looked at him. "Uh-huh?"

Jorthens took a packet from his jacket pocket, and tore it open. He took out a green silk tie, and wrapped it around Largo's neck. No bishop could gave done a better job of looking reverent. Sam Largo beamed, and seemed to swell. He looked happier than a boy on Christmas morning. He gleamed liked a brand new king.

In the twisted axons of his brain, Jatthew thought: now it's done.

Chapter 2

Cato Block slammed the door of his black Mercedes, and walked along Republic Avenue to his house in New Rochelle, Westchester, swearing at all the people who'd got in the way, forcing him, once again, to park down the street from his home. As he drew closer, he saw a man with swept back blonde curls, and a flashy white suit, come out of his front door. He paused, and his hand went to the gun inside his jacket, but the guy didn't see him, and he got into a little blue Nissan that was parked right in front of the house. "Fucker!" Cato wanted to shoot the tires off the son of a bitch's car, and then make him drive away. "Teach him to park in front of my house."

The Nissan picked up speed, and soon it had disappeared. Cato scowled, and pressed the picture of the blonde man into the folds of his brain. He would remember him, and if he saw him again, he'd make sure to get acquainted.

Cato went into his house, and heard music playing. It was Wagner, his favourite. If he'd heard it on the radio in his car, he'd have turned the volume up to the maximum, but this time he was still working on a special torture for the guy in the white suit, the guy who hadn't just been knocking on the door; the guy who'd come out of his house. He followed the music into the kitchen, and found his wife, Japonica Block, cutting up onions. She turned to him with a hint of a flinch, and then she put down the knife, and ran to him, and hugged him. She felt good, so he squeezed her, and breathed in her fragrance. Then he pushed her off him, and pushed her back, until she was pressed against the polished steel door of their fridge.

"Cato, honey, I'm so glad you're home." She kissed him. "I'm making a Pompeii pasta, your favourite." She kissed him again. He let her, but he didn't move. She wriggled against him in a way that sent hot thrills through his body. His eyes started to sting. The smell of the onions filled his nose, fighting down Japonica's perfume of cinnamon and sex.

"Who was the guy?"

Japonica shrugged, smiled, and batted her eyes. "What guy, honey? You know you're my number one."

"After number one comes a long, long line of others. Who was the guy, Japonica?"

She laughed again, but this time it was forced. "I don't know who you mean, Cato."

He stepped forwards a shade of an inch, letting his mass rest against her. She coughed, and squirmed, her body trapped between his bulk and the cold, hard door of the fridge. "Who was Mr Slick White Suit, Japonica?"

"I don't know-"

"Don't lie to me."

Her voice was getting smaller as she tried to get more air into her lungs. "Don't know..."

He took a step back, and sat on the edge of the pine table, in the middle of the kitchen. Japonica leaned forwards, gasping. Cato watched her, feeding his eyes on the beauty of her long blonde hair, the exciting bulge of those full breasts under that tight red dress, and her face, a face that would make Narcissus smash his mirror. The image of the man in white floated across his vision. He twisted his face into an ugly mask, unable to enjoy Japonica when he thought of the other man. His hand gripped the pine table, and his nails dug into the wood. He looked away from her, at the chopping board, and the handful of onions and tomatoes that sat beside it on the white work surface. He looked around the big kitchen, at the matching pine cabinets, the spice rack, and the chrome digital radio on top of the fridge.

"Your zip's not done up, Japonica," he said.

"Oh! I must have forgotten."

"I'll help you." He reached for her back.

"It's alright," she said, but he was already holding her, one hand on her firm, warm waist, the other tugging at the zip.

"It seems to be stuck," he said. "I'll just run it up and down a few times."

"You don't have to," she said in that small voice.

"What wouldn't I do for my own wife?" He pulled the zip down, down, all the way down. He parted the dress with his hands, and ran his fingers across her back. "You have wonderful skin, Japonica. It glows."

"Thank you," she said.

He bunched up the red material, and gripped it in each hand. Then, raising his elbows, he yanked the dress outwards, tearing it along the seam of the zip. Japonica quivered, her shoulders hunched up as if she had been dropped into the arctic. Cato kept jerking at the material, tearing it apart, ripping it off her. He left her shaking in her pink bra and panties.

"Red dress. My favourite," he said. "Pompeii pasta, my favourite," he turned her with his hands. She bent over, covering her face. "Wagner," he said. "My favourite."

"Oh God," she said, sobbing. He could see the moisture glisten as it ran through her fingers and down her wrists.

He caught her arm in his thick fingers, and pulled her after him. "Not in the kitchen," he said. "You weren't in the kitchen." He dragged her, stumbling after him, through the cream-coloured corridor into the living room. He looked at the black screen of the home cinema, the black leather sofa, the mahogany coffee table, and the pristine bookshelves. It all looked neat, clean, and untouched. "Not in the living room."

"Please, Cato," she said. "You're hurting me."

"Do you think I don't feel pain?" He crushed her wrist and she moaned. He pulled her out of the living room and went upstairs, drawing her weight after him as if she was stuffed with feathers. He paused on the landing. "The bathroom? Did you have a problem with your plumbing? Did you have need of a real good plumber, Japonica?" The bathroom door was ajar. He hauled her in front of him, and shoved her through the door. She hit the cold hard edge of the basin, and leaned against it, weeping. Cato followed her in, jerking his head from side to side in an exaggerated search. The only man keeping them company was the squat, heavy chunk of a man in the mirror. He saw his own thick lips and blobby nose, and the dark, squinting eyes. His reflection leered at him, mocking him for his failure to overmaster even his own property, his own woman. He wanted to smash the mirror, but he couldn't do that in front of her. No, he couldn't do that when he still had something to get from her.

He went on with his search. The glass door of the shower was shut. He picked up the steel-handled brush from beside the toilet, and smashed in the glass of the shower. Japonica shrieked, and curled up on the other side of the basin. "Did you take a shower and only go and find it wasn't flowing so good? Here," he grabbed the shower head, and turned on the water, "let me help you wash away that dirt." He sprayed her with freezing water, and she curled up into a shivering ball of sodden flesh.

"Feeling better? Feeling cleaner?" He tossed the shower head, still spraying, into the shower. Then he tried to grab her again, but her skin was slick from the water, and she kept jerking away. It was no use, though. He kept trying until he got his fingers around her neck, and then she had no choice but to stand, stand or be strangled.

He walked her out of the bathroom, and her soaking feet left wet prints on the carpet. His black woollen suit was damp in patches from the spray, but he didn't care. He'd burn the suit after this. "Not in the bathroom, then. Where is left? Where is left, Japonica?"

"Oh God, please...No, please..."

"You want to talk to God, do you? Are you looking for the God of judgement or the God of mercy? Are you guilty, Japonica? Do you want to be forgiven?" Her only answer was to scream, and he hit her to shut her up. He hated that noise. "The bedroom, then." He opened the door and went in first, but he kept a tight grip on her arm. He looked at the bed, the bunched up duvet, the damp stain on the white sheet. He sniffed the air. "I can smell it," he said. "You bitch!" Taking her now in both hands he threw her against the bed. "You goddamn whore!"

She sagged against the edge of the bed, sobbing. She wouldn't look at him, so he slapped her. "Tell me his name." He slapped her again. "His name!" She shook her head, folding herself up into a foetal ball. "This is it," he said. He drew the gun from the holster under his jacket, thumbed off the safety, and cocked it. Japonica flinched at the sound, and looked up at him.

He watched her struggle to force words out through the fog of terror that had wrapped her in a paralysing cloud. "You loved me once," she said.

"I always loved you, you fucking whore," he said. "And this is what you gave me for it. A stranger's filthy seed in your cunt. This is how you repay me for all my love?"

"You call this love?"

He slapped her with his left hand. "Tell me his name or tell it to the devil. It's your choice."

"You won't. You can't."

He took her by the throat and made her look into his eyes. "Do you forget so easily? Tell me his name."

Japonica choked in his grip, and her eyes jumped about, but there was no help, no escape for her. Cato narrowed his eyes, and pressed the cold mouth of the gun to her forehead. She tightened up, every muscle in her body tense. Cato saw her body before him, a bleeding corpse. She was one more once-beautiful possession, now broken because of a filthy creeping stranger. It didn't matter to him, now, that she was his wife. Even though she drew breath, and her heart pumped blood, it was all so much rotten meat. The only pleasure she had left to give him was in the wrecking. If Japonica knew what was in his mind, she didn't show it, but whatever reserves of strength she had left were draining away with every breath. She was rigid for a moment more, and then she sobbed once, and slumped back, as if something inside her had died.

"Randall Jatthew," she said. The gun had left a white ring on her forehead, a ring which turned red. "His name is Randall Jatthew."

...

Cato left her locked in the closet under the stairs. There was no way out, and he'd learned it was soundproof on another day, long ago. It was stuffy, but he didn't think she'd suffocate. He walked into the living room, and took off his jacket. He sweated with the slightest exertion, and he hadn't noticed how hot he'd become. He twisted the jacket in his hands, then dropped it. He slid his hands across the books on the shelves. All collector's edition hardbacks, first-printings or specials, in excellent condition, they had cost him more to buy than the home cinema. He took out a copy of Oliver Twist, opened the old pages, and held the book up to his nose, to breathe in the aroma, musk and vanilla, that wafted up from the aged paper. Cato smiled. He changed his grip on the book, taking a firm grasp on the old boards, tensed his arms, and pulled. He felt the strain in his fingers and in his back as the old book fought him, paper and cloth, glue and stitching, against living muscle. He remembered the red dress, how it had fought him for a second. With a crackling, the spine of the book gave way, and he ripped it in two.

He was breathing faster, and sweating again, but this time he felt good, so good. Heat filled his chest, and surged up to make his neck and face flush red. Sweat trickled down his face, and dripped into his gaping, grinning mouth. The excitement was intense. He wanted more. He dropped one half of the ruined book on the floor. With a passion, with a hunger, he tore page after page from the other half, even gnashing and biting at the paper in his orgasmic fury.

When it was done, he dropped into the warm clasp of the leather sofa. He was panting, and his white shirt clung to his body, stained with sweat all over. Lying on the sofa, he felt a wonderful peace. He let his eyelids slide down so the room became a sliver of mottled light. It made him chuckle. He felt easy, like he was lying in bed on a Sunday morning. Then his peace died, went rotten, became a haunting spectre that leered at him and cackled. He couldn't know pleasure, not complete pleasure, as long as there lived another man who had enjoyed his Japonica.

Thumping the sofa in disgust, Cato picked up the phone from the coffee table. He dialled, and his brother answered, "Cato?"

"Brandt," he said. "You have to find me a man. Randall Jatthew."

"Won't take much doing," said Brandt. "He helped me move some bad paper one time. What do ya want him for?"

Cato sat up. "You know him?"

"Well enough to not play cards with him, yeah-"

"Shut up, Brandt. This will make it easier. Get him."

"I'll send some of the boys."

"No, Brandt. You do it."

"Cato, man, that's a bad idea. Ya know how things are right now. I've gotta babysit ya new partners, and I'm not so sure that Sylvester Blair is doing a real good job of keeping us covered."

"Brandt? Brandt? What did I say?"

His brother cleared his throat. Cato could imagine him spitting on the floor, a loathsome habit he'd had since he was a baby. "How much of him do ya...?"

"All of him. Get him now, Brandt."

"It's done."

Chapter 3

"I am not going to be late for my own wedding anniversary," Corben said to the cab driver. A truck roared past them, horn blaring.

"Hey, I told ya," the driver said, leaning his right arm over the back of his seat, and looking over his shoulder. "I coulda taken-"

"Watch the road!"

The driver swerved to avoid a yellow Buick, and dodged in between two Fords, a pink one and a blue one, and he kept his right arm a-dangle all the while.

"I coulda taken ya straight from the airport, but ya gotta pick up dis ting fust? Like I told ya, it's one ting or de other, ya know?"

"Trade-offs?"

"Trade-on, trade-off, I don't mind."

"You don't know how important this is. My wife...this is a special present. It's going to put such a smile on her face." Mimi was studying for her doctorate in history. He'd got her an original copy of Procopius, his secret history. It had not been easy to get, and he'd had to call on a lot of favours, but he had it.

The cab driver looked over his shoulder again. "My advice, pal; you wanna make your wife smile, show up on time."

The car went over a pothole, and juddered. Corben's bruised muscles hurt. Back on the plane, he'd tried to do some of the isometric exercises that kept him in shape, but his body hadn't thanked him. He put on a tight smile. "Thanks."

...

It was a long ride from Logan International Airport to his house in Boston, and Callahan tunnel was blocked, which didn't help. It felt even longer when he knew that every second was one more second he was keeping his wife waiting, one more lost chance to bask in the joy she gave him. He leaned back and checked himself in the rear view mirror; he'd freshened up on the plane, and brushed his teeth, but plane rides always left him feeling a little dirty. He always felt he ought to do more when he was going to see Mimi. When the car pulled up outside his house, he ran up the steps to the green front door, one hand wrapped around the box, the other fumbling in his pocket for keys. As he did, the door opened inward, and Mimi stood there, her arms out in welcome.

Corben hugged her with his spare arm, and kissed her. "I love you," he said. "And you look superb." Mimi's dark eyes sparkled like champagne, and her long hair was like a river of black silk, flowing down her back, in bold contrast to the cream dress she wore. Barefoot, she was shorter than him by a head, and perfect as an elf or an angel.

"Let's go inside," he said, excited by her warmth, and the feel of her flesh. He breathed in her rose-scented perfume, and his mind was flooded with images of their times together.

She pursed her lips, and stood still.

"Present," she said.

"Inside," he said.

"You can't enter the castle without a lady," she said. "And you don't get a lady without a present. I'm thinking of...chocolate."

"I see, okay, a castle game," he said. "So I'm a knight and you're a princess?"

She nodded.

"Uh-huh...well, you had three chances, princess, because this is a magic gift, and you can only lay your hands on it if you can guess what is within."

"Not fair!"

"I cannot betray my geas," he said, trying to sound like Christopher Lee playing someone grave.

Mimi pouted, rocked her head from side to side, and then ran back into the house. Laughing, Corben followed her, letting the door shut behind him. He could hear faint music, Beethoven's fifth symphony, in the background. He slipped off his loafers, and went into the living room, where Mimi had laid a table. He could smell roast lamb, baked potatoes, and apple sauce. She'd lit tall red candles, but the wax had melted down quite a way. Corben felt a twinge of guilt when he saw that. Mimi was on the verge of turning off the lights when he came into the room, and her eyes were drawn to the box.

"On or off?" she said.

"Candles would be proper, but you may need the light."

She left the lights on. "It's not food, then, but it might still be clothes," she watched his face, "no, not clothes. Perhaps a sculpture? That's a big box..."

"Is that a guess?"

"No, I don't think so. My guess is...a painting?"

Corben shook his head. "You're down to one last guess," he said. "But maybe raw terrible hunger is dragging on your mind. Methinks my lady might guess better after she hath taken a morsel of lamb."

"You thinks do you? Well methinks you're a cruel, nasty, evil man, tormenting me with your tests on the day we should celebrate our love. And only giving me three chances..."

He laughed. "Alright my sweet. For you, five wishes. But first," he pulled out a chair for her, and felt his battered chest complain, "eat something."

She frowned, and came over to stroke his back. "Did you hurt yourself? You looked like the chair was giving you a hard time."

"Oh...these chairs have put on weight." He put the box on the table, and gave her a squeeze.

"You did hurt yourself!"

"No, no, an adrenaline junkie named Trivers, and two or three of his pals hurt me, when they shot me with paintballs from six feet."

"No!"

"Okay, maybe it was three feet. If you dig war wounds..." He lifted up his shirt.

"Oh honey..." She touched one livid bruise. He flinched. "I'm sorry!" He took her hand in his, and he rubbed it. She giggled. "Hey, which one of us is playing nurse?"

"Nurse? I thought it was knights and knightesses." He kissed the satin white skin of her wrist.

She laughed. "Knightesses?" He stroked the back of her kneck with one hand as he kissed the inside of her wrist. "Heh heh, Corby...I don't think...knightesses...is a word."

"If you can have...mm, actresses," he said, "I think you can have...knightesses. S'perfectly good to me."

"Honey, the lamb is going to get...lonely."

"You're my...number one. The lamb can play with Mary."

She laughed, and started to undo his shirt. He slipped a hand inside her dress, and unhooked her bra. She kissed his chest, and he stroked her hair. He loved her hair, her long black hair, shimmering in the candlelight. The music rose to a peak of brilliant joy, and Corben felt a song without words rising to answer it in the living heat of his heart.

Bam bam bam!

Corben groaned. "God, is that the door?"

"Yes, my child," said Mimi. "Go thou and answer it while I hook up my bra."

He took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. Someone thumped on the front door again. Frustration put a scowl on his face, and made him wish he'd stolen a paintball gun. That was just the thing this caller needed: a good burst of paint, right in the...

Bam bam bam!

"I'm coming," he shouted. He looked at Mimi, rearranging her dress. She smiled at him, and he winked. She nodded, and waved in the direction of the front of the house, and he got up, buttoning his shirt as he went.

He heard a muffled shout as he neared the door. "Goddamn it Corben, open up!" The voice was familiar...

He lived in a good neighbourhood, and the caller knew his name. "Okay," he said, and opened it. "Oh shit!"

"Hi Corben."

"Randall. God, it's Randall. What are you doing here?"

...

Randall stood on the steps of the house, a tall man with the face of a young Kirk Douglas. The family curls were dyed blonde and swept back with gel, so he appeared to have a modest lion's mane. Under the streetlamps, his suit appeared a yellow-orange, and Corben couldn't make out the blue of his eyes.

"Are you gonna stand there staring at me all night, bro', or are you gonna let me come inside?"

"I'm thinking about it," he said.

Mimi came up behind him, and put an arm around his waist. "Oh, Randall! We haven't seen you since..."

"The wedding," said Corben.

"Yeah, I know," said Randall.

"Come in," said Mimi. She elbowed Corben in the kidneys.

"Ah! Yes, please, do come in, Randall."

Mimi led them into the living room.

"Oh wow, a feast," said Randall. "Do you mind? I'm starvin'." He grabbed a plate, and started to heap it up with roast potatoes, and then he tried to hack a chunk off the lamb.

"Uh...Let me," said Mimi.

"Well thank you, Mimi. Isn't she adorable," said Randall. "You're a lucky man, Corben. If I'da met this little thing before you, I might of swept her off her feet."

"Uh huh?" Corben felt his body tighten up. His bruises sent him a blast of fresh pain, and he grimaced.

"Woah, Corben, you don't look so pleased to see me. Isn't it good to see your brother?"

Mimi shook her head. "Corben got shot today, Randall..."

"No shit?"

"With a paintball gun."

"Ha!" Randall roared with laughter, looking even more like a lion. "I'm amazed anyone could hit slippery ol' Corb." His suit was much better in the light of the living room. He no longer seemed like a visitor; he looked as if he owned the house, and they were his guests. He'd even brought his own smell to invade their home; he smelled of sweat, and one of those sports deodorants for men. Beethoven had circled around from one of his swirling dancing melodies to the thundering warlike sounds that mark the opening of the fifth symphony. Corben felt himself growing angry.

"It's a good idea to have some food," said Mimi. She finished cutting up Randall's meat, and then she laid a plate for Corben.

"Thanks," he said. He told himself he had no good cause to feel angry with his brother. The man had bad timing and a lousy sense of manners, that was all. He must have had a good reason to come pounding on the door after being scarce for three years. No matter how much it seemed otherwise, Corben thought, Randall had not come tonight on a special mission to torment his older brother.

Mimi took a bite of lamb, and wiggled her eyebrows at Corben. He couldn't help but smile. She always knew how to reach him, how to soothe him. He cut a piece for himself, and tried to savour the taste and the texture of the meat. It was good lamb, and Mimi was an excellent cook. Chewing, he studied his brother. Randall had looked uneasy on the street, but that had seemed to disappear once he'd come inside. Now, as he looked again, Corben saw that he was mistaken. The unease had not gone away, it had been submerged in Randall's outgoing act. His brother had always been good at seeming to be everyone's best friend, most of all a girl's best friend, especially a girl who was out of bounds...Corben winced again, and this time it had nothing to do with his bruises. That line of thought would do him no good. Randall's face was one big happy smirk, as if he'd seen the punchline before anyone had told a joke. His body language told a different story. He sat stiff in his chair, and his shoulders were raised a trifle. He might have been a bird, a white crane, vigilant for a predator, ready to leap into the sky.

Corben mulled it for about a minute, and then he decided to get it over with. "You're in trouble, Randall."

Randall wiped his mouth with a napkin, and painted a sloppy smile across his face. "Talk about trouble," he said, turning to Mimi. "This man saved my ass more times than I can count, when we were in school together. Did he ever tell you about the time that Billy Larsen got the goat, and chased me through the canteen with a hockey stick?"

Mimi shook her head. "No, Corben never told me that story." She giggled. "I think I'd remember."

"Randall," said Corben, but Randall waved his hand and carried on.

"Heh, yeah. Well I knew I couldn't take on Billy Larsen, hockey stick or no hockey stick, but I ran to Corben, and d'you know what he did? He socked him good, smack in the choppers."

"Did he?" Mimi looked at Corben with an amused question on her face.

Corben felt his face get warm. "Uh...it wasn't quite..."

"It was quite," said Randall. "It was very, very quite. And it wasn't the first time, neither. So you see, Mimi, that every time I show up at his door, whether it's Thanksgiving or Earth day...huh, what the hell is Earth day? Well, whatever damn day it is, there's Corben, looking at me like I'm fifteen again and gettin' into scrapes, with that big old brother look on his face, and askin' 'what did you do this time?'"

"Is that so?" she said. "Corben, honey, did you really take care of your brother like that?"

Corben felt he was being twisted off-track. Maybe he was being suspicious, but at least part of Randall's story was true. "I tried to, Mimi. I really did try."

"Oh, don't be so modest," said Randall. "You didn't just help me out. You tried to make sure no one would mess with me at all. I remember now, when Billy Larsen forgot what you done to him the first time, you went and broke his jaw."

Mimi drew back a little bit, and her eyes flickered.

"I wouldn't have had to touch him if you'd learned not to piss off all the tough kids." He regretted saying it the moment it was past his lips. It went against all of his professional instincts, to be so critical. He had the sense that Randall was trying to annoy him, and he didn't understand why.

"I think it was just ol' Corb's way of showing affection for his little bro'. Y'know, Mimi, you like very fine in that dress. It goes well with your hair."

"Uh, thanks."

"You kinda remind me of another girl, what was her name...oh, she was so sweet. Hey, Corb, what was her name? You know the one I mean. You always went for the girls with that long black hair. Kinda his obsession, I think, eh, Mims."

Mimi was too smart for Randall to twist her feelings. She just gave Corben a knowing look. Making that connection with her cooled Corben down, and they shared a private smile. Randall didn't seem content to let them be happy, though. He snickered. "You'd better try and keep this one, Corb. She's good at ignoring things."

"Randall-"

Mimi put her hand on his arm. "Honey, I think we should have soup, don't you? How about lending me a hand in the kitchen?"

Randall stood, and put his hand on Corben's arm. "Let me just talk to my brother for a second, Mimsy."

"Corben?"

He paused a moment, then nodded. "Go ahead, sweetie. I'll catch you up." He faced Randall as Mimi left the room. "What was all that about, Randall? Or is it Randy now?"

"What was her name?"

"Who? Oh for God's sake, Randall. Why won't you answer a question? You came here. Do you know what day it is?"

"Okay, which question do you want me to answer?"

"Randall-"

"Forget it," his brother said, shaking his head. "Corben, if I asked for your help, would you promise to give it? If I needed your help, more than when I was a dumb kid, more than anything in the world?"

"Randall, I-"

"No, don't say anything yet. But listen, Corben, I'm in trouble, and I need someone I can count on. Will you promise to help me?"

Corben wished he had some kind of mental x-ray, so he could look inside his brother's mind and see what was making him act in such a weird manner. He'd always been good at getting into scrapes, good at getting a fat lip, but tonight it seemed he was torn apart, pulled in two directions. One the one side he was like his own old ornery self, teasing his big brother and hitting on his girl, and on the other side he wore the look of a hunted man. Why wouldn't he come out and talk about his problem? Was it guilt? Or bravado? Corben felt tired. His eyes were sore, and his back hurt from the cramped seat on the plane. He was hungry, and he'd been looking forward to the night with Mimi. With him being away so much, they had come to treasure their time together, and their anniversary was their most precious occasion, a personal night, a time for private joy. Goddamn Randall, he had no right to come knocking on the door and screwing that up!

Whatever rights he did or didn't have, he was there. He was there, looking at Corben with blue eyes that pleaded for a hearing, and brought back memories of old days when a little boy with a bleeding nose had come to his brother for help.

Corben started to speak, and he wasn't sure what he was going to say, but they never found out. The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts.

Mimi's voice called to them from the kitchen. "I've got both hands full, boys. Could you see to that?"

"I've got it," said Corben.

Randall grabbed his arm. "Don't answer the door."

Corben shrugged his hand off. "We've got time to talk about this problem of yours," he said, as he walked out of the room. "Unless you've got a bomb in your pocket."

Randall followed him. "I'm serious, Corben. Please don't open the door."

"Oh, so when we're about to have guests you learn some manners? Are you afraid your act won't play well with a crowd?" He laughed as he reached the door, and opened it wide. Two men stood on his front steps. One was large, filling out his expensive-looking grey suit. The other wore greasy overalls, like he had just stepped out of an auto repair shop for a quick smoke. He was slight, and shifty. Framed against the orange haze of the streetlamps, both men had dark, indistinct features.

"Hello?"

"Yeah," the muscular one said in a voice like a cement mixer. "We're here about ya-" He caught sight of something over Corben's shoulder, and his hand went under his jacket. It came out holding something dull and black, and Corben had a crazy feeling that he was back in the forest with the Hagger boys. His body acted before his mind had finished putting the thought into words: that man has a gun. He slammed the door shut, and stumbled backwards into Randall.

"He had a gun. He had a real gun," he said. "Did you see that?"

"Uh-"

Bom bom bom!

"Men with guns are hammering on my door. Shit, I've got to call the police. Randall, come here," he grabbed his brother by the shoulder, and pulled him back into the house. "Mimi! I think someone's trying to rob us! Stay in the kitchen. Call the police."

"What?"

He heard a sound like a firework blasting right behind his ear, and a scrap leapt off the wall and brushed his face. "Shit!" He ran into the living room, pulling Randall after him. Mimi was waiting for them.

"What was that?"

"Mimi, call the police," he said. "There are two men out front, and they're shooting holes in our door."

She shook her head. "Nonono, that's not right, that can't-"

He gripped her by the shoulders, and locked eyes with her. "Mimi, we don't have much time. Call the police. I'll check if we can get out the back."

"Corben, don't leave me."

"I'll be one second, Mimi. Randall, you stay here. You watch her!"

He went out of the living room into the back hallway. He was nearing the back door, half-afraid he would run into another guy, and his heart was going like a blacksmith's hammer. He heard a sound, someone coming up behind him. He spun around and ducked into an instinctive crouch, hands up in front of his face.

"Jesus, Corben, it's me."

"Randall! You... I told you to watch Mimi." Why hadn't he listened? Didn't he understand what was at stake?

"Corben, you can't let the cops find me here."

"Oh shit, Randall, I don't have time for your games. Go back and watch her."

They heard a thump, and running. Then a shriek.

Corben shoved Randall aside, and ran back into the living room. Mimi was struggling with the big guy in the grey suit. The little thin man was on his knees and moaning, both hands over his face. Water stained his overalls. An empty pan was lying on the carpet beside him, a wisp of steam rising from within. Corben grabbed the carving knife from the dining table, and went at the man who had his Mimi. As he moved, something wrapped around his leg, and dragged him off-balance. The thin guy had got hold of him, and he was pulling him down. Corben tried to shake him off, but the little thug had a grip like a monkey, and he wouldn't let go. Mimi cried out, and he cursed, and slashed at the thug's arm, but the thick blue denim of his working clothes was too tough for the kitchen knife. "God!" He tried to stick the knife into the man's arm, to cut him away from his leg, frantic to get out of his hold, and help his wife, but the man twisted, and jerked him off-balance, and Corben couldn't help himself, he was falling, falling onto the floor, and as he went down, his head struck the edge of the table. Black stars shone behind his eyes, and the next thing he saw was the gun in the thug's hand, and he dropped the knife and caught the man by the wrist, but he was strong, so strong for such a little guy, and he was snarling and swearing, and his face was one red stripe of scalded flesh, and one eye was swollen, and the other was small and black and filled with hate. Corben gripped the gun hand with both of his hands, but the man got him by the throat with his left, making him cough and choke. He heard a crash, and another, and a sound like a drunken bear was trashing his kitchen. He couldn't risk a look, but he was sure that Mimi and her assailant had got themselves into the kitchen, and he prayed she would be okay, but he was afraid he might never find out, because the man he was fighting was strangling him, was forcing shut his windpipe, was starving his brain of oxygen. He floated on the edge of a dark everlasting abyss, and felt himself begin to fall...

Something rocked him. The body of his enemy was shaking, and now it was falling down, not into a lightless abyss, but onto the soft cream carpet. Corben drew breath, and saw the room harden and become solid again. A hand came down, and he looked up, and saw it was Randall, reaching down to him. He caught the hand, and stood up, and saw that Randall was holding a gun.

"When?" He asked. His voice was a croak.

Randall gestured at the limp figure sprawled across the floor. "His. Sorry I was late."

"Mimi? What about Mimi?" The thrashing sounds had stopped. "Come on, Randall," he said, picking up his knife, and making for the kitchen.

"Wait."

"She's my wife."

The door to the kitchen opened, and Mimi stumbled out, and Corben began a smile, but it died on his face. Mimi walked out of the kitchen with a thick arm wrapped around her neck, and a gun at her left temple. The guy holding her had scratches all across his thick square face, his short black hair was messed up, and his left eye was swelling. He hesitated when he saw his partner on the floor, and the gun in Randall's hand, but all he did was laugh.

"Randall," he said. "This ya new bitch? I tell ya, that Japonica is just a sack full of sex, ya know? I din't think ya had the balls to hit on her, though."

"Talk to me," said Corben. "That's my wife you have there. What do you want?"

"Oh yeah, you're the brother. Tell ya what, I'll do ya a swap. This bitch for that bad little boy ya got waving my pal's gun around. Whaddya say, peaches," he leered at Mimi. "Think ya worth more than a brother?"

Randall didn't give Corben a chance. "Get out. Get out now, or I'll...I'll start blasting!"

"Randall, no."

"Heh, think ya scare me? The price just went up. I get ya brother and I get a free ride from baby tits here."

"Randall, you're making things worse!"

"Fuck it," said Randall. "I go with him and it's my life." He pointed the gun at the unconscious thug, and fired. The blast made Corben feel like he had a bass drum inside his skull.

"Ya kill him?"

"He's got an extra asshole, that's all. Get the fuck outa here, Brandt."

The gunshot had stirred some life back into the sleeping thug. He went from unconscious to screaming in a handful of seconds, and a dark stain seeped across the blue denim of his trousers. Randall kicked him a few times, and he got to his feet, lurching and yowling out of the room.

Randall jerked the gun at Brandt. "Is that enough? What do I have to do to prove I'm not going with you?"

"If ya like baby tits here, ya better get ya brother's head unfucked."

"Randall, please."

"She's not my wife, Corben."

Corben's jaw dropped, and he stared at Randall.

Brandt cackled. "That's a good'un. Yeah, man, I like that line. How's about you, peaches? Aw, ya got no sense of humour. Corben! When ya start to ache for some of those home comforts, ya come and find us. Ya know what we want." He snorted, and spat a glob of phlegm on the cream carpet. Then he walked out of the room, holding Mimi by the neck.

"Wait," said Corben. "Wait! I need to know how to find you."

"Ask your brother. He knows how to find us. Where the fuck did ya get to, Jerry? We're leaving!"

Corben followed them outside, and watched as they forced Mimi into a car. She shot him one last glance, eyes brimming with terror, and then she was locked in, and the car was speeding away. He was unable to take his eyes off it. He watched until it was out of sight, and all the while he felt a pain in chest as if a mad surgeon was cutting at his heart with broken glass.

Chapter 4

"God, what can I do? What can I do?" Corben pounded his fist agsinst the wall as he walked back into the living room. "Police, that's the thing. They have to help us."

"Corben, wait."

"Don't get in my way, Randall."

"You can't call the cops. You can't do it, Corben!"

He picked up the phone, but Randall put his finger on the cradle, blocking the line. "What are you doing? Randall, what the hell are you doing? They took my wife!"

Randall just shook his head. He didn't have a scratch on him. His face, that face a Hollywood exec could bank on, was unmarked. Corben felt a band of pain around his throat; it hurt to breathe. He could imagine what Mimi must be feeling, the terror as she was walked out with a gun to her head, and then to be locked in a car with two murderous thugs, alone, abandoned, helpless. She was trapped in that car right now, on her way to...what? Would they just tie her up and wait for a call? How long would it be before those beasts thought of playing with their unsought gift? Was this the night his wife would be raped? Was this the night she would die, while this shitty excuse for a brother kept him from calling for help?

"Get away," he said.

Randall kept shaking his head.

"Fine." Corben went into the kitchen. He took in the mess at a glance; the floor was scattered with broken plates and splinters of glass, and the phone on the wall was off the hook. He picked it up and started to dial. Randall gave him a shove, and got hold of the phone. With a grunt, he ripped it off the wall. He dropped the wrecked phone on the floor and glared at Corben, his chest heaving.

Corben was breathing fast, and his lips were working, trying to form words that could carry the pain, the rage, and the overwhelming confusion that weighed down his mind and left him something simpler, more primal than the well-mannered, fast-talking consultant he had been that morning. All his other choices seemed to have fled. The only thing left he could picture himself doing was to take this malignant intruder and toss him out of the house. He started towards Randall with murder in his heart, but Randall didn't fight him. He stepped back, retreating into the living room. Corben followed. Randall held up his left palm, the sign to stop. He showed Corben the gun in his right hand, but he kept it pointing down.

"Are you going to shoot me, Randall?" He almost wished he would. He'd never expected his life to collapse. With Mimi gone, he didn't know what was left. He didn't even understand himself. She was alive, though, and that meant he had to go on living. He couldn't give up. His wife meant everything to Corben, and as long as she was alive, he knew he would do whatever it took, whatever it would take, to get her back.

"Whatever it takes," he said, and then, in a calmer voice, "are you going to shoot me?" He noticed a strange smell, a bad smell in the air.

Randall chewed on his lip. He backed away, and sat down on the other side of the table. Then he put the gun down on the table, and left it there. Corben frowned, but he sensed his brother was getting ready to trust him. Too late, but he was going to do it. He righted a fallen chair, and sat opposite Randall.

"So tell me," he said. "Why did my baby brother come to my door, tonight? Why did those guys come after you? No, wait, I know what he said. You picked up the wrong woman. Forget that stuff, and why...this part had better be amazing, Randy, why won't you let me call the police when they are the only people I can think of who might save my Mimi?"

"I been figurin' on this all day, and I guess it comes to this. You ever hear of Cato Block?"

"No." He realised what the lingering smell was that seemed to have infected the air. It was blood, blood and engine grease. There was a dark stain on the carpet. He felt dirty.

"Runs Block inc., an import/export company out of New York. That's what it says in the business pages, but that's less than half the story."

"I don't have time for long stories." He massaged his throat. It hurt more than it had a minute ago. It felt like it might be swelling up.

"Just a second. Block is tied in with the police, customs, all the local authorities. He gets a free hand to ship whatever he wants. Do you understand what I'm talking about?"

"I guess you're going to say drugs."

"Drugs are like the sugar on his big fat smuggler's pie. He moves weapons, he steals industrial prototypes and sends 'em to China so they can sell cheap copies back to us. He deals in people."

"And this is the man you decided to cuckold? I'm surprised they didn't just kill us all."

"If Mimi hadn't burned that guy in the face, I bet they would of. She's a fighter."

"Yeah...wait," Corben felt a flash as his neurons made a new connection. "I'm being stupid. This is a kidnapping. That's not under police jurisdiction, it's a federal offence." He sat up in his chair, forgetting all about his throat.

"So you call the feds."

"Yeah!"

"And who do they call when they want to know more about the local nasties?"

He didn't want to let Randall crush his hopes. "There's still a chance they could help, Randall."

"And there's just as good a chance they'll join forces with the Block brothers and give your life the knock down."

He sagged. "Fuck!" Then he stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get my wife back."

"Dammit, Corb, haven't you heard a sound I've made? Cato Block will kill you. First he'll torture you to get to me, and then he'll kill us both. It's me he wants, remember?"

"It's Mimi he's got," said Corben. "You can stay, or go, or do any damn thing."

"You have to take care of me," said Randall.

Corben grabbed Randall by his expensive white collar and pulled him out of his chair, smouldering rage adding strength to his muscles. "You brought them here, and now they have my wife. Help me, or stay out of my way."

Chapter 5

Mimi grabbed the phone, and she was trying to dial 911 but the numbers all seemed to have shrunk. Then she heard a sound over her shoulder, and she knew someone was in the living room. The police would take an hour, more than enough time for some crazy drug addicts to burn the house to a few clumps of ash, and all her dreams burned with it. She dropped the phone and grabbed the pan off the stove, the pan with her soup stock in it. It was already bubbling; she'd kept it simmering while she waited for Corben to get home. She heard them moving, and she thought, this is my chance, maybe the only chance I'll get.

Someone opened the kitchen door, and all she saw was that it wasn't Corben, and then she hurled the pan at him. It smacked the man in his head, and then it fell to the floor with a thunk. The guy screamed, and fell down, snatching at his ruined face. Then the other guy came at her, and she saw a gun in his hands. Mimi grabbed his arms, and tried to hold him, but he was big as a bodybuilder, and far stronger than she. She held on, and fought him, but he he didn't even try to wrestle with her; he lifted his arms, and her with them, and then he ran her into the kitchen, and threw her against the kitchen cabinets. Mimi hit the cabinet with her back and her head, and she grunted as her skull exploded in pain.

Her attacker was a dim blur after she struck her head, and he must have seen she was woozy. He let go of her, but she wasn't ready to give up. She threw her hands at him, clawing at his face, feeling his skin tear under her nails. He snorted like a beast, locked his hands around her upper arms, and used sheer strength to pick her up and toss her to one side. Mimi fell against the kitchen work surface, scattering plates, forks and knives to smash and chatter on the floor, and then she fell after them, getting the breath knocked out of her. Loose fork and shattered plates raked her back, and gave her countless jabs and scratches.

Lifting herself with one hand, Mimi saw bright red blood on the white tiles of the kitchen floor, and knew that it was hers. The hand hurt as she leaned on it; it rested on a jagged piece of china from a broken plate. She thought she could hear the sea in the distance, and then rasping thunder, but it wasn't thunder, it was the sound of cotton rubbing against her hair, as her attacker wrapped an arm around her neck.

Mimi squeezed her hand around that broken piece of china, ignoring the added pain that it cost her. She had a vague mental picture of digging it into the thug's arm, or face. The pressure on her neck increased, and she gasped, unable to breathe as he hauled her upright. Once on her feet, the pressure slackened, and she sucked air, then it was back again, and something cold and hard was pressing against her temple.

"Goddamn bitchcat from hell, ya are. Try any more shit and I'll fill ya pretty skull with lead."

Mimi didn't have any words for him. When he walked her out of the kitchen, his arm tight around her neck, it took all her effort to keep him from choking her. His bulk jostled her with every step, and that made his thick forearm press on the right side of her throat, a horrible, painful sensation. She'd been acting on instinct, reflex, thinking in pictures instead of words. Now, as she entered the living room in the grip of the thug, the brute invader, she saw Corben standing, looking at her, the dying trace of a smile on his lips, and then the smile died. He had a red mark on his thin neck. She saw Corben's mouth fall open, and his eyes went wide, all his life and energy dying from his face and leaving a death mask, a raw wound, an image of utter despair.

Looking at Corben, Mimi forgot herself, and felt nothing but pity for the man she loved. She wanted to run over and put her arms around him, and whisper comfort until his heart was eased.

The thug had said something, but she didn't hear it. A blast deafened her, making her flinch; she had the fleeting thought that he'd shot her. She noticed Randall for the first time, and the man she'd hit with the soup pan ran screaming from the room. She felt a bud of guilty relief, as she saw he was the one who'd been shot. Moments later the bodybuilding thug walked her out of the room. They were leaving Corben behind! Her relief died. She struggled, but the strength had drained out of her muscles. The thug didn't need to threaten her with his gun, he was able to push her in front of him, and she felt powerless to stop.

She stumbled down the front steps, and then she was in front of a car, and the door was open, and the thug was shoving at her. She got her hands on the edge of the doorframe, but he hit her, hard and low, driving a jolt of pain deep into her back. She lost her grip on the car, and fell forwards. Her hands opened to save her, and the little china shard slipped away and was lost. Then she was in the car, and the door was slammed shut, and they were moving.

"Let me go," she said.

"Shut ya mouth," the big thug said.

The man with the scalded face was breathing in short gasps, and every few seconds he worked up enough breath to shriek. "Brandt, help me, I can't stop the bleeding. Oh, oh, oh God, Brandt, help me!"

"Be quiet, Jerry. I needa think."

"But it hurts so much. Oh, Brandt, oh, please... There's too much blood!"

Mimi tried the door, but it was locked from the front. The big one, Brandt, looked over his shoulder. "Stop that! Sit ya pretty ass down and be quiet."

"Let me go, God damn you. I never did anything to you. Let me go!"

"It's not personal with me," he said. "That Randall screwed and screwed up. I wanted him, but I couldn't get him, so I'm takin' ya. If ya settle back, I'll let ya ride along in the back seat. If ya make trouble, gimme lip, or say a fuckin' word I don't like, I'm pullin' over, pullin' ya out, and stuffin' ya in the fuckin' trunk."

Mimi shrank back against her seat, afraid of the thug. With her scratches across his face, he looked like a monster, and his pal Jerry was screaming like a burning cat. She fell across the back seat, and lay there, grateful even to breathe. Then the guy she'd scalded started to moan again, and the sound made her frightened. She realised she hadn't felt frightened before, when she was fighting; she hadn't felt anything. Now, with the sound of pain in her ears, the simple wordless cry of man broken down to an animal in pain, she started to understand how lucky she was to be breathing, and that thought revealed how much more she could lose. Mimi started to see her situation like a human, and not a fighting beast; she looked into her store of images, and conjured her future. What would they do? She had seen countless news stories on TV, of women abducted, their flesh used to sate all the appetites of the angry hunger of men. She looked up, drawn by the ugly sound of the injured man's screams, and found that she could smell his blood. The blood smell led her back to her own body, and all the pains it could suffer, the indignities, humiliations and tortures they could inflict on her. Not could, no, she grew certain; they would torture her; if not out of malice, then in revenge for the wounds she'd given them.

Mimi began to regret having fought so hard. Perhaps she would have been safer if she'd given them no resistance. Perhaps she had only stored up greater pain. The pain was real. It was too real. She felt cold, she felt sick, and she was shaking, and she couldn't stop it, she couldn't stop them, couldn't send it back, couldn't get out, couldn't get away, and she was alone, and Corben was gone, gone, he was far behind, and she was locked in alone with the beasts.

...

Corben ran upstairs and dug out his cell phone from the cabinet beside his bed. He'd been waiting for a replacement from the company for three weeks; this one had a bad battery. He hit speed dial and called his accountant, Larry Vess. He got an answer on the fifth ring. "Larry, it's Corben."

Larry's asthma must have been bad that week. "Yeah, I can see that, I got caller ID last month. It's supposed to strain out the wackos. What are you doing calling me at night? I was on my way home."

"You're still in the office, Larry, I know that much. I need you to do something for me."

"Don't I work hard enough, you gotta be calling me now? It's late. Call me tomorrow. I can't work now, I gotta get home and put my brats to bed. Don't ever have children, Corben, they'll eat your life away. What do you need?"

"Sell as much as you can, right now. Give me all the cash you can, tonight." Saying that hurt his injured throat, and he knew it would hurt his wallet, but it was the one thing he could think of that could get Mimi back. It was a gamble, but he had to accept the risk. He couldn't see any better choice.

"Jeez, Corben, you just want to cash out like that? What happened? Your wife caught you with the milk maid, and you said 'screw the divorce courts, I'm gonna run to Vanuatu'."

"Larry Larry Larry, shut up and do this for me."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing? Jeez, Corben, you sound bad. God, you sound like I do. Are you sick? I know a good doctor. You can't trust these quacks, like when my wife gave birth to the twins, I said-"

"Larry?"

"Yeah, yeah, Corben, I know, your plane's on the runway. I'm already online. Call you back in fifteen minutes. And don't you even think about reversing the charges."

"Thanks Larry."

"One more thing Corben," Larry said. "You know you're going to take a big hit if you do this."

He felt an absurd impulse to laugh, but it died in his chest, and then hot tears burned in his eyes. He cut the line, and caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror, the mirror at the table where Mimi sat each morning, "putting my face on." Corben's face was drawn. He had dark rings under his eyes, and there was a nasty red mark across his neck, thicker on the right side. Something of his consultant's soul flickered to life as he saw that. It was bad presentation. He stripped off the white cotton shirt he'd been wearing, and put on a light grey polo neck sweatshirt. It would have been too warm by day, but it should be just right for the night.

He went downstairs and found Randall chewing on a cold potato. His own stomach refused to think about food. "You're eating again."

"What was I supposed to do? You look better in that polo neck, Corben. I can't even see the scratch marks."

"Take me to Cato Block."

"Oh nonono, Corben, haven't you learned a thing tonight? If I go near him, Cato will kill me. I like your wife too, but-"

Corben didn't waste any more time on Randall. He turned and headed for the front door, picking his keys off the stand, and slipping on his loafers.

"Wait, Corben." Randall came after him, speaking through a mouthful of potato. "Wait, dammit!"

He opened the door, and stood in it. He half-turned, and locked eyes with Randall. "Last chance, Randall. Go or stay, but if you're not in that car when I drive, you're not my brother any more."

He ran down the steps, and unlocked his car, a dark green four-door Chrysler. He got in the drivers seat, and got the engine cooking. He had begun to drive away when Randall came running, pounding on the side of the car. He slowed to a stop, and Randall got in, panting.

Chapter 6

Cato sat at his computer, checked his investments, and wondered if he should shift his money from Dubai to Abu Dhabi. He'd read some disturbing things in the last issue of Foreign Affairs, about a new agreement between the United States and the rich little emirate. Dubai wanted to keep sucking in wealth, but they didn't like the growing international pressure to make clear the sources of that wealth. It annoyed Cato; they'd get fat off his money, and then throw his dry carcass to the feds. The phone broke Cato's concentration. He picked it up. "Block speaking."

"Yeah, Cato, we swam into a king-size shit pool." Brandt told him what had happened in Boston. "Now fuckin' Jerry's moaning and bleeding all over my car, and I got the bitch in the back, and I'm askin' myself what the fuck, ya know?"

"Jesus. You know momma got raped, don't you? You're not my brother, you're a rape-spawned bastard with the IQ of a dead shrimp."

"I know, Cato, ya tell me every time Jerry screws up."

Cato hated his brother for being so carefree. The idiot might have got his own ass shot off, and he'd still be leaning back and spitting all over the floor. He didn't seem to care that every time he screwed up, it hurt Cato. It was embarrassing to have a brother like that. He was supposed to be good at this shit. About the only thing he was good at, it seemed, was not getting his own self hurt. Every time he did something dumb, it made Cato want to smash him, but, Brandt was tough, solid as a dead cow, and about as quick to learn.

"He's got to die," said Cato.

"What, Jerry?"

"I don't mean Jesus."

Brandt made a sound like a hungry tiger. "I hate cleaning up after..."

"Your choice, shrimpy. Take him to hospital, and hold his hand while he tells the nice Mr Police why he lubed his gun and sat on it, or take him away to better place, like the crematorium."

"And the girl? I told a, I think we can use her."

Brandt's heap of failures; getting his buddy shot, grabbing a stray woman for no purpose, and not bringing back even a hair from Randall Jatthew's womanising balls, it made Cato sick with anger. He clenched the phone in fingers white with tension. He wanted to smash it against the desk. He wished he could reach his hand into the phone, down along the wire, and grab Brandt by the throat. What did his brother's stupid smart ransom plan mean when Cato felt so furious?

It was a good plan.

"Fuckin' complication. Stick her in the furnace with Jerry."

As he put the phone down, Cato saw on his computer screen the animated runner with the cleft stick, sign that he'd just got a new email. He shook his head. He was done with work. He felt that anything he tried right then would fall apart.

...

"Where are we going, Corben?"

Corben ignored him as he took a corner, and picked up his phone. The battery was fritzing again, filling the little display with swirling colours. He banged it against the dash, and swerved to avoid a meandering pickup.

"Woah! Corb, buddy, watch the road."

"Shut up, Randall." He got onto a broad stretch of road, and took his hands off the wheel to steady the phone long enough to dial Larry Vess. Randall yelped, but Corben didn't even look at him. He got a dialling tone, and rested his left hand on the wheel.

"Talk to me, Larry," he said.

"Corben, did you ever try to sell stocks and change diapers at the same time? It's not easy. I've been juggling your request, your weird, vaguely criminal request from my office to my home, and my wife wants me to kill you. I think I'm starting to hate you. No, I know I'm starting to hate you."

"You were made for the circus, Larry. Born to perform."

"Yeah, but I-" Larry broke up in coughing.

"Larry? Give me a number, Larry."

"Sorry, sorry. This is stressful, you know that, Corben? Calls at night, 'Larry, get me cash', 'Larry, throw away my investments', 'Larry, sell my house', next thing I know you'll be asking me to sell a kidney..."

"You've got my...Larry, don't sell my house."

"I was kidding! Jeez, Corben, open the curtains, let in a little moonlight...yeah, I've got a load of your investments ready to swap for cash, but I'm telling you, this is going to be a meltdown. I've kept a few special stocks on the side, real earners; you're going to be happy I did this."

"I told you to sell it all. Close me down, Larry. If that's what it takes...I need all the cash you can get me. I need it now."

There was a pause, filled only by the growing rumble of the Chrysler's engine and Larry Vess's asthmatic wheeze.

"Corben, what you're doing...there are lines I have to follow. I need to talk to some people. Like, you know, official type people."

"Don't you do that, Larry. Don't you talk to anyone. This is my money, and I can do what I want with it. This is liberty, it's constitutional, don't screw with it." Larry shocked him. He didn't want to believe it, but he could see what was coming.

"We both know the constitution doesn't say you can wake up an old man in the middle of the night and tear him away from his children so you can take all your money to Rio."

"I pay you to look after my money, Larry. I pay you well. What more do you want?"

"You can't pay me enough to go to jail. But, well," he coughed, "I like you, Corben, and for an old friend, maybe I could be persuaded to sort of lose track of some of those lines..."

Corben held the phone away from his face. "Goddamn greedy chiseller!" He thumped the dashboard. He drew a long breath, held it, and let it out. "You can have five percent of whatever you get me."

"I like even numbers better." He could hear the smirk.

"You'll learn to like five, or I'll find an audience for the Hatton-Slint takeover, the real story."

This time it was Larry's turn to swear. Swear, and fall into a sullen silence.

"Give me the number, Larry, and get a courier ready to deliver the cash. I'll call you with the address within the next hour."

Larry sniffed. "After all the...unavoidable deductions, you're looking at eighty grand now, and up to two hundred by next Thursday."

...

Corben cut the line, and tossed the phone in Randall's lap. Randall picked it up, and shook his head. "Interstate 90. I know this road, Corben. I don't want to be going to New York."

"You got in the car."

"What do you want me to do with this thing?"

"Get me on the line with Cato Block."

Randall flinched. He shook his head. "Uh uh. I'll help you, Corben. I mean, it's not like I don't feel a bit responsible about Mimi and all, but Cato...you don't know Cato."

Corben took a knife to his brother's words. "...like I don't feel a bit responsible... Feel? A bit? You are responsible, Randall."

"No, no, now Corben that's not fair. I admit those guys did come to your house looking for me, but I had no idea that they'd take Mimi. Now be fair, Corben. How could I know that they'd do that?"

Corben asked himself if this was really his brother, or if he'd been replaced by a king's idiot with a face job. How could anyone be so dim, so deluded, so blind to the emotional wreckage they left all strewed about them? He wanted to shout, to screech in Randall's face, to tell him just what kind of a fool he was, but he couldn't give in to the impulse, because he knew that if he once let that smouldering ember spark back into flaming life, it could only end with him taking Randall by the throat, and letting the car slide off the road and smash into a house. If he let that fire burn, it would kill them both. What made him sick was that part of him wanted it. Part of his animal's soul wanted to lose itself in mindless anger, lose itself and be destroyed, because that anger was the only force in him strong enough to overpower the grief he felt at losing his Mimi.

The thought of Mimi was the one thing keeping him sane, and the only reason for the scorching ember of his lingering rage.

"You'll do it, Randall."

"I won't."

"You will. If you don't now, I'll have to find him another way, and I will. You can bet your teeth on that. But if you make me do it another way, we'll lose time. Mimi will lose time," he took his eyes off the road, and looked at Randall. "How much time do you think she has?"

Randall picked up the phone.

Chapter 7

Cato stood in the middle of his living room. He looked with longing at the row of elegant old books on his shelves. He reached out a hand towards them, and then curled it into a fist. It was an expensive pleasure, and he preferred to put days in between his indulgences. This was a bad day, though, and he felt so frustrated. There was paper all over the floor. He kicked around a few scrunched up pages. Why was there paper all over the floor? Why hadn't Japonica-

His phone rang. "What is it?" he shouted. The phone rang again. He glared at it. "Brandt, I don't want to hear your voice..."

He picked up the phone. "Block speaking."

"Cato Block?" An unfamiliar man, not from New York.

"What do you want?"

"This is Corben Jatthew. You have something that belongs to me. I'm willing to pay for it."

Now he placed the accent; Boston, with a sore throat. He still felt annoyed. "Your brother fucked something that belongs to me. What are you going to do about that?"

"That's not my concern," said Corben. "I'm calling you to arrange payment for my wife."

"Payment."

"I am ready to give you eighty thousand dollars, in cash."

Cato laughed. "Eighty thousand dollars? All that much! Well, Corben, that would be nice if my wife wanted to get some new shoes, but I'll soon be rid of that problem."

"Eighty thousand, plus at least two hundred thousand more inside of the week."

"Uh huh?" The man was selling his whole life, was he?

"On top of that, I have many friends, influential friends in the world of commerce. I have no doubt I can buy you a lot of useful favours..."

Cato grinned. This guy was hooked but good, he was desperate. Maybe he wasn't ready to give up his brother, but he'd do anything else, doubtless he'd do anything else. He was ready to play the mouse, and lay his head in the cat's mouth.

"Corben, is that right? Corben, I'm not a heartless man. I admit my boys can be a bit thuggish at times, but you have to be tough if you want to get along in this world. You agree."

"I suppose."

"Well suppose this. If some guy talked your wife into some undercover action, maybe you'd get a bit emotional, and throw a boy at him with more meat than mind. What I say, you bring your cash, and firm up that two hundred thou, and I'll bring your lady along, and we'll do a nice trade, like proper gentlemen should. How does that play with you?"

"Where do we meet?"

"I'm sure you'd feel better about a nice peopled space, but this isn't something we can do in Central Park. I got digs in New Rochelle, Westchester. Your brother can help you find Fern Park. Go to the cemetary."

"I'll be there in an hour."

"One hour. That would make it, say, eight o'clock."

He put the phone down, and then he let the happy grin out to play. To think, minutes ago he'd been feeling like a stranger in the world, and here it was, dishing out the goodies. He'd learned long ago, the world had an infinite sack of candies, all made for the teeth and tongue of Cato Block. All he had to do was apply himself, and they tipped right into his gaping mouth.

He reached for the phone again, then paused, holding his hand out over it. He played with his smile as he played with the idea of forgetting the Jatthew woman. He didn't need her, and he'd given Brandt his orders already. Perhaps Brandt had killed her. "Alive or dead? Alive or dead? Schrodinger's kidnap victim, so you are." Brandt liked to kill. He didn't make a game of it, the way Cato did. Instead, he enjoyed the adrenal frenzy as he pummeled his victim, or tore at them with his powerful gorilla hands. Maybe Brandt was beating her right now, as Cato thought about it. He could picture it with ease, Brandt throwing his callused, blood-smeared fists, or squeezing her by the throat until her face was as red as a tomato. The sound of screaming filled his ears, of terror, and of agony, and he saw the angry lust on his brother's face, as Brandt reached the limits of his power, and wished his hands were made of steel, bolted on the nose of a rocket. Brandt would enjoy it.

"Brandt has enjoyed himself too much already. He's sloppy tonight. He needs to...to go on another field exercise, to harden him up a bit." Yes, Brandt would be the one to go and meet Corben Jatthew. Brandt, who had failed once already, would have a second chance.

"And I will enjoy the Jatthew woman while he goes back to his work, and gets it done."

Chapter 8

Japonica was blinded by the light, but it felt so good to breathe real air again, to escape from that dusty rathole. Her relief went in a moment, as Cato hauled her up from the floor, and she tightened, every muscle going rigid, her eyes and mouth shut, her shoulders up around her neck, waiting for the slap, or the punch, or the red burning pain of the razor. He put her on her feet, and laughed, a dry, scraping sound. She quivered, certain now that he meant to kill her.

"Open your hands, Japonica."

She did as she was told, asking herself if he would be content with breaking her finger. She felt him press something into her hand, and fold her fingers around it. It felt like a piece of paper, crumpled into the kind of ball that kittens love to bat around.

Japonica opened her eyes, and looked at the paper. It was a page torn out of one of Cato's old books. She was so relieved she thought she might faint right there. She held herself upright, afraid to fall, in case Cato got disappointed in her, and lost his temper again. Her body hurt all over, first from when he'd attacked her in the kitchen, and thrown her about the bathroom. She shuddered when she remembered that; she'd thought she was going to die. That wasn't the worst pain, though. That had come with the hours she'd spent in the cupboard under the stairs. There wasn't room to stand or even to sit upright in that tiny hole, and the air was full of dust. It had proved impossible to get comfortable; on the hard wooden floor, with her head bowed under the slope of the ceiling, every position soon sent almost unbearable pain through her legs, her neck, and her back. She hadn't eaten much that day, but through the hours, she'd felt a growing pressure in her bladder. Determined not to add to her humiliation, she'd endured the discomfort as it grew into agony.

"What are you waiting for?" His eyes searched her, and his nostrils flared as if he could smell some awful stink. She nodded, though it hurt her neck. She knew what the paper meant, and started to walk, with stiff legs, towards the living room.

"Put some clothes on first, Japonica," said Cato. "We're going to have guests." He was being gentle, allowing her to feel a blush of relief, and of hope. Perhaps she would have her chance, perhaps she could still regain the love she'd once enjoyed. She was committed to that hope by ties as strong as a wedding vow. It was all that she had left.

...

Randall shook his head. "You're going to meet him?"

"I am." Corben thought it was crazy, but he had to act, and he couldn't see any choice that wasn't crazy. He didn't want to say that Randall, but he couldn't get the thought out of his mind.

"You know it's a trap."

Corben nodded. He'd met enough slick talkers before, though most of them didn't do business with a 9mm Sig-Sauer.

"And you're still going? You met Brandt. His brother is a lot worse."

He was worried enough, he didn't need his brother adding to the load. "Randall, it's Mimi we're talking about. If someone took your wife, what would you do?"

"What would I do?" Randall laughed. "Shit, Corben, I never had one of my own."

Having fixed his mind on an aim, Corben had enough relief to chuckle. "You're a son of a bitch, Randall."

"Uh huh," Randall nodded. "I guess that makes two of us."

"You..."

"Son of a bitch?" Randall laughed at his own joke. Corben shook his head, but Randall's humour was infectious, and he couldn't help but join in.

...

Japonica Block felt great relief after Cato took her out of his damned rat hole, let her clean herself up, and put on a fresh dress. She let herself think that perhaps he'd exhausted his fury, that she had passed through the dark night and come out into a new day. It was too wonderful a delusion not to dream, and shebusied her mind with scenes of a home life made happy. Cato liked it when she wore tight, revealing dresses, so she put on a low-cut black dress with a slit down the sides, held together with gold clasps. She wiggled in front of a mirror. The dress suggested, it hinted at dark corners and sexual passion, but it didn't fall into the trap of being a mere lewd display case.

She made herself ready, mouthing silent graces as she prepared to stroke Cato's bleeding pride, even as she stroked his demanding body. It had been a mistake, she told herself, but Cato loved her, and he was just being protective, very protective, when he'd locked her up. He was a man of extravagant gestures, but when the sun went down and he faced the cold night, he would remember his little Japonica; he would come to her, and he would forgive.

Japonica told herself these things, and torture would not have made her admit that she lied.

Brandt had come, that fat ugly beast, stinking of sweat and gun oil. She'd often seen him touch her with his eyes, feeling the skin of her neck, her soft blonde hair, and the hidden places of her secret joy. He was afraid of Cato, and hid his interest, but she knew. She saw him, with blood marks on his bulging grey suit, and felt contempt. Then she saw the woman, and her growing complacence was crushed.

She was a little pale thing, with black hair, messed up courtesy of Brandt. She wore a pearl dress, wrinkled and torn, and smeared with blood. Her thin white neck was marked by a band of red skin, as if she'd had an allergic reaction to her new scarf. Her face was fine, all neat features, and she would have been beautiful, but for the fear that twisted her brow and lips.

"What is that?"

"Japonica," said Cato, "be polite to our guest, Mrs. Mimi Jatthew." He bowed to the intruder, smirking at his own irony. Japonica was sure he was happy at the chance to hurt both women.

"Get it out," she said. "Get it out of here!"

"I am so sorry," he said to the Jatthew woman, ignoring Japonica. "She has a rare complaint. We must humour her."

"Let me go," the stranger said.

"But you got here just a second ago. Are you not hungry? Do you not wish to use my bathroom?"

"Please let me go."

"Yes, get out," said Japonica. "Get rid of her, or I'll-"

Cato smacked her in the face. She felt a flare of pain across her left cheek, and she reeled back from him, thumping into the wall. Her eyes filled with tears, and she covered her face with her hands.

"I am not a violent man," said Cato. "But I cannot abide rude behaviour in my own home. Japonica. Japonica?"

She bowed her head, and felt her body tremble.

"Japonica, I will trust you to care for my guest, my Mimi." He took her hand, and he tried to take the strange woman's hand, but she made a fist of it. He clawed at her fist, and she gasped, but she wouldn't hold his hand. Cato caught her by the hair, and yanked her head down. "I told you," he said, "you will be polite."

Mimi sobbed, but she didn't speak, and her hands were still shut in fists. Cato muttered something, and pulled on her hair until he had forced Mimi to bend double. Japonica thought she would be glad to see this new girl suffer at Cato's hands, but she was surprised to find she could feel her pain in her own body. She knew what it was like to be jerked and tugged and pulled at, and she could imagine what Cato would do if the girl didn't yield. At the same time, she enjoyed watching it. The stupid girl didn't know what she had done by antagonising Cato Block. She was going to learn, and the lesson would hurt. Japonica knew the hurt would be a punishment for intruding on her domain, for dirtying up her property with her filthy outsider hands. No one else might know, but she, Japonica, she would know.

And still it hurt to watch.

"Come on Brandt," said Cato. "Let's get her upstairs."

"Ya want the ties?"

"No. Get the cuffs. I don't want to cut off her blood. She's going to need those baby pretty hands."

They had to carry Mimi up the stairs, and she kicked and scratched both men. Japonica followed them, and watched as Cato forced her into the bathroom, and cuffed her to the pipe under the basin. She had to sit on the cold tiles of the bathroom, and Japonica saw blood well up at her ankle when she got cut by some broken glass from the smashed shower. Her feelings confused her. She hated the woman, and anticipated pleasure from watching Cato torment her. As Mimi struggled and bled, and Brandt leered at her with naked hunger, she felt ashamed and frightened, but that did nothing to cool her anger at the strange woman. Instead, her anger grew more intense. The girl had no right to make her feel ashamed! Whatever Mimi was suffering, she had suffered, and a thousand times worse.

She was confused, angry, and scared. Her back and legs ached, and her face stung from Cato's blow. She hurt so much because of him, because of his stupid temper. It wasn't Cato's fault, she told herself; he was made that way. He was a good man, and he loved her, and she knew he would forget her little indiscretion, forget it, and love her again. All she wanted was to see that love in his eyes again; all she needed to change her feelings from pain, to joy's fresh blossom, was his old tender gaze, the intimacy of a lover's eye.

"Look after her, Japonica," he said. His eyes smiled, but it was a mocker's smirk.

"Hey," said Brandt. "We just got her up here. I wanna have a little fun."

Cato shook his head. "You've got a meeting."

"There's time."

"No, Brandt. You gotta be fresh, be sharp, sharp as a sashimi knife. I can't have you wasting your strength on this girl."

Brandt pressed his thick lips together so they turned white. "Look at me! I got Jerry's blood on me. I got scratches on my face from what this bitch done. I was close to gettin' my ass shot off back in fuckin' Boston! I been runnin' all day like a skinny cheetah, 'cos of ya stupid whore wife, and I-"

Cato moved too fast. Japonica couldn't see the punch, but she felt it, deep in her belly. The air blew out of her mouth, she bent double, and couldn't breathe, but it got worse. Cato grabbed her hair, and yanked her head back so she was twisted like a bent paperclip.

"Look at this," Cato said. It was hard to hear him, her mind was so swollen with pain. "I married this whore wife. I never married you. Get out of my fucking house, Brandt. Don't come back without that bastard."

When Brandt went, Cato left her, lying on her side in the bathroom, curled in a ball around the tearing agony in her belly.

...

Long minutes passed before Japonica could move, and every breath triggered an electrical shock in the middle of her chest that sent trails of fire down her belly and up towards her breasts. She tried to lift herself up off the floor, but it hurt so much that she moaned, and dropped back down. That gave her no relief, the impact with the hard floor felt like she was being beaten again. She wanted to scream, but even that was too much; the muscles of her chest had stiffened, and stifled the cry to a squeal and a gasp.

"You need help," the strange woman said. Japonica had forgotten she was there. She didn't take in the words, hearing nothing but the thump of her heartbeat and the scream she wanted to release, echoing in her mind.

"Oh God, I think that guy really hurt you. Can you talk to me, honey? My name's Mimi. Can you hear me? Mimi."

How dare the woman act like her friend? She had stolen into her home in the night. It was her fault that Cato had hit her, her fault that she was lying in an pit of ice and fire. "Don't...talk...bitch."

Mimi was quiet for a long time, and Japonica was left alone with her pain, except she wasn't alone. That woman was watching her, and the weight of her eyes was added to the weight of her pain, to make a burden she couldn't bear. Whatever Cato had done in the past, he had never betrayed his appetites to the world. Japonica could bear the odd slight to her flesh, when she knew that she could walk down Fifth avenue or Park avenue, with unlimited credit, and the shop girls would scurry to obey her, because she was Mrs Block. She would always be Mrs Block to them, and if a shop girl or a waitress showed her disrespect, she would see her fired, broken down to street crawler in a second. Cato enjoyed doing that for her. Sometimes, she thought, he took her out just for that.

"You have to see a doctor," said Mimi. "He hit you so hard. God, how long has he been doing that?" She shifted around, trying to sit so her arms weren't twisted across her body by the cuffs, but Japonica saw she couldn't do it without facing the basin and craning her neck at an awkward angle. "Shit! Oh God, why am I here?" Mimi jerked at the cuffs, looking for a way to get them off the shiny steel pipe, but there was none. Then she managed to get her shoulder under the basin, and heaved upwards with her legs folded under her. Japonica saw red weals on her wrists where the cuffs were digging into her flesh. At first, she didn't understand , and when she did, she was shocked. Mimi was trying to escape.

Mimi sobbed, and sagged back down, taking fast, harsh breaths. Her face was red, and Japonica saw beads of sweat on her forehead, despite the cool air in the bathroom. Mimi worked her left arm behind the pipe, and twisted around so she could sit facing Japonica, her arms hugging the pipe. "I can't do it. You have to help me."

The woman was giving her orders? She had to be taken down. "Cato put you there," she said. It was getting easier to breathe. "Cato will decide when he lets you go." That wasn't enough. She wanted to do more. "If he lets you go."

Mimi's mouth dropped open, and little lines of pain grew around her eyes. "No! I'm not going to stay here. I need to get to the police." She jerked on the pipe again, and winced.

"You'll stay here until you die," Japonica felt like she did in the cafes and shops now, powerful, a living demand. She wanted to prolong the feeling. "He's done it before. I've seen it." It still wasn't enough to satisfy her. She had a deep well of pain in her body, and she needed to draw it out, draw it out and drown this intruder in it. "You'll beg him to kill you, you bitch."

"No, no... When he's finished with me, what is he going to do to you? You've got to get to a hospital, you've got to! He hit you so hard, maybe you're bleeding inside. Maybe he tore something in there, something you need. Dammit, don't you feel it? Don't you feel it in there? It's not the first time, is it? How often does he beat you? How many scars are you hiding, Japonica?"

Japonica sucked air through gritted teeth, and slapped Mimi's face. "I'm Mrs Block, you goddamn bitch. You never use my name. You never use it. Don't you get your dirt on my name with your filthy whore's mouth!"

Mimi's mouth hung open, and her eyes were wide with shock. The slap had left a white patch on her left cheek, that burned red in moments. That wasn't good enough, either. Japonica's right hand stung from the blow, so she hit her with the left. Mimi cried out. Japonica stood up, went over to the shower, and turned on the water. She ran it until it was hot, scalding hot. Then she lifted the shower head, and looked down at Mimi, who hugged the basin, and tried to hide her face beneath it. Japonica sprayed a little water on the floor near Mimi's bare feet. Mimi curled them in, trying to make herself tiny. Japonica sprayed water on the wall, so hot streams ran down and soaked Mimi's back. She moaned.

"What's my name?" She pointed the water back at the shower. "Say my name."

"Japonic-"

"No!"

She sprayed Mimi's legs. Mimi shrieked, twisting her body and straining to escape. Japonica pointed the shower head back at the shower. "Tell me my name."

"Bitch queen! Bitch queen from-"

"No!"

She cut her off with another jet of water. This time it caught Mimi in the face, and she couldn't scream, but the choking gurgle she made as she thrashed her head from side to side was worse than any scream.

"My name!"

Mimi coughed and spluttered. Her eyes were shut tight, and the skin of her face was livid.

"Speak. Speak or I'll burn your skin off." Japonica felt giddy. She had passed through her anger into a kind of ecstasy. She'd forgotten the pains in her legs and back, the clenched fist in her chest. She'd forgotten everything except the pathetic woman at her feet, and the rush of steaming power in her hands.

"Mrs..." Mimi coughed again, and spat.

"What? I couldn't hear you."

"Mrs Block."

"Speak a little louder."

"Mrs Block!"

It still wasn't enough. Japonica felt her excitement evaporate like the steam. She looked at what she'd done. Mimi was a soaking cat, fished out of the river by her tail. She was huddled on the floor, her skin red from her forehead to her toes, and her eyelids were locked down. Steam rose from her body, like mist from a lake on a cold morning, and in minutes she began to shiver. Her body scalded from head to foot, and yet she shivered, as steam carried her body's warmth away.

And then she wasn't Mimi, but a different woman, hair not black but blonde, and the eyes under those red lids were not brown, they were blue. Beaten, soaked, caged in jagged bars of fear, Japonica saw herself huddled on the bathroom floor. Her heart trembled in her chest, and tears started in her eyes, and she blinked to clear them. She saw the dark-haired woman in the wet white dress, but the feeling was changed. She couldn't hurt her any more. She couldn't hate her. She knew now what she hated, and it wasn't Mimi.

Ashamed now of what she'd done, Japonica turned off the water, and then, almost afraid, she touched Mimi's bedraggled hair. Mimi flinched, and her shivering got worse, and grew until she was shaking, and perhaps she was crying, but her red eyes were jammed shut, so tight no tears could escape. Japonica bit her lip so hard she could taste the blood, then she stood up and ran out of the room, afraid to be seen, afraid to let the tears flow in front of her victim, afraid to be so embarrassed.

She ran into the bedroom, shut the door, wishing that Cato had let her have a key to lock it, and threw herself onto the bed. And she wept. Once the tears started, they wouldn't stop. She wept for the pain and the fear and the guilt, for the woman she'd tortured, for her dreams that were dying, for the love she was so desperate to get back, the love that would save her, would bring her back to life, and transform this house of lies and torment into a home, into a home, into a home.

...

Randall was tense, and getting worse. He'd tried so hard to reach Corben, to make him understand what danger he was walking into, and the fool seemed oblivious. He'd been running all afternoon, looking for safety, once he'd heard that the Block boys were gunning for him. He'd run to Joe Hackle, and Fred Hurst, guys he'd known for a decade, guys he'd thought were stainless steel pals, and found them all rusty, and tearing away from him. Sure, he knew the street was a bad place when you were alone, he'd seen it once or twice, like when old Corny who worked the funfairs conned a fella who was tied in with the five families, and whaddya know but he wound up on the ferris wheel with all his arms and legs missing. Somehow, in spite of the bad things he'd seen, and the worse tales he'd heard, he'd never imagined he could be the running man. It was worse, now, 'cos not only had the Block brothers found him before day one was up, but he'd gone and shot one of their boys. He'd never done that before, but it had seemed a lot better than letting Brandt Block get the idea he was safe, chasing after Randall.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Randall had always had the idea that no mind what shit he shuffled, he would come out well, even ahead; he'd be okay because someone would take care of him. It wasn't hard to figure why; he'd had years to get to know himself. If you'd told him at age eleven that if he kissed Cathy, her boyfriend Monty would cry, and pound him until he cried too, he would've said, "oh shucks, wait'll big bro' hears about that." Big bro' did hear about it, and he did take care of little bro', and that was that.

Until it wasn't. Comes the day when big bro' can't take care of you anymore, 'cos he's in intensive care, and they're still pumping water outa his lungs, and little bro' learns he's gonna die one day, 'cos look what they did to Corben. Look what they did, "because of me."

The pattern was still there, at the base of his skull, the primal template for his later behaviour, and what made it worse was he knew it was there. "Wait'll big bro' hears about that." After the water, after that cold day at the lake, wailing and praying for him not to die, he'd sworn he'd keep out of trouble, and what can you hate more than a guy in confession with his fingers crossed? So he made it worse. He still kissed the girls, but he dropped the nice ones, the good ones, the unattached ones, dropped them like dead hair. They mighta dropped off the planet; to him, they did drop off the planet. He went for the bad girls with the badder boys, and dared them to come.

"Wait'll big bro' hears about this." He had to laugh, or he would've jumped out of the car. Big brother Corben had heard about it, and he couldn't do a thing, not a thing, except drive them both back to the beast, every mile bringing them closer to broken bones and death. Randall wanted to run, and the damned thing was that he had already run, and this was where it had got him.

"Corben," he said. "I don't wanna do this."

"Don't say that. I've sworn at you enough already."

"Wait, lemme finish. I don't wanna do this, but," he took a deep breath, though his chest was tight. "It's my fault."

Corben didn't bother to reply. He didn't even look over at him.

"Dammit Corben, I'm trying to...I want to apologise."

"I don't need you to air out your soul, Randall. I've got enough to think about."

He wouldn't make it easy, damn him! Randall was getting angry now, but anger was good. Anger was better than fear, better than desperation. He just had to twist it right around, so it was coming back at him. He had to use it, to push away the fear.

"Yeah, that's right, you've got enough on your oversize brain, I know that, I did that. And...God damn...I'm here. I'm on your side."

"Check out the added value."

Randall winced. "Please, Corben. Please..."

Corben shook his head.

"I just want...I mean, what...what will it take? I'm here with you. What more do I have to do? What more do you need from me? Listen to me, just listen...whatever you say," he shook his head, "I'll do it. I'll do it."

Corben said nothing. He kept his eyes on the road.

"Please, Corben. I'm scared, and I'm hurting, and if you leave me out here in the night, I know I'm going to die. All it'll take is just one word, one word, or even a look, to show me that you still...that you still believe there's hope for me."

"Randall..."

"Yes?"

Corben ground his teeth together, grating, ugly sound. "Randall, you've hated me since we were in school together. The number of times you got me into fights with some asshole...you stole my girl...you damn near got me drowned! I'm not doing this for you. I'm going to New York to get my wife back. You can help me until it's finished, but when this thing is over, Randall..." Corben leaned forward and tightened his grip on the wheel, as if he needed to use his whole body to force the words out. "I never want to hear your name again."

Those words jabbed him like a needle in his ear. They got inside him, they sounded over and over again, and he tried to shut them out, but they came back, and came back, and hurt more every time he heard them. As they played over and over again, he learned there was something worse than running into danger. Being hated by your own brother is worse. He knew he had to do something. He didn't know what it was, but he knew he had to find out, and fast. He was afraid that he didn't have much time.

Chapter 9

Corben parked the car down the road from the cemetary, and had another look at the tiny digital map he'd downloaded onto his cell phone. It wasn't easy to match the little glowing picture to the dark street, the broken street lights, and the fence with the blue metal spikes. He rubbed the sore patch on his neck, grunted, and checked the pistol. It was cold and heavy, a nine-millimetre Sig-Sauer, with ten rounds in the chamber, and one in the pipe. He could still smell the cordite, and it left a whiff of oil on his hands. He wondered where the bullets had wound up after smashing through his front door. Holding the gun reminded him of the morning, and he half-wished he was still in that forest in Detroit, playing cowboys and ninjas.

Two years before, he'd been contracted by a private security firm, Smerkin Secure, to work on their data storage problems. In thanks for his work, the boss of the firm, Johan Smerkin, had taken him out to his Texas ranch, and given him a week of combat training with small arms. He hadn't wanted to go, but Mimi had told him he should put it down as networking. Once he'd got there, he'd had a lot of fun. That was a lightyear from this. There'd been no time to focus in on it, but he'd seen Randall shoot that guy, and it had looked ugly. There was a bloodstain on his living room carpet. Was he going to leave more bloodstains on the graves at Fern Park?

Would he be the one to bleed?

"There's no time for this," he said. "You, Randall, come with me, but stay out of sight."

"What?"

"Hide; crouch behind a headstone or something."

"Don't you want me to..."

"To what? We've got one gun, and no backup. No one's going to come and help us if we get in trouble. Stay close, but hide."

"Well...what good is that? Maybe I should stay with the car."

"No."

"Why not? I don't like the idea of getting too close, if you're planning to use that thing. Won't it be better if I stay here, and keep the engine running? That way we can bug out if there's trouble."

Corben got annoyed. "There will be trouble. Of course there'll be trouble, which is why I want you close. If you're close, I can protect you. But more important than that, if I get hurt, I'm going to need your help. You can't stay in the car."

Corben got out of the car, ending the discussion. Minutes later he was walking along the path in Fern Park. It was warm in the park, and no breeze blew. The air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and pine resin, and the cloying aroma of countless summer flowers. Old-fashioned iron lamps lit the deserted path. Corben was surprised to see there were no joggers, or night-time dog walkers, but the park was isolated. It seemed to be a fragment of an old world, set into the trees and fields of an older world. It could have been cut out of England a hundred years ago, or from China, a thousand years ago, and the only odd feature would have been those bright electric lights.

He neared the cemetary, and his gut clenched up. Randall should be safe, he thought, following a fair distance behind. Corben would be the one to try his hand in the waters; the one to catch a bullet if this was a plain ambush. He found his feet had slowed down even as he walked. He wanted to pick up the pace, but his legs didn't agree. They preferred to dawdle. Clearing his throat, he tensed his muscles, and then relaxed, and then he made himself get to walking at a good pace. The next light blurred; his eyes were moist. His eyes were moist, but his mouth was dry. He stopped to wiped his eyes clear, and saw his body had tricked him again.

"God damn!" He ground his teeth so hard he could hear it, and marched to the gates of the cemetary. They were old, and the black paint was bubbled and peeling, and they were topped with a row of jagged spikes. Corben thought they looked like broken teeth. He held the gun up, checked the safety catch was off, and caught his hand trembling. "No," he said. "Not tonight. Not this night." He raised the gun, and braced it with both hands. Then, barrel in line with his eyes, he walked through the cemetary gates.

It looked deserted.

"Put that fuckin' rod away or I'll take it off ya."

Corben looked right, and saw nothing but a row of headstones shrouded in darkness. Then a shadow slid away from a grave close by the fence, and took on the shape of a champion wrestler. He knew the voice, the same mix of New York and gravel, that had thrown murderous jokes at Randall as Mimi fought to breathe. His hands tightened on the gun.

"Put it away!"

He took aim right at the middle of the blocky shadow. "Show me my wife."

"Where's ya dumb little brother?" If Brandt was shaken by having the gun aimed at him, he didn't sound it. "Where's this wad of cash ya supposed to fork over? Where's ya fuckin' sense, Corben Jatthew?"

"You don't get to see the money until my wife is safe."

"Ho ho ho. Ya green as a salad. I'm gonna call my brother, and have him cut out ya wife's left eye, and send me a fuckin' photo message. That do for a proof of not-quite-dead?"

"No! God damn you, don't you touch her!"

Brandt sniggered. "It's too late for that."

Images came into Corben's mind, superimposed upon the indistinct darkness of the cemetary; Mimi's face, locked in an endless scream, and the blood-smeared hands of a monster, an age-old devil wrapped in stolen skin, hiding among men to prey upon them in the darkness of a night that lasted for a thousand years. He thought he could smell the choking stink of rotten meat. He knew he could smell blood.

"Take the money," he said. "Take the money, and give me back my wife."

He couldn't see Brandt's face, but he could see the movement as he shook his head. "My brother would quote some shit; is a man merely money? Fuck it, I say. Meat for meat. A body for a body. Give us ya brother, and I don't care how; ya can stick a fork in his spine if it feels good. I would."

"I can't," he felt like crying, "I can't give you my brother."

"Then your wife is forfeit."

"No...there must be something else you want. I know a lot of people. I told Cato about that. I know a lot of people, rich, powerful, connected..."

"And they'd be here in a big crowd, with feds and machineguns, and fuckin' UAVs coverin' this shit. All the people in the phonebook don't change nothin'. Meat for meat. I'll do this for ya, Corben Jatthew. Ya can have four hours, and then if ya ain't come by the house, whichever one ya got, ya keep."

"Midnight..."

"I'll be takin' that money, too."

"But you said-"

"It's this way, when ya don't got no cash, and the rest has gone to shit and rags, ya gonna have to choose: who is it easier to give up?"

"You son of a bitch! I could shoot you now."

Brandt laughed. "Then ya'd buy a nice problem, wouldn't ya. I'm the only Block who likes you. Wait'll ya meet Cato. Now gimme the cash!"

Corben had been throwing his mind against the problem all through the conversation, and no matter how hard he tried, he didn't see what more he could do to make Brandt listen. In the corner of his brain, from the moment that he'd called Larry Vess, he'd heard a whisper telling him the plan was bad, that the Blocks didn't want his money. He'd refused to hear it, but now he had to confront it face-on. He had no choice.

He could not buy his wife back with money.

"Midnight."

"Yeah. The money?"

He told Brandt about the courier. Minutes later, the delivery had been made, and then Brandt left him in the cemetary. He found Randall in the car. He didn't scold him for disobeying; he was relieved his brother hadn't heard the conversation, because now, seeing Randall again, he found himself repeating Brandt's question in his mind: who is easier to give up?

...

Mimi sat on her heels, hunched over, knees pulled in to her chin, trying to save as much of her body's warmth as she could. Still, she felt cold, cold as a piece of meat in a fridge. Her skin wasn't so red anymore, but it hurt, it hurt all over. It had felt like fire, like being cooked in fire. Then, as she'd got colder and colder, she'd begun to feel like she was taking an ice bath. Now she was adjusting, and, though still cold, instead of freezing, she felt sore. She'd been so scared before, when that crazy bitch had tortured her. She'd been afraid she'd die right then, chain up in some asshole's bathroom. She'd believed the woman would scald her until her skin peeled off, until her heart burst, or she died of agony.

Now she thought they weren't going to kill her out of hand. It was a kind of relief, small, but the best she could conjure. She'd seen Cato Block beat his wife, and argue with his brother, and when she'd tried to help the woman, she'd exploded into a mad rage. She was beginning to think they were all crazy, in that house. They were everything that was wrong with people, all squeezed together in one house, like a red boil filled with seething, stinking pus.

It felt awful, to be plunged into that mess of rot, and to wait, and to know that the best thing she could hope for right then, was to keep on swimming in that rotten, pus-filled boil. The other choice was to drown in it.

Every family was mad, inside the walls of their house; she'd always believed it. Her parents had been crazy, she'd known that before she knew how to speak. They hadn't been evil, they just could never agree, and the discussion would turn into a debate, and the debate would turn into a shouting match, with little Mims standing in a corner, face red, eyes shut, fighting off the tears. It had put her off having kids of her own. She'd discovered stories when she was a little girl, real stories, and escaped into history. She'd spent her life hiding in books, trying to forget her parents and her mad home. Now it seemed as if she was doomed to madness; she'd escaped the tiny prison of her childhood, and now a stranger force had come for her, and dragged her into another insane world.

She'd sworn she'd never have kids, and she hadn't believed she'd ever find anyone who'd love her and give her the acceptance, the joy, and the peace that she'd always wanted. Corben had shocked her when he'd come to work at the university, a brief stint consulting for the administrative types. He'd picked her out from the first day, and climbed over every wall she'd put up, until she'd given up on walls, and decided to find out what kind of madman he was. Turned out that he'd seen through the study, and the doctorate, seen it for what it was, her way of putting flesh on a fantasy. He'd courted her like Caesar courted Cleopatra, but he'd also tried to bring her into the living world. "We're not just the children of history," he'd said on one of their dates. "We're the fathers and mothers of history." She'd laughed, and said it was dumb, but it had stayed with her. It had meant something to her, and when she'd tried to work out why, she'd realised; he meant something.

She'd found that real people could have real hearts, and real love, too. Once she'd found that, she'd sworn never to let him go. He'd wanted to have kids right after they got married, but she was determined to wait until after she got her doctorate. "I have to finish myself, before I can raise someone else," she'd said. Now she wished she'd thought a different way.

She began to weep again, for the children she would never have.

Chapter 10

"There has to be another way," said Randall.

"I want to believe that, but I don't." Corben thumped the steering wheel.

"There must be! Look, maybe if we disappear for a while, fall down a bunny hole, ride a hurricane to the lost world of never never, maybe-"

"Leave Mimi in the hands of these, these...oh God, I can't think of a word that can tell you what I think of them. Stinking, slimy, rotting mounds of washed-up worm-ridden octopus corpse! I wish I'd never heard the name Cato Block, never set eyes on Brandt Block. I wish I was still at home with Mimi! I wish you'd never-"

"Never got born?"

"Yeah, that's right!"

"So maybe it would be best if you shot me now, and tossed my body to those pigs."

"Yeah," said Corben. "Maybe it would be the best thing I could do. Maybe it would be the best thing I've ever done." He was used to thinking in terms of trade-offs. It wasn't second nature, it was his nature, and he could see the chart in front of him now, Randall's life on the across bar, Mimi's on the up bar. What he took from one he gave to another. As Randall's life dropped to nothing, Mimi's rose to the peaks.

"Maybe you shoulda left me alone in high school too? Then you could of lived out your whole life in peace, no bother running after little Randall, no bashing up your knuckles when I pissed off Billy Larsen. Then maybe what's 'er face woulda stuck with you, and you woulda married her, and you'd never of been afraid to go swimming."

Corben shut up and listened, his chest heaving.

"Your whole life would of been grand, 'cos little tiddler Randall woulda never been a burden if you'd just let him fucking die in high school."

He saw the picture Randall was painting, and imagined himself back then, a school kid who hated his brother for making him fight so often, for taking his girl away when he should have been grateful, who made him wade into the cold cold water of that old lake, and lie down in it, the water soaking his clothes, and chilling his skin, holding himself under until he was gasping mouthfuls of water, and the world was a distant shadow.

"You son of a bitch," he said. The pain of speaking had nothing to do with the hurt of his neck. "I died for you once. Now you're making me give up my wife? I won't do it. Wasn't it enough? Do you have to take everything I love?"

"Don't you love me, Corben?"

"You took yourself away, you fool. When they dragged me out of that lake, I was gone, and when they brought me back, what did you do? What did you do, Randall?"

"I..."

"You took my girl. You took my girl then, and now you're doing it again. What's wrong with you?"

Randall looked from side to side, as if he might find an escape if he only looked hard enough.

"I said what's wrong with you?"

Randall was trembling now. "Damn you, Corben, don't you remember? Who was it ran and got help? It was my fault those kids made you get into the water, but who was it saw you got out?"

"Maybe you shoulda left me."

Randall went steady. He touched Corben's face. "You still got that gun, brother. If you want to run away, some place all this can't hurt you any more... You know where we can go."

He hadn't wanted to think about that, but now it rose up before his mind's eye, and he knew it had always been there. It had been there all through his talk with Brandt. It had been there from the moment he'd seen Mimi in that ugly thug's grip. A bright flash, and then darkness. An explosion of pain, and then peace. Perhaps he would see Mimi, then. Then, or soon after.

He was surrounded by an infinite night. The darkness asked a question of his soul, and his soul answered.

"No."

Randall eyed him.

"No," he said. "Maybe it'll take us in the end. There are some things you can't outrun, but you don't have to stop. You don't have to. I'm not going to let go of you, Randall, even though I get angry just looking at you. I won't let go of Mimi, either. I don't know how I'm gonna do it, but I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna get her back. If I have to tear up New York with my hands, I'm gonna get her back."

Chapter 11

"You idiot, Brandt! I handed them to you. I set them up so you could smash them, and bring me the pieces." Cato was furious. He paced back and forth in his living room, as his brother lounged on the soft black sofa. Pieces of crumpled paper got in his way, and he kicked at them, but it did nothing to relieve him.

Brandt slapped the half-opened Zippy Express package on his right. "I did bring ya the money."

"What do I care for that?" Cato laughed. "My business is worth millions, Brandt, and that's only the part I let the revenue chumps drool over. What am I supposed to do with a pissant eighty grand?"

"I don't know! You could buy Japonica a vacuum cleaner strong enough to suck up huge clumps of paper, perhaps. Jeez, Cato, ya locked that girl up for a coupla hours, and ya turned this place into hell's reading room."

Cato stopped pacing, and scowled at Brandt. "What's that mean?"

Brandt twisted, and his face folded up as if the sofa had grown spikes. "Uh, well, ya got all these nice books, what I mean, and ya go and...uh..."

"What's the name of that bitch you used to see in Brooklyn? The young, pretty one. Wanted to be a dancer."

"Ohh...there was a couple of dancers in Brooklyn," his eyes dropped.

"Had all that hair. Used to sing when you got a beer down her. She was real pretty, too." Brandt shook his head, but Cato pushed him. "You wouldn't forget a face like that. I never did, and I only saw it once. Funny thing is, I met her twice."

Brandt leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and studied his hands. Cato couldn't see his face, but he could picture it, and it made him grin. Brandt had made him so angry with his failure on the job, but that was mild compared with the fires he'd lit when he'd criticised Cato's acts in his own house, with his own things. What was it to Brandt, or to anyone, how he chose to enjoy what he owned? Brandt was no different. His tastes didn't run to old books, but then he'd never had Cato's refinement.

"She wasn't the first one, I know that. Wasn't the last, neither. What she was, was memorable. I saw that face once, and it stuck in my head, never faded out like so much stuff does. I saw what she was when you found her, and I saw what she was when you left her."

Brandt grunted.

"So what I want you to tell me, splendid brother, is what she went and did that asked you to smash her face like it was a bad piece of china?"

Cato felt an exquisite pleasure. He watched Brandt, who sat still and made no sound, besides the natural rasp of his breath. Brandt was solid, strong, and vigilant for any slight, ready to hit back with crushing force. All that strength, and all turned inward, all turned to holding itself back, because if it dared for a moment to try Cato, he would break Brandt in pieces. They both knew that; they'd learned it in the crib.

He felt something special in that moment. It was easy to tear apart a common man, but Brandt was not a common man. Like the old books, he was rare. His ferocious strength was rare. Cato delighted to break that strength, in the same way that he delighted to break those books. Breaking a book, though, cost money. Picking on Brandt, hurting him, putting him in torment and holding him there, that too had a price. Sometimes he wanted to keep the pressure on Brandt, keep it on him until he couldn't take any more, until he broke down or blew up. His grin widened, and his breath became a gasp. He wanted to do it. He wanted to see Brandt crack.

Cato closed his eyes and mouth, and breathed through his nose, the long breath in, the longer breath out. It was enough to calm him a little, and he noticed in that calm patch how his anger had changed into something better. Still, parts of him ached with the desire to break his brother, and he held them down with an effort, and with the promise he had made long ago, the only kind of promise he ever kept, that of Cato to Cato. He promised himself that one day, soon, when Brandt was no longer useful, he would indulge that lust.

"Brandt," he said, taking his brother by the arms, and drawing him up from the sofa. "My brother, my own brother..." He hugged him. "I love you."

...

Cato left Brandt alone in the living room. Brandt slouched on the sofa, his face a careful blank. He heard his brother's heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then he heard the muffled sound of a woman's voice. He waited until he heard the music. "Wagner," he said, and felt a strong urge to spit. His body was still tense, keyed up for a fight, and suffering from the strain, his strain, as he'd fought himself. It wasn't that he was afraid, he told himself, no, he wasn't afraid. He needed Cato. He relied on Cato. If it hadn't been for Cato, he knew he'd have had to rely on his meat for money. Boxing, maybe, or wrestling. They had that ultimate fighting now. He watched it at night, and often thought it would have been a good game to be in. How much money did they make? Did the girls run after them?

The music was rising louder, and with every whine of the violins, every screech of the trumpets, he heard Cato's voice. Cato, Cato, Cato, the beast had driven him since he was a child. He had been a monster in the playpen, and grew up a monster still. There was that time in school, when he'd been reading all those books...Brandt remembered it, that time, when Cato had discovered the appetites of his brain. He'd read history, from Herodotus to Toynbee, and declared Thucydides their master. He'd read philosophy, from Plato to Whitehead, and called himself a Protagoran. His teachers had been astounded by his hunger, and by his searching questions. They were pumped full of the cant of progress, but when he'd asked them to what they were progressing, they couldn't tell him.

Cato had pressed his teachers with the same vehemence he showed his opponents in the wrestling ring, and, when they had failed to show him any good thing that had brought no evil, he gave them up in disgust. He'd quoted Max Stirner, "all things are nothing to me," heaped up his growing collection of books in the school playground, soaked it in gas, and burned it. The fire was a signal for a riot that wrecked the school library, the canteen, and left one girl dead after a fall from a third-storey classroom. No one ever found out who'd pushed her.

From then on, both brothers had been taught by private tutors. Brandt had skipped out on most lessons, but Cato had eaten it up, devouring economics, business studies, and political science. When he wasn't studying, he saw hookers, until the local pimps started asking too much for the things he liked to do.

They worked for him now.

Cato had inherited his father's export business, shipping American auto parts to Europe and Asia. He'd worked at it until it had grown into one of the big names on the east coast, Block Shipping co. At the same time, he'd started his own stable of whores, and christened them by a rather different name. He made sure his girls and his boys were young, fit, and willing, and he dropped the ones who couldn't learn. It took a couple of years, and then he had made a reputation for each of his businesses, and carved a list of wealthy customers. When his girls began to entertain New York's elite, he turned the sex trade into a source of political power. He bought cops from the top down, and had enough pull to keep himself covered as he changed his shipping company into a smuggler's dream.

Brandt had ridden up on the back of his brother's winged horse, and he had as much money and as many girls as he could use. No one ever asked Brandt if he was happy, but whenever he thought of the question himself, he got angry. He remembered what Cato had told him about happiness. He'd quoted Machiavelli. "Few men know how to be wholly good or wholly evil, Brandt. And those who think they do are wrong. There is no evil. There is no good. There's just me. When I learned that, I learned why everything is here: my pleasure."

"How about my pleasure?" Brandt had asked.

"I'll take care of you."

The music was very loud now, and he was sure that Cato was intent on his pleasure, with his precious whore wife, or with the Jatthew bitch. Brandt wondered what it would be like to screw Japonica. He snorted, and caught himself about to spit. Cato would hate that, his spittle on that expensive carpet. "Fuck it," he said, and lifted up one black leather cushion, spitting under that. He looked at his greasy spittle on the leather, and wished it was blood. Cato's blood.

He got up, and went over to the bookshelves. His side itched where the shoulder holster rubbed at it. He took it off and dumped it on the sofa. He scratched, and peered at the books, reading titles; Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations, King Lear...they weren't what he wanted. Looking high, and then low, Brandt found the handful of books that Cato still liked to read. It was a small row: Thus spake Zarathustra, The Prince, The Ego and it's Own, and Leaves of Grass, the original 1855 edition, with Walt Whitman's signature on the cover. He pulled out The Ego and it's Own, the book by Max Stirner that had fixed Cato's ideas, the book that had given him the word to match what he was by nature: egoist. Holding the old red hardback made him feel excited and tense. He opened the book to the middle, riffled through the pages, and came to the back. He took hold of the last five pages, glanced over his shoulder, and ripped them out of the book.

"I can see why ya like doing this," he whispered.

He put the book back on the shelf, looked for a place to hide the torn-out pages. He thought for a second, then he crumpled them up, and tossed them on the floor among the others. He sniggered. If Japonica made a fuss, when she threw them out, she'd get the beating.

Chapter 12

The stupid battery was dead again. Corben resisted the urge to bang it on the dash. "Work!" It flickered, and died again. This time he did bang it on the dash. The little square screen lit up.

"Score one for the cave man," Randall said.

Corben ignored him. He tried to get the phone to speed dial, but it didn't want to. He thought about banging it on the dash until it fell apart, but decided it would be easier to dredge up the number he wanted from memory.

"Who're you calling?"

"A friend."

"A 'rescue your kidnapped wife from vicious gangsters in the night' kinda friend? You told me the other one tried to screw you. Can you trust this guy?"

"I'm going to find out." He got a dialling tone.

Randall sounded anxious. "Remember what I told you," he said. "If the cops hear about this, if they hear the name 'Block', it's over."

The phone kept ringing. "Come on," he said. "Come on, I know you're there. Pick up."

"Maybe they're not at home to desperate calls in the night," said Randall.

The phone clucked, and he heard a voice made scratchy by the bad connection. "Yeah, who is it?"

"Is that any way to greet your saviour?"

"Who...Corben? Corben Jatthew? Woah, it's been a long time."

"Hey, Jeff. Need a favour."

"Straight to business, huh? Say, Corben, it's pretty late..."

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't vital, Jeff."

"Well...ah shit, Corben, I owe you. What do you need?"

"You've been working on that data mining program for Homeland Security, right?"

"Holy shit, Corben, that's a national secret! We can't be talking about that, shit, you can't know about that...how do you know?"

"I have a friend works for the Christian Science Monitor. So much for national secrets, eh, Jeff?"

"Ha, good one. But I'm serious, we can't have this conversation."

"Is it running?"

"Like a steroid-augmented athlete. Dammit Corben, I said-"

"Jeff, you owe me."

"Uh..."

"You know and I know the story. You know." He felt as if he were digging up his own mother's grave, using their history to get leverage on Jeff. He felt ugly. Some years before, they'd worked together at Globoffice, on a software project that had died because Entergame, their primary competitor, had somehow got hold of their code, and rushed their own version to market. What no one at Globoffice had ever learned was that Jeff had been the one to let the code go. The reason? Blonde, foxy, never seen or heard from again. He'd spilled his tale to Corben, begging him to help get the code back, or find the girl, or help him cover his ass. He'd begged him to make it right somehow. Corben had been able to keep it a secret, no weight on his conscience, someone else's sin. But now he was turning it around, and it got heavier by the heartbeat. It felt like kicking a puppy, a cute puppy with fluffy hair and funny ears and no brain.

"You promised you'd never tell anyone about that, Corben."

"I'm talking to you, Jeff."

"We could both go to jail," said Jeff. Corben suppressed an insane urge to giggle. Sure, it was true; he'd helped to cover up a deep dark splinter of corporate espionage, and so what? Jail seemed like a distant, weak threat, compared to the trouble he was in. He'd read about the suicide rates for married men who went to jail; they were high. He asked himself, what are the numbers for men whose wives are abducted and killed? He was willing to bet they made uncomfortable reading.

"We won't. Help me, Jeff. I need your help, and so does my wife. Right now, she needs you more than I can say."

There was a distant sound on the line, as might be made by a young man throwing a plastic cup against the wall. "Screw it. Just tell me what to do."

Corben beamed, and put the smile into his voice. "I knew I could count on you, Jeff. Thank you." He felt as if a cool breeze was blowing. It lasted for a second, and then faded into memory.

"Don't thank me yet, Corbuster. Now you owe me."

Corben gave him terse instructions, and cut the line.

Randall nudged him. "What was that about?"

"It's time to try another angle. I just lit a fuse. By the time it gets to midnight, I'm gonna have the Blocks sitting on a thousand tonnes of dynamite."

...

Jeff Mcgubby sucked air through his teeth, and scratched his thin reddish beard. He wiped greasy fingers on his red Spinebreath t-shirt, shoved the dead pizza box off his lap, and huffed as he leaned over to grab his laptop. He lay back on the couch and chewed on a piece of dry garlic bread as the machine buzzed and chattered into life. It had once been silent as a corpse with no mouth, but then his cat had eaten a load of week-old donuts, and been sick over it. He'd done what he could, but he was born a software man.

He slurped melon soda as he got the Delphi program running. It wasn't even at beta yet, and he doubted it could do what Corben had asked. It wasn't fair of the guy to call him up like this, tearing open old scars, and dripping vinegar in them. He had a mind to call him back and spit in his face, metaphorical like. Thing was, Jeff owed Corben, and he knew it, and whatever reputation either man had, they'd built it by being two things: skilled and reliable. Corben knew he'd do what was asked, that's why he'd called him, but it having that old debt raised out of nowhere still made Jeff feel like shit. He was the one who'd get his ass disappeared if Homeland caught him working a private espionage scheme with their baby.

The program took a while connecting up to all the remote nodes. It was too complex to run from a single laptop. Delphi sifted a world of information every second, when it wasn't playing dead or stupid. They said the brain could handle all this data, but no breathing man or woman could do what Delphi did. Jeff was scared of the code, and he loved it. When he was a kid, his pals had bought all the games. He'd looked at them, and said, "so what?" Communications, now that was something that mattered. That was something real.

The last node clicked online. Jeff forgot his musings, and started to crunch. He did a low-level search for 'Block', which brought him several million hits. He narrowed it with 'Cato' and 'Brandt', and soon he was looking at the Block Shipping website. So far all he'd done was what anyone could do. Now he engaged Delphi. The oracle followed the website inwards, did an electronic vivisection. It dug out every piece of data linked with the Blocks and their company. At the same time, it ran a megasearch on the entire web, cross-checking every new find with a billion others.

Jeff narrowed his eyes, and chewed the garlic bread without tasting it. He'd forgotten about Homeland. He'd forgotten about the clicks and the odd whine his laptop made. He'd forgotten who'd asked him to do this. He concentrated on the search, as a sniper concentrates on his target, watching, watching, watching...

...

"It's no good waiting here," said Corben. "We have to get closer to the Blocks."

Randall scrunched up one corner of his mouth. "I don't like that idea."

"What you do like got us into this trouble."

Randall said nothing, but his eyes dropped, and his face showed a flash of anger that faded into guilt and sadness. Corben wished he'd spoken with care.

"Randall, I..." He didn't know what to say. "Dammit, Randall. We can't sit here and wait for Jeff to call us back. It might take him five minutes and it might take all night. God, he might not even call back! We need to get close to Mimi. I think she's at Cato's house, so that's where I want to go."

"Why do you think that? Cato owns lots of places. Maybe she's at the waterfront, in some big stinking warehouse. Maybe she's in the cellar under a roadhouse. She could be anyplace. If I was Cato, I wouldn't keep a woman I'd kidnapped tied up on my own dumb sofa."

"I disagree."

"Well I don't!"

"Listen to me, Randall. You told me yourself; Cato has a lot of protection. His house is probably the safest place in the state."

"Yeah, sure, probably!"

"He lives in Westchester, no? Well Brandt just met me in the middle of goddamn Westchester, and, hey, did you notice, he stole my wife! On top of that, he told me he expected me to 'come by the house.' I don't know about you, but I see a pattern."

Randall folded his arms and said nothing.

"I'm not saying we should peer in the windows, and I'm not saying we should storm the place. We should get close enough that when Jeff gives us what we need, we can get Mimi out fast."

"I won't argue with any of that, Corben. It's just that..."

"You're scared. That's okay, Randall. I'm scared too. I'm glad I didn't eat much, or I'd have been sick. We have to get this done, no matter how we feel about it. Am I right? Is there a better way that I've overlooked?"

Randall shook his head.

"So we go."

"Yeah. I'll take you."

...

Jeff whooped, and threw his fists in the air, spilling garlic crumbs across the keyboard. He wiped them away, and checked again to make sure he wasn't suffering hallucinations brought on by the cocktail of garlic and sugar in his bloodstream. There it was, in large blue letters on his computer screen: a money trail that linked Block Shipping co. to an outfit in China that was under indictment by the PRC police, for making and selling toys with toxic dyes, toys that had killed three children, and caused liver trouble for a thousand others in Hainan, as well as fifteen orphans in Virginia. That wasn't the real treat, though; Delphi had fished in countless data pools, and found a flow of emails and payments that showed that the Chinese firm was on a fringe of a larger organisation. Through various shells, it was owned by Cato Block. That, too, was a beginning; he could see Block's money flowing into Dubai, where it mingled with drug dealers and terrorists.

"You dirty bastard," he said. "Guess who's getting a rather large, anonymous email tomorrow morning. Could it be...the FBI?"

He called Corben. "It's done, my man. Fucker's been owned."

"I need you to do one thing more," said Corben.

Jeff groaned. "Do you know what I just went through? I broke more laws than I can count! Now, I know it's all in a good cause, we're like the Hardy boys or something, making the world safe for poor kids, but my good deed is done. I'm going back to surfing for Hawaiian porn, Corben."

"Just one more thing, Jeff."

"Why, man? You didn't tell me why I had to go playing Jeff Bond in the first place. I did owe you, but that debt is paid."

"Wait."

"Sorry man, I'm hanging up the phone."

"Wait!"

Corben sounded like Jeff was going to run over his cat. There was pain, raw pain, and fear in that voice. Living on his soft couch, eating phonebook pizza, and chatting with a keyboard, Jeff never heard anyone sound like that. It scared him.

"I'm listening," he said, wishing he was brave.

"You saw into Cato Block's world, right? You saw what he does."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well?"

"Well, he's some kind of monster, sure, Corben, I can see that. What's your beef with this guy? I can send him away for so long we'll need archaeologists to remember his name. Isn't that enough?"

"I need something else. Two things."

"What? You said you needed one thing. One!"

"Freeze his money. Send his accounts to Alaska."

"I guess that's one thing, but it's big like an elephant burger."

"Number two: send me a copy of the data you've dug out of the net. Something I can show him."

"Wow, hey, you're talking to this guy, now? Isn't he like, going to kill you?" And what about me, he thought. "This is risky. I don't like it."

"He's got my wife, Jeff."

Jeff read a history of pain in those words. He groaned, and he chewed his lip, and then he chewed on a dry piece of pizza. He had a feeling like he was in a ship, watching water wash in through a big jagged hole in the hull. He began to wish he hadn't eaten so much pizza.

"So...ice up the cash, send you a copy."

"How long will it take?"

"The first one is easy, but only because you're talking to me. The second...uh, I think my printer's out of paper. No! Just kidding, Corben. You got like an address, or something?"

Corben spoke to someone else for a moment, then gave him an address, the corner of Republic avenue and fifth street on the corner of a nook of a town in Westchester. "And thanks, Jeff. I owe you more than I can say."

"Stow it, C-man. Get your wife back. But, uh, if you talk to the feds..."

"I don't even know your name."

"Check."

...

Randall eyed Corben with a feeling he wanted to call pride. His brother had acted as soon as Brandt had gone, planned and acted. His first plan had failed, and he hadn't even been worried. He'd picked himself up and tried something else, and it looked as though this one was going to work. Damn, but he knew how to get things done.

"You're really doing it," he said. "You're going to win. You're going to beat him!"

Corben pursed his lips. "I'm going to try."

"No, Corben, you're going to do it. Cato doesn't know who he's tangling with."

"I already screwed up! Trying to pay for her didn't work. I'm supposed to see ahead, to defuse bombs before they blast. I didn't have a back-up, and we wasted time, and Mimi's been stuck with them for longer than she needed."

"You've got a better way now, a weapon you can use. Two weapons, right?" In his heart, he knew now what he had felt. It wasn't pride. It was envy. The more that Corben argued it down, the stronger he felt it.

"I should have thought of this sooner. I should have come at them with everything I had, right at the start."

"You couldn't know they'd take your money and say 'more please'. It's not your fault, and now I think you've got a chance."

Corben shook his head, and then he swung around to face Randall, his eyes flashing. "I can't say that. I can't know. Not until she's in my arms, Randall. Not until I have Mimi back and safe. As long as she's with him, this is nothing but a gamble. Do you understand that? It's a chance for us, but it's Mimi's life. I don't know...I don't even know if she's alive. I have to believe it, but I'm scared. They might be watching us right now. They could come and kill us as we wait for the damn courier. Nothing is certain."

Randall had no words to answer him. He hung his head. He still envied his brother, his daring and his tenacity, and that made it feel worse to wear his own skin. He'd run into husband trouble more than once, and run out of it. When he'd got word that the Blocks were on his tail, he'd run from that. Corben didn't run. Corben went after them, and every time he failed, he tried again, tried harder. And the bastard had the gall to be humble. It made Randall sick. It made him ashamed. What's wrong with me, he asked himself. Why was I born wrong?

Chapter 13

Japonica was lying in bed when Cato came for her. He took off his shoulder holster and put on Wagner, that hateful aggressive noise, associated in her mind with kisses that left her bleeding, and sex that left her sick. He looked at her, and his square, lumpish face was red. He leered and bit the air. She was done crying, but she wasn't ready for him. What she wanted, more than peace or riches or a new dress, was to talk. She wanted to tell Cato how she felt, how she'd always felt. She wanted to tell him how much she had loved him, and how happy they could be, if he'd let her explain. She was sure, somehow sure, that if he heard her, if he listened to her reasons, he would understand.

Maybe the twisting in her heart gave her thoughts the lie, but at that moment, Japonica believed she loved him. "Cato," she said, sitting up in bed, but he put one thick finger to his lips, and shushed her.

"Don't speak, baby girl," he said. "Daddy's gonna give you a big chance."

"I-"

"No no no." He waggled his finger, as he clambered onto the bed, making it shake. Japonica opened her mouth to speak again, but he was close now, and she was afraid. He gestured for her to take off her sexy black dress, and when her hands stumbled over the gold catches, he grew impatient, and ripped the material.

Japonica quivered, and her eyes widened, memories of her afternoon surging back into her mind, but she fought them down. He was hungry for her, his hands exploring her body, pinching, squeezing, his long tongue licking at her exposed skin. He was gripped by his hunger. If she pleased him, if she satisfied him, perhaps he would listen to her after. Perhaps he would understand.

She tried to please him, she tried to receive his groping attack of lust with a show of pleasure, but he didn't seem to care what she felt. He grabbed at her flesh and it hurt. She cried a little, and that made him grip her harder. He bit her shoulder, and she fought to hold in her tears, and then he cried, a something between a moan and a gasp, and it trailed off into a sound of death.

Japonica pressed her back into the bed, and stared at the man who sat astride her. He'd torn his shirt, and it hung open to show the thick hairs and the ruddy skin of his powerful chest. Her eyes followed the revealed strip of skin up to his thick neck, and square jaw, his thick lips, hanging open in a wordless cry, the coffee stains on his teeth, and the look of angry, bewildered loss in his dark eyes. She saw a world of pain in those eyes, something he'd never shown before, if it had ever been there.

She started to believe that her time with Randall had been a mistake, that it had cut into Cato's heart in a way she'd never imagined. He was never to have known, but he did know. He was to have felt great joy. Now that was a lost hope, but she couldn't leave him believing she was false. Watching her Cato struggle to express a feeling he could not own, she felt pity and sympathy compel her to speak, for she believed her words might heal.

"Cato...I was afraid before, but now I know I have to tell you. I can't bear to see you in pain. Let me tell you why I did it."

His expression changed. Those lines of sorrow eased.

"Cato, I loved you from the day we met. You were walking that dog of yours, that old bruiser, Iron Grey, in Central Park. I was waiting on a bench for my boyfriend, and getting annoyed because I was late, but he was more late. Your dog got loose, and chased some pigeons, and then he surprised a gaggle of old women with their poodles. He looked so funny, such a big grey thing, chasing those dogs with their fancy coloured hair. The women didn't know what to do, they were squawking like their pets. Your old Iron Grey, what was he?"

"Wolfhound," he murmured.

"Yeah, he picked out one poodle, and chased, it yapping in terror for its little poodle life, right to the edge of a pond. The silly thing was scared of the water, and Iron Grey cornered it, and then what did he do? I thought he was going to tear it to bits, and from the fuss they made, I bet the old women did, too. But Iron Grey didn't rip the poodle apart. No," she began to chuckle, "he stuck his big doggy nose up the little dog's ass, and then he, oh God, I can't believe it, he climbed on top, and started thrusting," she was laughing now, and Cato was smiling. "And all of those women stood there howling and screaming like they were in bed with that crazy dog, and I was all broken up, I'd forgotten about that chump of a boyfriend, I was laughing so hard I was afraid I'd pee in my pants, and what did you do? You just sort of appeared next to me, leaning on that park bench, and you asked if I wanted a free ticket to the next show."

Cato beamed. Japonica was giggling under him, and she felt as if they had found something that had been lost long ago. She felt as if he might be ready for the thing she had to say.

"I loved you then, Cato Block, and I love you now."

His smile broke up. His face went blank, and he watched her, making no sound, showing no hint of his feelings. That worried her, but she had to go on.

"Everything I've done has been for you, love. Everything has been to make you more...more magnificent. You can't be a king alone. You need a beautiful queen at your side, a woman beautiful and proud, to show people what you can command." She was trying hard to reach him, to connect with his mind. After ten years together, she was sure she knew what he wanted to hear from her, but she could see nothing on his face or in his body to reveal his feelings.

"And...a king must have a legacy. You should have a dynasty. You have to have children."

His eyes rolled, and she wondered what that could mean.

"For all the time that I've been with you, I've tried to give you that. I've tried to give you what you must have wanted. You never spoke to me about children, and I sensed early on it was a hard thing for you to talk about. A woman can see these things, but I didn't understand, not at first. Then, as the years went by, I started to wonder. I saw a doctor, a good one, and then I knew. Cato, honey, I know your secret. I know you can't make a child."

He laughed.

Japonica chewed her lip, and kept talking. At least he was letting her talk. Maybe it meant he was ready to accept her again. She hoped so. "That's why I saw that...that man. And...I don't want to lie, Cato. There were others. But it was for you! I didn't care for any of them, not one. I hated them, and I hated myself while we... That Randall, he's a snake. He thought he was talking himself into my bed, but he was the fool. I chose him, like I chose the others, because I knew he was going to run right after. Not the type to stick around and try to do the 'right thing'. But honey, I did it for you."

"You did it for me." He looked amused.

"That's right. To give you a son. To give my king an heir. That's all I've ever wanted, since the day I met you, Cato. I wanted to give you a fine, handsome boy."

"Japonica..."

She thought he was on the edge of forgiving her. Telling him her secret had brought fresh tears to eyes that were tired of crying. Her skin tingled. "Because I loved you, and I love you still."

"Japonica," he giggled. "A son, a son? I had a vasectomy the week before I married you."

Her eyes opened so wide they hurt, and she gasped with sudden pain. A thunderbolt had struck her heart.

He kept speaking. "What do I want with a fat wife, waddling down the street? What would I look like? And brats crawling around my home, making me sick with their shit-stink. Brats to eat at my time and my money, turning my home into a torture chamber, all my work to waste."

At first it was too much. She stared up at him without comprehension, but then the feeling seeped in, the shock, the betrayal. The feeling grew upon her with every word he spoke, gaining in power with every breath she took, and every beat of her heart. She was floating and falling at once, and she was screaming as well, a silent, stabbing scream, of mourning and rage for all those years she'd been wrong, for all those years she'd been used, for all those years she'd been tricked.

She didn't recognise her own voice. "I tried to give you a son. All I ever did was love you. What did it mean? What did I mean? Damn you, Cato, what was I to you?"

He put his hands on either side of her, and leaned over her, a shape that blocked out the light, a shadow that hung over her life. "You were mine, Japonica, my thing."

"Your slave."

"My jewel. My most beautiful, precious jewel." He took her throat in his hand, and squeezed it just enough to make it hurt. "My tarnished, broken gem." He squeezed harder. She grabbed his wrist and tried to shift it, but it was like stone. She felt pressure building in her face. "My broken toy. My trash." He held the choke and watched her, his dark eyes searching for something in her face.

Japonica knew she was going to die. Her hopes had died, her dreams murdered by the man she'd thought she knew. Their love was a sham. The worst thing, she felt, was that he had never talked to her, never been willing to be honest with her, until all he saw in her was a corpse. Cato couldn't feel love, or pity, or anything she could understand, except hunger, and his hunger wasn't human. She'd given her heart to a thing that wore the skin of a man, but never showed what it was beneath the flesh and the clothes, never, except when it came out to taunt its victims.

Japonica wanted to die. Her last hope was for peace, the everlasting peace of annihilation. Having stolen her love, having murdered it, Cato had killed all hope but this. She let go of his wrist, made her body relax, and gave herself up to his wrath. Cato smiled. He must have seen the death in her eyes. He let go of her neck, and Japonica gasped, and drew quick, ragged breaths, her body ignoring her resolution to die. Cato got off her, got off the bed, and watched her with a smug grin.

She massaged her neck with one hand, as she rolled on her side, and looked at him. "Why?"

"I won't make it so easy for you. You broke my heart, bitch. I'm going to make you feel what I feel. I'm going to make you bleed."

Her eyes flickered to the gun he'd left on the floor. He shook his head. "You won't do that. And you can't run, either. I know every man, woman and little helpless baby in your family. I can find them before you get there. I control your cards, and I can cut them off with a call. You can't go to the police, you couldn't even let them see you. They work for me. There's nowhere for you, Japonica, no safe place. Anywhere you could go on this old bitch of a world, and I'll reach out and drag you back to me. I'm going to kill you myself, and you, you are weak as a baby." He laughed. "There's nothing like breaking a baby. You'll learn that, Japonica. Not tonight, not tomorrow. Not until I choose. But you will learn that."

...

All across the ether, where Jeff Mcgubby had gone, he left little silver tracks. What he did was swift and silent, but for a slight extra whine in the computers he touched, a minor addition to the global hum of busy silicon. What he did was silent and swift, and no one noticed that. And then he had gone, and what he left was changed.

Someone did notice that.

The first one was a man called Stanislaw Jakarta, a self-styled man of business, though the Swedish police called him a people-trafficking child molester. He noticed that an expected payment was late, and he swore.

The second was a man in Shanghai, who had one arm and owned no name. He didn't swear. He called the captain of a ship in port, the Blue Cloud, and told him not to leave. "We must go with the tide," said the captain. "You go when I tell you," said the man with one arm, and then he called some other people to share in his misery.

All around the world, men felt the change. Even as families in New York got ready for bed, people in other cities and other lands saw that their money was doing the wrong thing. It wasn't moving. One of those who saw this was a young detective on the NYPD, John Lake, and he remembered his orders. He knew what to do. He picked up a phone and called his boss, assistant commissioner Sylvester Blair.

"Someone's put the Block accounts on ice," he said.

"I'll be damned," said Sylvester Blair. "Was it the feds?"

"They have to wade through a swamp of red tape. We'd have seen this coming last Christmas."

"The CIA?"

"I don't think they'd bother messing around with someone's money. If they wanted to hurt this guy, they'd get pictures of him doin' the business with a dead goat, and then they'd sell him to a militant gang of Christians as the antichrist."

Sylvester Blair closed his eyes and rubbed them, asking himself what was going on with the new generation. At fifty-two he had grey streaks in his hair, but he wasn't putting on that middle-age padding his buddies had. He was getting thinner, and the doctor kept telling him to knock off whatever it was that filled his bloodstream with stress hormones. Whenever he heard that, he had to laugh, a cynical, weary laugh. "Okay son, you've got all the answers. Who the hell was it?"

"You know what I know, sir."

"And it's a real handful."

"Are we going after the Blocks, sir?"

"Someone is. Bury it, son."

"What?"

"Are you deaf, boy? Bury it. Nobody hears about this. Not one body. I didn't hear about this. You don't know about this. Understand?"

"But sir, someone's getting ready to move on them, and this is a New York matter. We should be the ones to get the credit."

"There are some things more important than getting the credit, do you hear me? If it's coming down, it's from on high, and they did not ask us to the party. Why do you think that is? We are fighting a vile foe, son, a foe that has no respect for justice. Whoever is doing this knows our enemy; they know we have been penetrated by that enemy, son. You will not jump in and screw up someone else's hard work, because if you do, be in no doubt, you will be responsible for what may be the worst failure in the history of the New York Police Department."

"Yessir. I understand."

"Good. Call me again if you see anything else I shouldn't know."

As he put the phone down, Sylvester told himself, "I should have been an actor." He took a second to cool down, and then he dialled another number.

"Block speaking." He was breathing hard, as if he'd been running. Sylvester wanted to laugh at the image; it stretched and bent the imagination to picture either of the Block brothers out jogging.

"Cato, you've got a fat problem." He caught what he'd said just after it came out of his mouth. Well, damn Cato if he wanted to take offence. The man was fat in more ways than one, and maybe he deserved a few chubby problems.

"Sylvester! Still got that ugly manner of yours. Is it halloween already, you old cadaver?"

"We've no time for jokes, Cato," he said, unable to tell whether the man was happy or angry. With Cato, it was hard to see a difference. "Not tonight. Have you been watching your accounts?"

"I've had both hands full today, Sylvester, and I'm not done yet. Can this wait?"

"Since when do I call you to pass the time?"

Cato paused. He kept Sylvester waiting just long enough for him to remember who owed whom, and what it would cost him if Cato ever decided to call him to settle the account.

"The feds are after my money." He hadn't needed to look into it. Cato was a smart chip off the old boulder. His father might have been proud, had he lived long to see his son's empire.

"Not the feds. Maybe above the feds. I don't know who, but they're not just after it, they've parked it in the freezer. You have what's in your pockets and in your house, but I doubt-"

"Get him."

"Who?"

"You're a cop, and you're asking me who. A guy did this. Get him for me."

"It's not that easy. This isn't like someone knocked over a bank, this is work for hackers and crackers and all those other microchip freaks. I can't say if we'll ever find the people behind it. They might be CIA, for chrissakes."

"Hmm, yes, I believe I understand you, Sylvester. Now let me draw a picture. I'll use crayons so you can understand. You're hanging over a pit, Sylvester, a deep, black, murderous pit, and I'm holding you up. Right now you're making it hard for me to hang on, and maybe I'm starting to lose my grip, my hands are so tired. Any minute now, you're going to fall into the pit, and when you fall into that pit, Sylvester, you're not coming back. That pit will swallow you."

Sylvester swallowed when Cato finished speaking, and he found that the hand he had on the phone was shaking. He wanted to tell Cato where to get off, but he knew it was too late, far too late. He had no choice. He was old enough to know he would die, but not old enough to accept it. What Cato could do to him, would do to him, if he disobeyed, well, he could imagine that without effort. The effort went to stop imagining it.

"...I'll call you when I have more."

"Do that. And one more thing; there's been a coupla flies buzzing around tonight. Send some of your boys to swat them." He gave him two names, and told him where Brandt had left them.

"Look, Cato, there's a limit-"

"Not tonight. There's no limit tonight. You find them, you get them, you hold them for me. Clear?"

"...If they don't want to be held?"

"Then you put them in the fucking freezer."

Chapter 14

Cato slammed the phone down so hard he broke the cradle. Japonica squealed on the bed. He felt an urge to punch her. Instead, he forced himself to pause, to think. Sylvester's call had come at the worst time. He knew Sylvester hated working for him. That was part of the fun, but it meant he was dangerous. Cato recalled Machiavelli's advice: never let yourself be hated. It was advice he had ignored. Perhaps that had been a mistake. He sat at his computer, and checked up on Sylvester's tale. Within minutes he had gone from hot suspicion to burning fury. Someone was going to weep blood.

He grabbed his gun from the holster, and went out, slamming the door behind him. He ran down the stairs, and found Brandt in the living room standing by the drinks cabinet. He was smoking a fat cigar, about to attack a large bourbon. Cato snatched the cigar from his brother's mouth, and pressed the red end into his scratched-up face. Brandt gasped and stumbled back, barging into the bookcase and shaking it.

"What the fuck?" Brandt touched his cheek, and flinched. "Ow. Ow! Dammit, Cato, what did I do?"

Cato ignored him. He doused the cigar in the bourbon, and left it there on the drinks cabinet. He smelled the stink of burnt skin. He showed Brandt the gun in his hand, and felt a moment of pleasure at seeing shock change into fear. "Are you gunning for me?"

Brandt shook his head, hand on his face. Cato saw his eyes dart to the sofa, and noticed Brandt's gun was lying there. Wagner was still roaring upstairs, and for the first time in his life, it didn't make him feel powerful. Hearing that music, as he searched his brother's burned face for the signs of betrayal, he felt alone. He felt threatened.

"Tell me the truth, Brandt. If you lie to me I'll shoot you in the gut and watch you bleed to death."

"What's wrong with ya?"

"Are you with them?"

"No! What 'them'? Cato, are ya high?"

"You had nothing to do with the freeze on my money? Swear it?"

"I don't know what ya talking about. Shit, are the feds on us?"

Cato searched his brother's face. If it was an act, it was uncanny. He didn't believe Brandt was intelligent enough to fool him. He had to make a choice. He could kill Brandt and be sure, but maybe he was the only guy he could trust. Not far, but he knew Brandt. At the least, he could trust him to be Brandt.

"We're getting hit by somebody. If it was the feds, they wouldn't just freeze our accounts and wait for us to notice, they'd be kicking in the doors already."

"Slow down. I can't take this in if ya gonna make me flinch every second, wonderin' what ya gonna burn off next."

"I got a call from Sylvester Blair." He told Brandt what Blair had said.

"This is a wide load, Cato. I need time to think, and ya fucked up my drink and my smoke."

"Yeah, yeah...I was wrong, Brandt, and I'm sorry about your face."

Brandt stared at him. Cato could read his face; he wanted more than a half-assed apology, but there was no time to give it. "I could use some ice."

Cato shook his head. "We don't have time. You gotta go back out there and get hold of these Jatthews. I don't care what you gotta do; reel them in."

"I could really use some ice."

"There is no ice, Brandt. Are you listening to me?" He wondered if that had been Brandt's first glass of bourbon, or his fifth. He expected his brother to be slow to catch on to any game more complex than snap, but this was not that difficult, and he needed the burly idiot to work. "I said I'm sorry. I'm trying to keep you alive, keep you out of jail. Isn't that worth a little mark on your face?"

Brandt rolled his eyes. "Ya think the Jatthews did this?"

"You met Corben," he said, ignoring Brandt's irony. "You said you knew Randall from before. What do you think?"

"Randall's a run-to-momma coward. He gets his dough by talkin' married women into bed and stealin' their-" He slowed and stopped as he saw Cato's expression. "Well, Corben now, well, he pointed a gun in my face, but he din't do nothin' drastic. Sure did get that money together quick."

"So he's quick, then. The timing is too neat. I didn't think anyone could do this but the goddamn federal government, but what the hell do we know about Corben Jatthew, besides he ain't a millionaire? Go out there and get him."

"If he ain't it, this is a waste. I'll call the boys and-"

"I'll call the boys. You saw his face. You're the only guy I trust to get this done right. Sylvester's tracking him, but he's got both hands and both ears full. You can follow the cop show chatter, only you want to get there first. Get Jatthew."

"Ya want him dead?"

"No! I need him to unlock our fucking money. Dammit, Brandt, grow a brain."

Brandt walked over to the couch. He eyed Cato, and then picked up his gun. He took it out of the holster, and handed it to Cato.

"What's this?"

"I can't do it. Ya come in here like I'm some fuckin' traitor, burn my face, and wave that piece like ya wanna splash my guts. I don't trust ya, Cato. What if this is another one of ya brain-screwed games? I been runnin' my ass off all day doin' ya work. I had to kill a good kid and stick his body inna furnace, and what's it got me but a hole in my cheek?"

"Brandt, Brandt, I was wrong. I was very wrong. I didn't think, I let my hands do what they do. You know these hands, brother. Your hands are like mine. When they get burned, they jump. When they get hurt, they grab and crush. When someone threatens us, they kill."

Brandt growled like an animal.

"Your hands are like my hands. Your hands are my hands. Your brain, your body, your fire. You are me, Brandt, my other self. Brothers, Brandt, brothers. You and I are one. When you are cut, I bleed. We are bleeding now, brother. We are burning in the fire. They have set the fire on us, they have come to kill us. Do not abandon me, brother. Do not give me up to our enemies, and do not doubt, if they kill me, you will die."

"It's a good act, Cato, but ya give me a lotta words already. I need something stronger." Brandt was almost ready, but the final step was the hardest.

He took Brandt's hand, and pushed the gun into it. Brandt curled his fingers around it. Then Cato put his own gun into Brandt's hands. He did so with perfect trust on his face, and it would have taken a witch or a prophet to see the little death he felt as he gave his gun away. "You see? Now you are my hand. You are my fist. You are my fire."

A moment passed, and words without sound passed between the brothers. Cato saw what he was looking for, what he needed, a little light on Brandt's face that grew into a blaze, a beacon. He turned his back on Brandt, and walked, without haste, out of the room. When he got outside, he wiped his brow, and he smiled. Someone was going to die tonight. Then he had an idea, and it tasted of blood.

Chapter 15

Corben couldn't stand the waiting. Now he had a plan, now he'd got his game moving, he couldn't bear to sit still in the car and wait to make the next move. "Where is that damn courier?" He pictured Mimi's face, that sweet, creamy skin, and her loving smile...it was too easy to imagine her hurt, crying, calling for him. There was no one else. Right now, he was the last man in the world, so far as she was concerned. He felt the need to act as a physical pressure, a tension in his body. He sat hunched forward in the car, his muscles tight, his nerves electric.

"I can't wait," he said, and found he was shaking his head.

"We don't have a choice," said Randall. He had found a packet of lemon candy in the glove box, and was crunching the sweets with satisfaction. They filled the air with the scent of bitter lemons. Every crack sounded like an explosion to Corben, and he remembered running along his own front hall, as bullets smashed holes through the door.

"Yes we do. I need to talk to Cato before anything else happens. I need to talk to him before midnight. The time's going by so fast; it's already after nine, and who knows what he's doing right now? He's probably got her locked up with him. He's probably got a gun pointed at her right now, threatening her, forcing her to-"

"Stop! Don't do this to yourself, Corben, don't torture yourself."

The image was too strong, the feeling was more real than his brother's body, so close he could feel the heat of his blood. What about Mimi? Was she warm? Was she locked away in a chilly cellar, shivering, her breath hanging in the air, like the smoke from a gun barrel?

He took the wheel in his hands, and squeezed it. He tightened his muscles and strained at it until he could feel the effort in his shoulders and back, until his whole body was one chunk of struggling meat. The wheel was obstinate; it refused to bend or break. It seemed to him a symbol of his trouble, an implacable foe that would not yield no matter what force he set against it.

"I'm done with waiting," he said, picking his phone up from the dash.

"Woah, Corben," said Randall. "We don't have the shit that your pal Jeff promised us. We're not ready to act."

"I have to," said Corben. "I can't wait."

"But our hands are empty."

"Not for long. I don't need the files, the paperwork, until we come to meet the Blocks. Right now all I need is my tongue."

Randall sighed. "Long may you keep it." He crunched another lemon candy.

Corben dialled. His hands were sweaty. The phone didn't ring for long before he got an answer, Cato Block's thunderous voice, "Sylvester, I want good news."

"Sorry Cato, Sylvester's out right now. You'll have to talk to me."

"Corben Jatthew. Whaddya want? You got the deadline from my brother. Are you ready to give me Randall?"

Corben didn't know what he was about to say. His feelings were telling him to act, not his reason. Cato sounded different from before, not so relaxed and loose. His feelings told him Cato was hiding something; he didn't want to admit he knew about the attack. He wanted to hide it, and Corben knew it made good sense; if it hadn't been Corben's play, it would have given him a free chip. Cato was clever.

"I'm calling to tell you the deadline's changed."

"Oh?"

That soft reply didn't fit Cato's position. He had to know about the attack. But how much did he know? Corben decided it was vital to force a quick exchange, before Cato got his own people to fight back. He didn't know what Cato could do, but the man was a success, in business and crime. He could well have a stable of house-trained hackers, ready to counter this kind of threat.

"You must be feeling pretty chilly, Cato, after watching your money turn to ice."

"It's like you know me. You're a better man than your brother, Corben. Maybe you'd like to work for me. I pay more than those software firms you hire out to."

So Cato had been checking into his background? What else did he know? Corben felt cold, colder than Cato's money. He caught himself, cut the worry out of his thoughts. He had no time. "Maybe we'll talk about that some other night. I bet there's a queue of people from here to Alaska, lined up to ask you, like, where's my money, bitch?"

"Watch your tongue."

"You're the one who should have been watching. Now it's too late. You know what people are like, when you owe them money."

"I got ways to handle that. You got ways to live with a wife got no ears on her? No ears, no nose, no teeth..."

Corben choked on his next words. He could see it, see it like it was painted on the windshield. Once the image was there, he knew he would never get it out of his mind. Even if he got Mimi back, got her safe with him, he knew that picture, his wife's mutilated head, would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"Yeah," said Cato. "You'll never guess the fun we've had. She is a tease, I gotta tell you, Corben. But you know, a girl'll do any number of wild things when you give her the needle. Ha! You should see the pictures...maybe I'll tell you the website, but you gotta get that credit card ready."

"You're a liar!"

"Am I?" Cato sounded more than confident. He sounded as if he was enjoying himself.

"Then deal with this," said Corben. "The freeze is just the first part, like the first snow in winter. The blizzard's next, tomorrow morning's news."

"I make the news."

"Yeah? How about this for a headline: Cato Block arrested in a dawn raid by the FBI. How do you like that, fucker?"

"Now you're lying."

"Am I? All it will take is one email, straight to the FBI. They'll see you for what you are. They'll take you."

"You can't do this. She'll be dead. I'll kill her before they get here, and then I'll watch the sun rise over Niagara Falls."

"With your money cut off, your business partners looking for compensation, Canada will be mighty cold. The feds hunting your ass...all those enemies you made on the way, all of the faces you stepped on to get to where you are in your swanky house on Republic avenue...your face on the front cover of every paper, on every TV screen, every internet news site. You won't live one day."

"I'll kill her! I'll kill her right now, you arrogant bastard!"

"And I'll burn your fucking life. I'll tear you apart. Your name will go down in history as the most fucked-up thug who ever lived! You took my wife, you sonofabitch. Give her back, or I'll make you pay with every penny you ever stole, every drop of your thieving blood."

Cato fell silent. Corben held still, and noticed that Randall, sitting beside him, had frozen, his mouth half-full of lemon candy, his jaw hanging loose. He looked terrified.

Cato's breathing was a loud rasp over the phone. Corben heard a sound on the other end of the line, the sound of a man sucking his teeth. Then he heard a crash, and it made him jerk. He wanted to speak again, to fill the void with noise, angry noise to cover the fears that probed and cut his heart. He forced himself to be silent, to be still, and to wait Cato out.

At last he spoke. "Come to my house. We can talk about this."

Corben relaxed a trifle. They had clashed, and he had won. "We've done the talking. I'm keeping my brother. Give me my wife."

"I can't just kick her loose. I have to see you. You've got to show me you've taken off the freeze. Whatever it is you want to send to the feds, I want that, too. Computer hard drive, flash drive, zip file...whatever it is, I want to see it. I want it in my hands."

"If I bring you that data, you'll shoot me."

"So leave a copy with your fucking lawyer, I don't care! I want my copy. I need it, Corben Jatthew. Come to my house, and I'll give you your wife."

"I'm not putting one foot inside your house."

"The park, then. Fern park. You went there before. I'll see you at the cemetary. I'll see you myself."

"I want somewhere open, somewhere with people. We should meet in the city."

"You mean Manhattan? We talked about that before. It's late, and it's a long way. You know and I know this thing has a time limit. The longer my money don't move, the more eyes come stick to my back."

"You're not helping me to feel safe here, Cato."

"If you want to feel safe, shoot yourself in the head. Only the dead sleep in peace. I'll see you in...ten minutes."

"It'll take longer to get to-" Corben caught himself. He'd been close to giving away his location. If Cato knew where he was, he could come and take them. If he even tried, things could get so crazy no one would know how it would end. "It'll take me some time, maybe an hour, to get that data piled together so's I can hand it to you."

"Don't make me wait too long, Corben Jatthew. I'm not a patient man. When I get frustrated, I smash things. You shouldn't worry, though. As long as you get your bitch back, what does an ankle matter?"

Corben clamped his teeth together so hard he could hear the strain. "The old deadline. Midnight."

"Midnight."

When he put the phone down, Corben stared straight ahead for a full minute, uncertain that the conversation he'd just had was real. Somehow he'd caught hold of the situation, and turned it inside out. For a time that felt like life, he'd been in a prison without walls. Now he was outside, and his enemy was in the trap. He'd never felt this way before, not even when he'd landed the Globoffice contract, or saved a million-dollar project for Hugo Rand. He hadn't felt this excited at his wedding, and he'd come close to fainting that day. He turned to Randall. "Is this real?"

"He said yes?"

"He said yes."

"You did it," Randall said. He grabbed Corben by the arm, and pulled him close. "You did it! You saved us, you crazy sonofabitch! You saved our lives." He punched his chest, and then he hugged him, pressing his heat and flesh and rumpled white suit against Corben's face, filling his nose with the scent of dried sweat and bitter lemons. He clasped his brother. Randall laughed, and Corben laughed, and then his eyes stung. He felt hot tears brimming in his eyes, and then they rolled down his face, and he was crying, he was crying, he couldn't stop the tears, and it was good.

Chapter 16

Cato's voice came over the phone. "Can you do it?"

"We're making the trace now," Sylvester Blair said, sitting in his office in New York, listening with half of his brain, while the other half tried to work out how to make his subordinates write up the paperwork for this so that it wouldn't get him indicted by internal affairs.

"How long until you find them?"

"I can see already you were right," he said. "They're still in Westchester."

"Yeah, I worked that one out. How close are they?"

"Hmm...the nearest cell is...yeah," he looked at his computer screen. "I'd say they're on your block."

"That runty rat...do you have your cruiser out looking for them?"

"I've done everything you've asked, Cato. I'm trying my best-"

"Call them off."

"But you said-"

"Screw what I said! Call them off. I'll handle this guy myself. You find that hacker!"

Sylvester sighed. "Yes, Mr President."

"And cut out that damned lip, Sylvester."

Cato hung up. "Well fuck you too," said Sylvester. He started to dial his man in Westchester, to tell him to send his boys back to the apple pie shop, when a thought sidled in through the back door of his mind, and started to whisper to him. Cato was hurting. Cato was on the ropes. He was getting pummeled by a hot young contender, a real old-time prize fighter, with a killer one-two. He'd called on Sylvester for help with one and two, and now he thought he could take the two by himself. "But what if I get him first?"

It gnawed on Sylvester, the years of blackmail over what he'd done to that Fernando kid, that fresh boy, with those eyes like an oil fire. Then came the carrot, and years of it; money in Lichtenstein, a new house for his wife...he liked the carrot, sure, but he never forgot about the stick. He used to think he would wait it out. When I make captain, I'll get loose. Then it had been, when I make commissioner, I'll get loose. Now he knew better. Now he saw the pattern; the more power he had, the stronger was the chain. He needed a new kind of power.

"What if I do get him first?" Then the stick would be his.

Sylvester was no longer the fiery chancer he'd been in his youth. He'd changed over the years, but the question stayed with him, demanding an answer, and somewhere inside the chancer within him awakened. He made the call, and then fixed himself a cup of coffee. He was going to gamble his life. He wanted to be awake for it.

...

Cato cut the line with his finger, and kept the phone against his ear. He dialled Brandt's number. "Brandt, I've found him."

"Whaddya mean? Did he come to the house?"

"No, he's on the block. Bastard's on our road, Brandt! I knew it, I knew it when he said about the house. Oh, he's a risk-taker, Brandt, he's a goddamn Maverick. Get back to the avenue, and sweep it. They gotta be parked somewhere along, not far from here."

"Are ya sure about this? I've called up some boys, and we've dug in around Fern park."

"Yes I'm sure. He's not at the park. Take your boys and come pick him up. No, wait, leave a coupla boys back at the cemetary, in case he's moving. If he slips away, we'll grab him at midnight, but I want him now."

"I'm on it, Cato." Brandt hung up.

Cato felt excited. His chest was hot, and his hands were working by themselves, folding open and shut, clawing at the air. They wanted to grab something. He could almost feel the flesh, the hot meat, in his grip. He could feel the weight of it, and the warmth, and the hard struts of bone underneath. He wanted to get hold of Corben Jatthew, to tie him down, and pull on his eyelids until they tore, to fill his eyes with blood. "Blood, yes, I'll make him cry a river of blood."

It was no angry fantasy this time. He was certain it was close, and what he felt was not his wish, but a true feeling, an echo of the future.

...

It was still warm, but Brandt felt cold in the cemetary. He checked it again, in spite of what Cato had said. A breeze blew over him, and licked his burn with an acid tongue. He rubbed it, but that made it hurt worse, another pain on top of the nagging hurts the Jatthew woman had hnaded him, when she'd clawed up his face. He scowled, and he swore, and the boys he'd brought shifted away from him. "What's wrong with ya?" No one dared an answer. Brandt turned on them with eyes as hot as the fire that had marked his face. "Ya gotta problem, dump it now. Dump it and bury it. Ya standin' in the right place."

Brandt left two guys to wait at the cemetary, and took another two with him when he got in his car to drive back to Republic avenue. They were quiet, and it worried him. Of course they'd seen the burn, he'd had no time to get it fixed up. And then there were the darkening stains on his shirt, Jerry's blood. Maybe they thought he was off-centre, those neat quirks of his brain unfolding. He felt wrong, because Cato was wrong, Cato was all wrong. "Fuckin' Japonica," he said. "Shoulda shot 'er and got it done."

"Boss?" It was Mcfadden, Killian Mcfadden, a young black boxer who'd won a lot of matches with his thumbs. More meat, thought Brandt.

"Shaddap, Killian."

He saw a flicker in the rear view mirror; Bill Hunter, his other piece of travelling muscle. He elbowed Killian, and gave him a dangerous look. Yeah, they were edgy.

As they neared Republic avenue, a county sheriff's car flashed them, but all it wanted was to get past. Brandt frowned. "He said 'follow the cops'," he said under his breath, "but I don't think he meant it like that." He'd been scanning the cop channels, but the only chatter was about a deer running around the highway somewhere near the Massachusetts state line. If they were after the Jatthews, they weren't talking about it.

Brandt didn't think too long about it. Cato had been clear: he was to get the Jatthews before the cops did. He didn't know what would happen if the cops took Corben and Randall away, but he knew he couldn't go back to Cato without one of them, or a second dead Jerry, at the very least. "Take ya safeties off, boys," he said. "We're gunnin' for the Jatthew brothers, and if the cops put in a claim, we cancel their asses."

"Aw shit, Brandt," said Killian.

"I second that," said Bill. "Snatching a pair of gimpy ass saps is a whole other planet from gun battles with the sheriff. I ain't no fuckin' cowboy."

"Ya whatever I say ya are. If ya don't like it, I'll say ya just a steamin' corpse, and we'll see how it comes out."

"I don't wanna do it," said Killian.

"Punch him inna face, Bill."

Bill looked at Brandt, and his objections vanished. He punched Killian so hard the blood from his nose spattered all three of them. "You shit Bill," said Killian, holding his bloody face.

"Shaddap and do what I say," said Brandt. He had his foot down, speeding to match the pace of the cop car.

Chapter 17

Corben and Randall sat in the car, relaxing in the afterglow of Corben's victory. "All this over a woman," said Corben. "But I guess you never did change." Mimi felt close, and somehow Randall seemed closer.

"Never grew up, is what you mean."

"Heh, I guess so. We went different ways."

"You mean you followed the sign that said 'build a real life and a business', and I went down the trail that said 'screw real life, and anything with breasts'."

He said it with such an easy manner that Corben couldn't take the least offence. He laughed. "We've got one thing in common," he said. "Our school's guidance counselor had no clue about either one of-"

He broke off as a police siren drove out the silence. A cruiser was parked behind them, and two men were getting out.

"Oh shit," said Randall. "We have to get out of here."

"It's okay," said Corben, not certain that it was. "We've done nothing wrong."

"Are you crazy? Why are the cops here? Why now? Dammit Corben, have you learned nothing?"

"Cool down," said Corben, to himself as much as to his brother. "I'll talk to them." He watched the cops in the rear view mirror. They were talking to each other, and one had a radio to his ear.

"No," said Randall. "No, no, no."

Some neurons clicked together in Corben's brain. "Tell me why you're so scared of the police."

"I..."

"Tell me now. Trust me, or I can't help."

Randall drew himself upright, tightened up, and then spoke with exaggerated distance. "If they find out who I am, they'll put me in jail."

"What? Randall, tell me you're not a criminal."

All Randall could do was shake his head, and say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Corben ground his teeth together. "Of all the times...Right." He started the engine. He saw the mirror-image cops jerk, and jump back into their car.

"You're running?"

"I've got no choice."

Randall took the gun from the dash, where Corben had dumped it before. He turned to Corben as the car began to move, his face a question.

Corben shook his head. "No."

"But..."

"No! That's worse than stupid, Randall. They're police officers. They're good guys."

"You don't know them like I do."

"We can't shoot cops. No matter how bad it gets, we can't do that."

Randall put the gun down, but his every gesture told his feelings. "You might wish you hadn't said that." He looked in the mirror. "They're gaining on us, Corben. What the hell can we do now?" He twisted in his seat so he could look through the back window at the county sheriff's cruiser, and the red and blue glare of the cop lights painted his handsome face, and drizzled his hair with lurid shades.

"Go faster," said Corben, flooring the accelerator. His Chrysler picked up speed, but it was not made to escape the law. His knuckles were white, his hands clamped to the wheel. He had believed he'd gone down to the depths of fear, plumbed the very bottom of the sea of terror, but the chase worked on him, and revealed a new, and awful thought; having come so close he could almost feel the warmth of Mimi's skin, he now saw he could lose her all over again. That vision was unbearable.

"It's not fast enough," said Randall. "They're cops. They're souped up, they got an engine fulla dynamite. What can we do?"

"I'm not a racing driver!"

"We haveta do something now. Oh God, I can't go back to prison."

"You were in prison?"

"Two and a half years ago. Not long after..."

"My wedding! So that's why you disappeared. Don't they give you a phone call?"

"I...Corben, I couldn't tell you. After everything I've put you through, I couldn't tell you. Oh man, this all happened because of me."

"Don't go to pieces now, Randall," said Corben. "We've come this far. We just have to keep ahead of them, and find a way to get back to the park..."

"But we don't have the package."

Corben punched the wheel, making the car horn blare out. "Shit!" A jogger in yellow spandex thought better of crossing the road. "We have to go back."

"We can't."

"But we need that package. I won Cato over with an almighty threat, but without that file, it turns into a punch from a dead minnow."

"I know," said Randall, who looked close to tears.

"If we don't go to that meeting, I'll...I'll never see Mimi again. I can't go to the meeting without the file. Help me, God. I need to solve this and I don't know how!"

The engine growled. They hit a patch of wet road, and Corben fought with the wheel.

"Stop the car," said Randall.

"Are you crazy? We can't go with the police, either. They'll arrest us for certain. We tried to escape. We are trying to escape."

"Pull over, Corben." He gripped his brother's arm. "I know what we have to do."

Corben looked at him, and he knew he didn't need to say anything. Randall could see what he thought, how he felt, with just a glance at his face. Whatever Randall was going to do, it needed to work.

"Corben," he said. "Trust me."

There it was. After just a few hours, they had burned through several years of life together. He had hated Randall when he'd shown up at his door. That felt like last year's halloween. Could he trust him?

"Damn me. Randall, this had better be stunning." He slowed the car.

"Not just yet," said Randall. "There! In there." He pointed at a narrow alley turning left off Republic avenue. "Get ready."

Corben didn't ask. He pulled into the alley. The sheriff's car was close behind.

"Now get out," said Randall. "Jump into that garden, and hide until I've got them away. Take the phone. Take the gun! I'll do something stupid if you leave it."

Now he understood. "Randall, man, I can't-"

"Go!"

Corben wished he had more time, but the siren wail was closing fast. If he was going to slip away, he had to go, he couldn't pour out his heart, though it tore open wounds he didn't know he had. He got the phone, opened the door and ran out, gun in his right hand. He got to a wooden fence that reached over his head. He tucked the gun down the back of his pants, and heaved himself over the fence. He fell onto a concrete patio, rolled, and took the fall on his shoulder. It still knocked the air out of his lungs, and he lay there for a long count, fighting to breathe, and fighting to breathe in silence. The police siren was loud in his ears, louder even than the thunder hammer of his heart, and he was sure the cops had seen him jump out of the car, had seen him hide in the garden. Then he heard an engine growl, and the squeal of tires being forced to rush before they could roll. The roar built up, and died away, and the siren followed it into silence.

Silence and darkness. The people who lived here were asleep or away. In either case, they weren't coming after him with guns. That was good enough. The slab of conrete felt like ice. The air carried a faint hint of roses, and the strong odour of spicy sausages, burnt on a barbecue. Perhaps the house owners were sleeping off the effects of a Friday afternoon garden party.

Corben decided he couldn't wait any longer. He froze his hands against the concrete, and lifted himself up. His body was unhappy; it hurt in more places than he could count, but it obeyed him. He checked the gun; it had slipped, but it was still there. He took it out, and made sure the safety catch was on. Then he faced the wall again, took a deep breath, and hefted himself over it.

Back in the alley, between nice houses with brick and marble facades, Corben took a moment to look for any sign of Randall or the police. They had been swallowed by the shadows and the byways of New Rochelle. "Good luck Randall, you son of a bitch. Never knew you were so brave."

He felt so alone.

Chapter 18

Corben ran back along Republic avenue, counting streets as he went; ninth, eighth, seventh...he hadn't realised how far they'd come. At first running was easy, but soon his legs began to feel tight and stiff. He'd been sitting too long; on a plane, in a taxi and then in his car. He'd had enough exercise, more than enough exercise, that morning in the forest. What was it called? He couldn't remember. "Detroit," he said to himself, "stupid place for a forest." Speaking out loud made the silence seem louder. He'd lost Randall. For the first time in years, he'd begun to feel close to his brother, his reckless rake of a younger brother, and now, after losing Mimi, he'd lost Randall, too.

A wind blew against his face, a cold breeze, the first cold of the thickening night. He'd seen Randall as a lusty Romeo with a bad memory, always mistaking some new girl for his last love. Now he saw that he'd let his brother drift out of focus, after school, and while his ideas about the man had gone stiff and dry, Randall had kept growing, kept changing, until he was almost a different person.

He kept running. His legs hurt, and his bruised chest hurt with every breath, but he kept running. Randall had changed, yes, but he was still his brother. The things he'd done, "what did he do?", the things he'd done, to get himself slung in jail, to get free, with an outstanding warrant, they'd grown out of the boy he'd been. Corben felt uncomfortable. He had an idea that he'd let Randall slip, let him pull too far away, pull until he was lost over memory's horizon. "If he'd told me what he was getting into, I could've helped him," he said. The cold wind took his words, added them to its keening voice.

"I should've helped him." It was guilt, now. A fat, hungry guilt, that sat on his back and gnawed at his spine. It was guilt over Randall, and guilt over Mimi, and guilt over every stupid blunder, and every proud, selfish act he'd ever made. Playing the consultant, he'd been playing the genius cowboy, the mythical stranger who rides into town to help a crowd of pathetic locals, and guns down their trouble to applause and awe. Now he saw that for all the problems he'd solved for other people, he'd failed to confront the troubles closest to his heart. "And I swore at him, I cursed the stupid sonofabitch. Now he's the one risking himself for me. I never thought he'd do that."

"I shut my heart to my brother," he said. "Damn me. I let this happen. Maybe I deserve this." He'd been so happy, so excited, that morning, thinking of the Hagger contract, and the good words people would say about him. He'd been more than excited, he'd been burning with electric fire when he'd thought of Mimi, and the wonderful magical gift it was, that day, their third wedding anniversary.

The thought of Mimi hit him like a bullet. It punched through the armour of guilt and self-reproach, it smashed them and stamped on the pieces. Whatever he had or hadn't done, it didn't matter. Even if he deserved every second of this acid torture, she was innocent.

"Mimi didn't ask for this. Mimi's the one who's in trouble. I can't let myself fall apart now. With Randall gone, I'm the only one left. I'm all she's got. If I drop now, Randall's trick won't be worth a patch of sand." He'd relaxed too much. He'd enjoyed himself too much, laughing and joking with Randall. "I thought it was over." Now he knew better. "It's not over. It won't be over until I've got Mimi in my arms, and Cato Block is chained to the bottom of the sea."

...

Randall drove with wild speed. He cut a corner, and the wheels jumped, shaking the car. The cops were a second behind, and he didn't have the power to get away. Even if he'd been a stunt driver, he couldn't ecape in the Chrysler; it was a good car, but it was never made to race with smokey bear.

He kept his foot on the pedal, pressing it with all his force, until his leg felt like a steel beam. He kept his foot to the floor, and his eyes on the road, and he couldn't keep the stupid grin off his face. He didn't know why he was happy, and he didn't care. He was running, and he was gonna run until the wheels fell off the car, or the road rose up and ate him.

The police car was loud behind him, and they were shouting something over their built-in loudhailer, but he couldn't make out the words. Everything was a blur. His life was picking up speed. His life was running faster than the Chrysler.

...

"He's gone down Culvert street," said Brandt. He slowed down, and let the dark green Chrysler and the sheriff's cruiser slip away.

"Hey, why are we stopping?" Killian leaned forward, grabbing the seat in front of him, and sticking his head into the front of the car. "I thought we was 'grab 'im or die trying."

"Culvert street is a dead end," said Brandt. "It's a concrete box, no way for a car, no way for car or man to run."

"So the cops will get him," said Bill. "That's no good, either."

"Then we get the cops," said Brandt. The boys didn't need to speak. He could read their opinion in their faces. "I don't like it either," he said. "But it's this way, or it's back to Cato, to explain why we got no Christmas this year." He started the car.

"This is a bad idea," said Killian.

"If ya think this is bad," said Brandt, "just wait for the next bit." He drove up to the mouth of Culvert street, and turned the car so it lay across the narrow road. He killed the engine. "Get out."

"What the hell is this?" asked Bill.

"Get out," said Brandt. "And check ya guns. Ya gonna need 'em in about three minutes."

...

Randall pulled up just in time to keep from slamming the Chrysler into a solid grey wall. He'd seen the road was built-up, he'dprayed for an exit at the other end, but God wasn't taking his calls. He started to reverse, but the cop car was almost on top of him, and there was no room in that cul-de-sac to turn the car. He looked for the gun, and remembered he'd given it to Corben. Everything fell away, all the manic excitement of the chase, all the joy of the gamble. The dice had rolled, and he was bust.

The cop car drew to halt. He watched them get out, guns up and ready. They weren't going to give him a chance. "I hate them," he said. "I hate their guns and their badges and their cages." But it wasn't true, he knew. He didn't hate the cops. He was scared of them, of the place they would put him. He'd been in prison just long enough to swear he'd stay out, to swear to do anything if it would keep him out of that cage. He was made for talking, and that wasn't enough for prison. Swearing didn't make it so. He'd come out sloppy and sullen, and messed up his first chance, a simple con down south, in Florida. It was coming back to get him.

"Don't send me back there," he said to the cops, though they couldn't hear him through the metal shell of the car. "Don't put me in that cage again. Cato will find me. He'll get me." That scared him worse; living in a cage was bad enough, but to be trapped in one, no choice but to wait for the beast to find him...he wished he'd never set eyes on Japonica Block.

"Police," he heard them say. "Get out of the car. We will shoot."

He thought of Corben, and hoped he'd got away clean, hoped he'd get Mimi back. Randall's only chance to escape Cato was for Corben to beat him. He prayed that he would, and that God would listen this time. Then he got out of the car, hands spread wide.

Much as he feared prison, he was more afraid to be shot.

They put him on his face. They put him on the ground. He pressed his cheek against the cold hard tarmac as they cuffed him, steel bracelets like ice, like biting ice on his skin. His arms hurt as they hauled him up, and his pride was hurt as one cop pushed him by the head, pushed him into their car.

...

Corben ran on, and the next crossing came up, the corner of Fifth street and Republic avenue. That was the place, that was where Jeff had sent his courier. "If Jeff sent the courier," he said to the night. He got to it, panting, damp sweat making the grey polo-neck sweatshirt cling to his back. The sweat was cooling, and the breeze was still there, making him cold.

He stood at the crossroads, and looked around. He heard the whisper of the breeze in green garden trees, the murmur of a distant television, and the fading roar of a motorbike. He turned to look down Fifth street, and saw the red light on the back of the bike, and his body acted without waiting for his brain's permission. He started to run.

The bike was a bad ways off, hard to catch on foot. He pushed his tired legs, and they moaned, but he ignored them and ran anyway. "Slow down," he shouted, but the biker didn't hear him, or didn't want to. The bike was nearing an intersection, and the light was red. He slowed down for that, and Corben pushed himself to run faster, his hopes rising. He got close enough to see the biker wore a red helmet. Then the light changed, and the biker hadn't needed to stop. "Damn!" Once he was past the intersection, the biker would get too far ahead, even if Corben had the legs of an olympic champion.

"Wait!" The biker was picking up speed, his engine sound like the death threat of a raging grizzly. Corben saw he couldn't catch him. He stopped running, and pulled the gun from his waist. He thumbed off the safety aimed, and tried not to think about all the people in the houses around him. He fired. The first shot went wide, so loud he winced, so he held the gun in both hands and steadied it. The second bullet struck true.

...

Randall was trying to get comfortable in the back seat of the police car, which was hard with his hands locked behind his back, and prison flashbacks turning everything he saw and felt into the touchstone of a waking nightmare.

He heard the cops talk. "I hope we get rid of this guy quick. My boy's got a fever, and I don't trust that old quack who come to see him."

"Doc Winter? I... Hey, what's that up ahead, Al?" said one cop.

"Looks like a car parked across the road," said the cop who was driving.

"Yup."

"Call for help," said Randall.

"Shut up," said the one who wasn't called Al.

"I mean it. Did you ever hear of Cato Block?"

"Isn't that a kind of sun cream?"

"Be quiet Al, and stop the car. And you," he turned to give Randall the eyeball, which proved quite effective since Randall was looking at him through chicken wire. "Clamp those lips tight, boy, or I'll feed you my taser."

Randall fell silent, but his mind was a storm. The cops were too confident. He could sense something was coming. He didn't know what, but he was sure it would be bad. His head was spinning. He felt sick.

They stopped the car in the road, with the engine running. Both cops got out, but Al was the one to check the car that blocked the road. His buddy chose to hang back and watch, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. Al got up close to the parked car. Randall held his breath.

The police car's lamps were on, but Al shone his flashlight into the car, and craned his neck, looking around. At last, he turned back. "Looks like some dumb kid playing April Fool's a couple months late. Come over here, will ya, and help me push this thing outa the way."

Al's buddy walked over to help. They got themselves behind the car, and leaned into it. Randall was watching through the chicken wire. He saw a flash of colour in the headlights of the cop car. Someone was under the car in front. As soon as he'd worked it out, he shouted, but they didn't hear him. He strained to get his hands out from behind his back, but he couldn't do it. The guy under the car rolled out, and raised a gun. Neither cop had seen him. He stayed low. Two more guys closed in on the car from different angles, blasting as they came. Al's buddy took a hit and crumpled, but Al used the car as a shield. It kept him being shot by the two guys coming in from the main road, but the guy who'd been hiding walked up, and shot Al in the back.

Randall fought the cuffs. He tried to slip them around his legs, but he couldn't. He kicked the cage, and the window, but it was no good. "They're dead. God, they're both dead. Oh no, oh no, they're coming for me. What can I do? What can I do?"

Chapter 19

The second bullet struck true.

The green traffic light popped and sparkled, and rained crystal fragments on the road. The biker threw on the brakes, and made a half-turn stop, his tires screeching. He looked at the shattered light, and back down the road, and saw Corben holding the gun. He tensed to move, but Corben put all his force into his voice as he said, "don't you move."

Corben walked to the biker, taking care to keep the gun up and ready. He didn't want to shoot the guy, but he wanted him to believe he would if he tried to zoom off. "You're the courier." He didn't answer. Corben couldn't see the face under the red helmet, but he could imagine how the man felt. He'd earned an advanced degree in empathy for people under threat, but he couldn't see any other way he could've stopped the biker. "You've got a package for me," he said. He was pretty close by then, close enough to see the Zippy Express on the back of the bike. He felt a surge of excitement. He'd been right!

"Take what you want, mister," the guy said. "Just don't shoot me."

He was close enough to see the face under the visor. It was just a kid, a teenage boy. He didn't look old enough to own a bike, let alone work as a courier. "I'm not robbing you," said Corben.

"Okay," the kid said. "So can I go?"

"You have something for me. My name is Jatthew, Corben Jatthew. You've got a parcel with that name on it."

"Yeah, but maybe you killed this Jatthew, and now you're trying to steal his parcel."

"For God's sake, don't argue with me! Here, look," he lowered the gun, and got out his wallet. "Look, here's my driver's licence. I am Corben Jatthew."

The courier reached for the wallet, his every movement showing deference, caution, and how much he wanted to not be near the gun. He snatched it from Corben's outstretched hand, glanced at his face, and whistled. "Uh, do you have to keep pointing that thing at me?"

"Don't do anything stupid, now." Corben lowered the gun, but he didn't put it away. Just then, he didn't trust anyone, not even a Zippy Express kid. The kid reached into the bag strapped to his bike, checked the name, and handed him the parcel.

"Thanks," said Corben. "You don't know how much this means to me."

"I know what it means to me," said the kid. "I need a new pair of pants."

Corben tucked the gun away, and took the hundred bucks he had in the wallet. He handed it to the kid. "You earned this. Now if you don't mind, I'd be very happy if you don't tell anyone what happened here."

"Mister, I seen how you solve problems, and I'd be very happy not to piss you off."

As the kid sped out of sight, Corben realised that he'd given away the last of his cash. Until Larry Vess popped out of nowhere with that two hundred grand, he'd be broke. And that was if Larry didn't steal it and call it a fee for 'intangibles'.

...

Brandt felt nervous about calling Cato. He'd shot two cops, and pulled in one Jatthew. Hours before, Cato would've given him a big fat thanks for getting Randall, but things had changed. Now Corben was the prize, and his brother was just one more damned annoyance.

"Cato," said Brandt, "we got Randall."

"And Corben?"

"We took him off a coupla cops. Corben wasn't there."

"Find him! Unless Randall is the one with the magic wand, he's a waste of blood and skin. I want Corben."

"We hadda shoot the cops, two cops, onna street. We can't stay out here now. Randall musta ditched Corben a ways back."

"They must have a plan to meet up later. Randall is a distraction; Corben is trying to make things tough, trying to force us to obey him."

"Randall could tell us about that, mebbe. Cato, I need to get off the road. People of seen us hit the cops."

"Fine! Bring that fucker Randall back to the house. I'll get words out of him. I'll get what I want."

Brandt dropped the phone, and twisted in his seat to leer at Randall, stuffed between Bill and Killian, his arms still cuffed behind his back. "We got ya, ya dirty prick. Hoo ha! Ya best relax back there, get cosy. Ya gonna meet Cato soon, real soon, and then, ya gonna be done with cosy, done with it for life." He snorted, and spat in Randall's face.

His jeers masked a flush of relief. Cato hadn't got mad.

...

Corben was close to Republic avenue, when he heard a car coming up it at speed. Someone was in a rush. He swore, ran into a garden, and hunkered down behind a big old rosebush. The car was loud, was right there on the corner, was turning down Fifth street, tires screeching. Corben shrank. The car came down Fifth street, came closer to him, so close he smelled the exhaust. He could almost feel the warmth of its engine. The car was right next to him, and then it was past, burning gas and asphalt as it tore away down Fifth street.

Corben closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to cool down. His heart was beating, and his hands were trembling. There was fresh sweat on his forehead, and his polo neck was still damp from running after the Zippy Express courier. "I'm too tense," he said. The rosebush didn't argue. Any other day, a speeding car would have got nary a reaction, just another sign of modern life. Tonight, every sound out of place, every hint of haste or danger made him want to run, or leap into the nearest hole. That had got worse since he'd lost Randall. With his brother there, he'd had someone to talk to, someone to share strength with, even someone to swear at when things went wrong.

Being alone was hard.

"So it's hard," he said. "Find a new angle, take control. Improve on disaster. You're a consultant, Corben. You solve problems other people can't. Get out from behind the rosebush and solve this ugly mutha."

He stood, and got back on the street. There had been more than an edgy gut telling him to hide when that car came racing by. He was alone, and on foot. The place he had to go, Fern park, was a long walk. If Cato or Brandt came driving along Republic avenue, they'd spot him. He couldn't afford to gamble against it. "So don't take the avenue," he told himself. Another road ran parallel to Republic avenue, at least for part of it. It was back down Fifth street, but he didn't see a better choice.

He ran. He didn't know Westchester, but every direction he'd got from Randall, every turning he'd taken on his way to Cato's house, and Fern park before it, glowed in his memory. He ran past houses lit from within, and houses dark and silent, families lying snug in warm beds. He had woken with that comfort in his future. That comfort had gone, been broken. He had what he needed to get it back, yes, he'd paid for it. As much as he'd been mad at his brother, he felt his absence more than he knew how to say. There was no one to hear him, out there on the road. There was no one to listen, and no spoke, except the whispering breeze, the breeze that wafted across houses and gardens, and brought him the scent of apples and creosote. The light was a clear light, white from the streetlamps, not orange like his street in Boston. It made the brick houses and the green gardens shine, but it raised deep shadows all around.

He ran, and every thrum of a distant car pulled his heart in two. He was afraid that the cops, or Cato, or Brandt, would drive up and get him. That was too easy to imagine. He also felt a warm surge of hope, that always fell back and left him feeling worse; what if Randall came back for him? In spite of their troubled, battling history, the time with Randall had given him back something he'd forgotten he'd lost. Now that had been taken away, and it hurt like a fresh cut.

He still had hope. The one thing he hadn't lost that night, the one thing he needed to keep, that was with him. He had hope, the package in his hand. With that, he could still turn this round on Cato, could get Mimi back. Maybe Randall would pop up again, a shock, a surprise gift. Maybe they would all sit down together, and talk, and cry, and laugh.

"I have to believe it," he told himself. "I have to believe it will happen."

It was hard, and the road was long, the shadows deep as the night grew colder.

Chapter 20

"Hello Randall," said Cato, and then punched him in the face. He fell onto the stone of Cato's porch. "Bring him in," said Cato. He turned his back, and went into the house. Brandt and his boys got Randall to his feet, and took him inside.

"In here," said Cato, and Brandt shoved Randall into the living room. Cato lounged on the couch. He patted the leather cushion beside him. "Sit down, Randall. I like to give my guests a tour of the house, but you've already seen the attractions."

Randall let himself be dumped on the couch. If Cato wanted to play the host, it was better than a kick in the head. He squirmed around, cursing the cuffs, until he was sitting upright, to laughter from the Blocks. It was a large, airy room, but Cato and Brandt seemed to fill it up. Brandt's hoods were behind him, but with Cato Block at his side, they faded into the background. The couch was nice; without the cuffs, he might have been comfortable. Cato leaned forward, pushing his forehead against Randall's face. "I like to be nice to my guests," he said, resting his head against Randall's face. "I want to treat them like visiting ambassadors, at the court of the king."

Randall found he couldn't breathe. There was no obstruction, he just couldn't make his lungs work.

"I want to show them how good it is, when you're a friend of Cato Block."

Randall fought for breath, but he'd lost the power to move. Cato's presence had invaded his body, had seized control of his muscles, and held him, paralysed, not even able to whisper.

"But you stole from me. You came into my house without asking, and you took my most precious jewel, soiled it with your dirty hands and your filthy cock. You took my treasure, Randall Jatthew." Cato drew back, but still he loomed over Randall. "You came into my home and stole the joy from my marriage," he spoke louder. "You reached inside my chest and stole the blood from my heart." Cato paused. "I will take back what you stole."

Randall was able to breath once Cato had stopped touching him, but he got small relief. Gasping, his belly filled with icy sickness. His long run was over, and the pain was seconds away. He was scared, more scared than he'd been when Brandt had crashed through Corben's door, more scared than when he'd gone to the cemetary in Fern park, when his legs had stopped working, and refused to carry him along with his brother. He was more scared than if Cato had put a gun to his head, because that would be quick.

This would not be quick.

He still held one hope, one tattered rag of hope, and he raised it like a banner, like the flag of his heart. With one desperate effort he pushed through the fear, the silent wall of despair. "Corben has you by the balls."

Cato said nothing.

"If you hurt me," Randall said, "he will send in the feds to kick your ass into jail."

Cato cocked his massive, lumpish head.

"You can't touch me, Cato," said Randall, excited by his own daring.

Cato stared at him, his head on one side, and he waited. Randall's words dried up. He had but one weapon, one threat, and he'd used it. He could think of nothing else, and with his hands cuffed, he could do nothing else.

"...by the balls," said Cato. "Do you know, Randall, for most people, that's just a figure of speech." He smashed a fist into Randall's belly, and he folded over, choking in pain. Then he felt Cato's thick fingers at his crotch, curling around his balls. He felt Cato squeeze, squeeze them in a weightlifter's grip. It felt as if he had a crocodile chewing on his balls. He screamed, a long, awful, raw cry of crushing, despairing agony.

The pressure went away. Randall sagged forwards, the tension in his arms keeping him from flopping onto his knees. The grip was gone, but the pain remained, no mere echo, but a constant assault, a scream locked in his system. His belly hurt still, a lesser pain that made it hard to breathe. He sobbed, and he gasped, and there was no escape. The pain was constant, relentless. It was inside him, and he wished for a knife or a pair of pliers, so he could tear it out. He could imagine the damage, and he could see the damage yet to come, the endless butchery of the blood-stained night.

"This is the beginning," said Cato, pressing his lips against Randall's ear, so the words came like a shout inside his brain. "Of your death."

...

"Randall!"

He lifted his head up from the carpet, and twisted his neck until he saw her. "Mimi. Oh..." He let his face drop onto the carpet again. It took too much effort to hold it up, too much strength to look, when he needed every nerve and muscle to help him fight off the pain. They'd punched him and kicked him, and through it all he knew it was just the beginning, just the beginning.

"Is that how you treat your sister? She is your sister," said Cato. "Family is what marriage does. Aren't you happy to see her?"

Randall had trouble speaking. His throat was raw from screaming. It hurt to draw breath, and it hurt to send it up from his chest, to form words with it. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. The words died inside him.

"Randall..." Mimi was scared. There were tears in her voice.

"Don't you love your sister? Of course not, what am I thinking? You don't care about family, or love, or marriage. You don't care about rights, you have no notion of wrongs. You don't understand justice." Cato rested his foot on Randall's back. "You're an animal, Randall." He put weight into his foot, forcing air out of Randall's lungs. "You don't understand. You don't know why this is happening."

"Stop hurting him! Please, stop hurting him."

Randall was shocked. As much as he hurt, he could still be surprised. When he'd seen Mimi, he'd seen the torn, damp dress, the bloodstains, and the red marks on her face. He'd seen eyes red from crying, and a mouth loose and open in a silent wail. He thought he'd seen defeat, the despair of a woman who'd been broken down until nothing remained but her own narrow hell.

He'd thought he'd seen himself.

Randall saw he was wrong. Mimi was crying now, but not for herself. She was crying for him. She was speaking, pleading for him, when he could no longer speak for himself. She still had room in her heart to care for another, even him. Even me, he thought.

"Please stop," she said.

"Shall I stop, Randall? Shall I stop hurting you?" Cato took his foot off Randall's back, and walked past him. Randall shifted his head so he could see. Cato took Mimi by her throat. He looked back at Randall. "Shall I stop, Randall?"

"Beast," said Mimi. Then the pressure must have got too much for her to speak, and her face turned red. She tried to get away, but someone was standing behind her, holding her. Tears rolled down her face and shined on Cato's hand. Randall saw that Mimi was on the edge of breaking, on the edge of being a dead soul. She had given him a gift, though. Her words and her helpless love had given him a gift.

"Corben's coming, Mimi. He's going to come for us."

Cato dropped her, and she fell back, gasping, against the other man. "What?" He came down on Randall with death on his face. "What?" He got Randall by the arms and picked him off the ground as if he was made of straw. "No one's coming for you!" He tossed Randall headfirst against the bookshelves, and he felt a blinding pain, and then he hit the floor again, with heavy books falling upon and around him. "You are already dead!" Cato kicked Randall, and kicked him again, explosions of pain in his shoulder and kidneys.

"Stop it, you monster," said Mimi. "Corben will come! He will come!"

Cato froze. Randall was straining to get upright, and retching from the pain. Cato looked from Mimi to Randall, and back. Randall could hear the smile in his voice. "So tell me. Tell me about Corben."

"No," said Mimi.

Cato took a folding knife from his pocket, and snapped it open with his thumb. "Tell me," he said.

Mimi shook her head. "No..."

Cato grunted. He yanked at Randall's left ear, and cut off a piece of the lobe. Randall tried to hold in the pain, but he couldn't. He moaned. Cato flung the piece of ear in Mimi's face. She shrieked, and jerked at the man holding her, but she couldn't get free. Cato stood over her. Mimi shook her head, and tried to look away, but he took hold of her jaw, and forced her to look at him. He pressed the point of his bloody knife into the soft flesh where the jaw and the throat join. "Tell me. Feel the knife? Tell me everything, little girl, or I'll cut this man open and let you try to hold his guts together with your hands."

Mimi groaned. "God...God...alright, alright, I'll do it." She sobbed, and Randall sobbed, their strength undone.

Chapter 21

Cato washed his hands in the kitchen sink. He liked the heat of the water, and it was interesting to watch the blood stream and swirl down the plug hole. Brandt had told him about the cops, and now he was making a sandwich with rye bread, cheese, and some wild boar sausage that Cato had got flown in from Munich. "Yeah," said Brandt, through a mouthful of wild boar. "I got 'im offa the cops just a coupla minutes after they got 'im. Dunno where he dropped his bro'."

"That was after we spoke, right?"

"Shit, Cato, we spoke a lot." He made a lot of noise as he ate. The boar smelled like roast pork, and it made Cato's mouth get moist.

"Gimme that sandwich," he said.

"There's the bread," said Brandt.

"I want yours."

"Up ya hole, big brother. I done all the hot work today." He rubbed his burn.

Cato sniffed. "You want to know about hard work? I been trying to keep a rein on Sylvester Blair, only I think he upped and fucked us. I told the sonofabitch to send the cops home, and then they grabbed our boy out there."

"Who ya got chasin' down that hacker?"

"Who do you think?"

Brandt held his eyes. "Ya better kill 'im."

"Hmm."

"But ya don't want to."

"Everything's been hard today," he sniffed. As well as German sausage, he could still smell the faint aroma of onions, and with it the last lingering hint of cinnamon. He felt weak. "Sylvester's the only guy in play I thought could hurt us, and look what Randall got his brother to do. Sylvester's taken their idea, and he thinks he's ready to make it work for him."

"Are ya scared?"

"Give me your fucking sandwich!"

Brandt laughed, and tore it in half. "I made enough for two."

He thought about pressing Brandt for the whole thing, but something in him didn't want that. He took the sloppy chunk of bread, cheese, and rich sausage, and bit into it, tearing at it with his teeth. He chewed fast and then swallowed, relishing the flavours. He grinned at Brandt through a mouthful of sandwich. "This is good."

"Yeah," Brandt nodded. "This is the best."

"I gotta call to make."

Brandt bit into his sandwich, and nodded. "I'll be here."

...

Sylvester Blair didn't have many men he could count on. He didn't know who he could trust. When you've sold your soul, every man looks like another one of the damned. He hadn't wanted to go after the mystery hacker himself, but, once the tracer work was done, he'd looked at his choices, and suffered. It wasn't a game, taking over an attack on the Blocks, and making it his own. It would take one man, one unhappy underpaid slob, with a mortgage and a girl on the side, and Sylvester Blair would be a target for every thug and chancer in New York. Cato would see to that. He didn't want to go alone.

Sometimes you don't want to go where everybody knows your name.

He got to the apartment building, a gleaming high-rise, standing out from a rent-controlled slum one block over. The area was in the midst of a building project, urban renewal. Sylvester cast his eyes around at the rotting buildings, and remembered when they, too, had been in the vanguard of 'renewal'. The air was greasy, like the kitchen at a cheap burger joint, saturated with the odours of scorched meat and cheap cigarettes, and every stretch of road, every door and broken window, all was stained by the drudgery, the daily touch of people so worn down, so smothered, that every day the best choice they could make was the worst they could imagine. A few escaped to better places. Most survived by letting themselves die, a piece at a time, beginning with the thing that burned them with the worst pain: their hope.

Sylvester scowled. He hated being in that place, alone, exposed. What was the good of working up to assistant commissioner, if it didn't keep him safe? The part of him that was still a policeman told him he was supposed to make that place safe. He shook his head. It would take more than a few cops to do that. It would take a new industry, a corporate powerhouse, giving work and pay and healthcare; money for water and power, money for schools. And the street kids, too smart for school, too dumb to work, and their numb, despairing parents, they would none of them be qualified to buy seats on that rocket. "We're gonna educate your kids into tomorrow," went the promise of the politicians, but Sylvester knew well that education begins in the home. In his eyes, these kids were doomed from conception.

Then there was the tower. Someone was putting money into construction, but who would come and live there? Why build a house you can't sell? He narrowed his eyes as he looked up at it. Someone was running a game. He could feel it. His hands itched to get at the books on that tower, and see who was playing, and what he could get out of them. To hell with keeping the world safe; he knew what world he was living in, and he knew what he wanted from it.

"Get the kid, get the kid," he told himself, and walked to the doors of the tower. He knew what he had to do, and he also knew why he'd lingered outside. It was Cato Block he felt, standing at the door of the tower. It was Cato Block, looming over him like a giant, and the night was his shadow.

"The sun's coming up. My sun's rising, you sonofabitch."

Jeff Mcgubby answered his knock. "Yeah?" He looked like a fat slob, like an MTV brat who'd got older and wider but somehow avoided getting any adult graces, like combed hair and a clean shirt. The bright red heavy metal t-shirt he wore was stained with some kind of green drink, and littered with crumbs. He wiped his mouth with his hand, smearing crumbs into his straggly beard. "Who're you?"

"NYPD," said Sylvester. "I need to talk to you."

"Uh," Jeff's eyes flickered. "It's pretty late, so could you come back tomorrow? Or maybe you could leave a number, and I'll-"

"This can't wait," said Sylvester. He pushed the door wide open, and stepped inside. Jeff backed away, waving his arms.

"Hey, uh, like, do you have a warrant, or something? I don't think you can just barge in like this."

"No," said Sylvester, scanning the cramped apartment. "But I do have a gun." He drew back his jacket, to show the kid.

Jeff put on hand behind his head, and rubbed the back of his neck. His mouth hung open. "I work for homeland," he said.

Sylvester smiled, all teeth. "I know all about you. Why do you think I'm here?" As soon as he said it, he knew he'd got his man. Jeff went pale, and he squeezed the flesh on the back of his neck so hard it must have hurt.

"I only did it to help a friend. He said his wife was in danger. Someone took her."

"Cato Block."

"Aw shit, you know everything, don't you. I thought I was careful. I thought I was doing the right thing. Please, please, don't send me to jail. I'll do anything."

"Jail?" Sylvester feigned surprise. "Who said anything about jail?"

"You mean..." Hope battled disbelief on Jeff's soft face.

"Jeff Mcgubby," said Sylvester, "I'm going to give you a chance to do a great service for your country."

"Really? You mean it? Yes! Yes, please. Let me do it. I'll do anything if you promise to keep me out of jail."

Sylvester put his hand on Jeff's shoulder. "I promise, Jeff. You will never see the inside of a jailhouse."

It didn't take long to see how he'd done it. Once Jeff started telling Sylvester about his work, he got swept away by that special rush that techies and gearheads get, that strange and special wonder inspired by the silicon muse.

"I wouldn't have thought you could do all that," said Sylvester, "sitting in your apartment."

"You have no idea what I'm working with. It's like overclocked evolution. I mean like geometric progression, acceleration. My laptop is just a hub, but the network I'm plugged into is like the whole mammalian brain, and all the rest of the world is just a pile of creaky lizard neurons."

Sylvester ignored most of what Jeff said. The guy was like a kid, no idea what he was into. "And you can just turn this on and off. You can flip a switch, and shut down any asshole."

"There's no switches, but yeah, really, I can."

"Can you show me how you did it?" That was vital. If he could get rid of Jeff, there would be no one between him and Cato. He'd have the power.

"Yeah, yeah, I'd be happy to. It does get a bit technical, but I'll try and make it easy on you."

His heart did not jump. What Jeff thought of as 'a bit technical' was probably beyond Sylvester's ability to follow, and he knew it. "Well thank you," he said, keeping the frustration out of his voice. He'd hoped to get a weapon out of this. He still could, but it would take an old-fashioned approach to make it work. He was going to have bloody hands. "Thanks again," he said. "You're an unusually helpful guy."

"Oh hey, it's not every day that I meet someone who appreciates this kind of thing. It's not like I can talk to just anyone about my work. Hah, if I ever told the wrong guy, I'd be in a pool of shit deep enough to fertilise Texas."

"That's quite an image," said Sylvester. "Your laptop...you could run this thing from just about anywhere, I guess."

"Forget 'just about'. I can sit in Bahrain and reach from Reykjavik to Rio."

"Good. Get your shoes on."

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Not Bahrain. Let's go."

"Um," Jeff scratched his beard. "I'm not sure about this."

"Remember, son," said Sylvester, "this is a grand opportunity. Not everyone has the skill to serve his country the way you can. There is an enemy out there, a vile, insidious foe. He has deceived the American public, he has deceived business leaders and statesmen, but he has not deceived you. We have an opportunity to trap one of this country's worst villains. You can not afford to let this slip away. You have much to gain; honour, respect, and my personal goodwill, but you don't know what you will lose if you let this slip away, son."

He avoided saying 'jail' again, but he put the threat under and behind every word he said. He could see it on Jeff's face. He could see it in the way the slobbish geek hunched, in the tension that drew his shoulders in close to his neck, the primitive instinct to protect himself. He watched the struggle go on under Jeff's skin, but it was a weak struggle; Jeff knew he had gone too far. He was already committed.

He was too scared to disobey.

They went from Jeff's apartment to Sylvester's car, and it wasn't long before they were approaching his office, in the Manhattan financial district. As he drove, Sylvester fought hard to keep the excitement off his face, and out of his voice. He felt jubilant. He wanted to sing. He had gambled, and the gamble had brought him a great prize. No longer was he going to follow the orders of a gangster. No more would he feel the choking metal collar around his neck. He, Sylvester Blair, was going to be his own man, for the first time in his life as a man. Driving a stretch along the waterfront, he saw the lights out on the water. One of them, he knew, was the goddess of New York, the lady, Liberty. Whenever he'd seen her before, he'd yearned for what she stood for. Tonight, he knew her blessing, her glory.

It happened as they got out of the car. A black van was parked nearby. The side door slid open, and four men got out. They wore casual clothes, jeans and loose jackets, and their faces had the weathered look of street guys who'd missed one too many chances. He felt that awful moment, the same feeling of being weightless, that he got every time he saw bad news coming. They spread out. Sylvester saw they carried guns. It just confirmed what he'd been thinking as soon as he'd seen that van door slide open. One of them came close. He knew the face; Ned Warburg, a vice detective.

"Hiya Ned," he said, "it's pretty late, but you vice boys rise with the moon, am I right? Lotta boys with you tonight. What's up?"

"That him?" Ned pointed through the window at Jeff, who sat in the car with his arms wrapped around his knees. Sylvester knew. He'd slipped, he'd fallen into the hole. It hurt more, because he knew he'd dug the stupid thing himself.

"That, boys, is a federal witness in a very important case," he said, inventing as fast as he could. "I was asked to pick him up as a special favour to assistant director Sam Woodright of the FBI. If you want to help me escort him to my office, I'll be sure you all get on the fast track for a commendation."

"You assistants all stick together, huh?"

"If you're too busy to give us an escort, then I'll be saying good night."

Ned moved his hand, the hand with the gun. He didn't quite point it at Sylvester, but he didn't point it away, either. Sylvester knew Ned had committed himself to it when he'd come for him with a gun, but Ned wasn't in line with himself on the matter. It was easy to make promises over the phone, but a promise to a man like Cato Block was always a sacrifice.

"Ned, you haven't gone too far. I can imagine what he offered you, and I can tell you, son, it isn't worth it."

"What the hell do you know?" Ned raised the gun, and Sylvester saw he meant to use it. He didn't think, he grabbed Ned's wrist with both hands and tried to twist it around, tried to get that gun pointing somewhere else. Ned was too strong to overpower, and he was angry, he was so angry, he was cursing even as he strained, and Sylvester thought his arm would break, the muscles tear as he wrestled the murderous traitor cop. Then Ned kicked him in the shin, and he grunted, and as his hand slipped, Ned tore the gun out of his grasp, and hit him in the face with the barrel. Sylvester saw a flash of light, and then he was lying on his back. Ned stood over him, his gun up and ready, but Sylvester's hands remembered what his brain had forgotten; they got out his own gun, and he fired, and fired, and Ned reeled and fell away.

The men were shouting, he heard a crack, and a car window smashed right next to him. Sylvester tried to get at his car, but another gun blasted nearby, and he dropped to the ground, and fired into the night where he thought one of the shooters might be. "God damn me," he said, and started to crawl away. A bullet punched a hole in the skin of his car, and he smelled gas. He hadn't thought he could feel worse, but he did. He could stand to be shot, if it was quick, but to get soaked in gas and lit up, that scared him more than anything, he'd had a friend in the fire department go that way, and after he'd seen what was left of him, he'd had weeks of nightmares.

He crawled around one car, and saw a man's silhouette against a streetlight. He fired, and the shadow dropped away. Why was no one coming to help? They were outside the office, for God's sake. The car park should have been swarming with cops, and instead he was alone against these gunmen. "Help me," he shouted. Someone laughed.

"No one's coming for you, Sylvester." Was it Ned? Was Ned alive? He had to be dead. "You're all alone, Sylvester."

"You're going to jail, you sonofabitch! You're all going to jail. They're gonna strap you down and inject you!"

"You're gonna die out here, Sylvester."

"No, no, no," he said. It was too easy to believe. He could see it, his body, lying in the dark between parked cars. He had no friends, no buddies, no one left to help him. He couldn't let it happen. "Please," he said. "Please, I'll make a deal."

"Throw away your gun," the guy said, still sounding like Ned. He was sure he'd killed Ned.

"Just walk away. You want the kid? The hacker kid? Take him. He's yours."

"We're taking him out now," the guy said. "Don't do anything dumb, Sylvester."

He lay still, and listened to them open the car, heard the fat hacker squeal, and grunt when someone hit him. Then he heard thumping, and the door of the van sliding shut. He began to think he was going to live. He waited for the sound of the engine. He waited, and it began to seem that he'd been waiting forever to hear that engine. Why were they waiting? He was afraid he knew why; they wanted him. He felt the cold of the tarmac seep up through his clothes, and soak his body in ice water.

Th engine rumbled, and he listened as the big black van idled out of the parking lot. He felt ice cold, chilled almost to death, but alive, alive still. He sighed. He lifted himself up, and leaned against the car beside him. He wanted a drink. He wanted a cigarette. Sighing, he walked towards the office, gun hanging loose in his hand. His feet weighed a thousand tonnes apiece, and his back was as stiff as a dead cat, but he was alive.

"That's enough." He knew the voice. It was harsh, like it cost some pain to speak. "Be still. You know I've got a gun on you." His body stiffened up, and his relief evaporated, leaving him dried up and dead inside. "You don't wear a vest, do you, Sylvester? I can tell you, they're worth it, the heat, and the heaviness, even the itching. But the one thing they don't stop is the pain. I think you broke my fucking ribs."

He thought about turning, but he knew he wouldn't make it. His body was tight, cold, and getting colder. The doors of the office were a few steps away. He wanted to run, and knew he wouldn't live.

"I gave you the boy," he said. "Please, I gave you the boy."

"We woulda had 'im anyway."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shot you, Ned."

"This isn't personal, Sylvester. You know why I have to do this. You know you brought it on yourself. I do admit, it will give me satisfaction. My chest really hurts."

No matter what I do, he thought, Cato Block wins. I can't beat him. The thought made him angry, not the hot anger of outrage, but the cool, dull anger of despair.

The gun was in his hand. He turned, and fast as he was, he knew he'd never make it. He got off a shot, a long way wide, and the return was immediate; a blow in his gut like an Olympic punch. He stiffened, and dropped, and he heard the thud of his body more than he felt it, the pain in his belly too much, far too much to share his nerves with anything less. First it was a shock too intense to understand, a pain so great he couldn't recognise it. Then it ebbed, just a little, just enough, and he tried to scream. There was a monster, a gnawing insect, crawling in his stomach, chewing at his insides. It hurt, it hurt so bad, and his lungs didn't work, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn't get air in to do more than groan.

He lay dying, and he knew he was dying, and he was cold and he was alone. He tried to fight it, but the pain was worse that way, so he let it slip, let his body slip, and as he let that fingerless grasp loosen, he felt himself lighten. He never realised what weight he'd been carrying until he let it go. As he drifted further into a space he couldn't see, a face rose up before him. The Fernando boy, with skin like chocolate and silk, and eyes like an oil well, burning. One more time, he wished, one more time with you.

And then darkness.

Chapter 22

Corben got to the park. He checked his watch; eleven. He had an hour until the meeting with Cato. He looked around, and saw Fern park was as dark and quiet as he'd left it. Last time, Brandt had been there, waiting for him. Was he still there? Corben checked his gun. It felt warm from being close to his skin, but it had a burnt stink about it. He had nine bullets left. He prayed he wouldn't need them.

He looked up and down the road. He went to the spot where he'd parked earlier that night. Randall wasn't there. He'd hoped to see Randall again. He'd hoped that Randall had got away from the Westchester sheriff, and come to meet him for the endgame. It hurt to see he hadn't made it. There were lots of reasons, lots of things that might have kept Randall away, he told himself. He was probably in a jail cell, trying to get a lawyer. He hadn't run off, he hadn't left Corben to do this alone, no, he told himself, Randall wasn't there because he couln't be there, because he had no choice. That had to be it.

He'd rehearsed his plan over and over again on the run to the park. The documents he had were proof, a sign, that was all. The threat itself was in Jeff's hands, and it was already active. He told himself he already had Cato in a trap, the jaws biting at him, pinching his skin. Cato wanted to get out of that trap, and that was Corben's promise, that was his power. "Power is a deal," he told himself. "Power is a bargain. He wants to be free, I'm sure of it. A man like Cato would sell anything to keep free and rich." He'd already sold Cato on the trade. It would work. It had to work; he needed this deal to go well, more than he'd needed anything in his life.

Still, with everything to lose, he was afraid. A handful of papers, a handful of dirt. It could send the man to prison for a hundred years, but would it save one woman's life?

...

He saw them by the light of their cigarettes. Two men stood inside the gates of the cemetary. One leaned against the bars of the fence, and the other walked back and forth. He looked all around, but he didn't see any sign of Mimi, and neither of the men was big enough to be Brandt. He guessed they were waiting for him. It was too early for Cato to be idling in the cemetary. He was left with one reason for their presence.

"It's a trap," he said. The breeze had no answers for him. It brushed his face and hair, and blew the cut-grass scent of the park into his nose. He remembered earlier in the day, how he'd got the jump on some of the boys from Hagger. He started to follow the fence, to walk around the edge of the cemetary. It took him ten minutes to find another gate. He came at it with caution, but there was no one guarding this entrance.

Corben knew it wasn't safe to get close to those two guys. He wanted to keep them in sight, but he was worried about being seen. Having the gun didn't improve his confidence. The first time he'd shot at something, he'd missed, and that had been a traffic light; a bright, fixed target. Anyhow, he'd never so much as hit a man with a blunt stick, let alone tried to shoot someone. The idea of it sickened him. Sure, he'd had training, that brief adventure holiday laid on by a happy client, and he liked to play paintball, but they were games, both of them just games. The best use he could see for the gun was to smack someone in the head with it. The one time he'd seen a man get shot was when Randall blew in a hole in Brandt's housebreaking pal, and that had disgusted him.

"I'll never get those stains up," he said, not sure if he meant the marks on his carpet, or the memories. "I've got more vital matters than memory," he said to himself. He was surrounded by graves. He crouched down, and put an old, worn headstone between his body and the bruisers at the front gate. He ripped open the Zippy Express package, and started to go through the files that Jeff had sent him. He hoped Jeff was okay. That thought led to another. He'd got Jerry to send those files so he'd have some bargaining power in his hands. He wasn't sure he could trust anyone else to give him help; look what Larry Vess had done. Turning to Jeff had been a good choice, but it was Corben's play now.

He remembered talking about this to Randall. "I should have had a back-up from the start." He had a little time left. "If I'm gonna do it, I need to do it now. I can't afford to make this easy for Cato." By the weak light of the phone, he sorted through the files until he had what he needed. He took that one sheet out from the rest, and put it aside. He considered putting the rest back into the Zippy Express package, but he had another use for that.

"What can I do with these?" He looked around the graveyard for the biggest, most ornate headstone, and his eyes were drawn by a black marble monolith, topped with a weeping angel. He peered around the edge of his hiding place, but he was alone. He went over to the angel. There were fresh flowers on the grave, and the grass was cut short. He could smell the flowers. The stone angel held out her right hand in a gesture of farewell. She clasped her left hand to her breast. Corben rolled up his papers, and tucked them into the angel's left hand. He stepped back, and smiled. In the dark of the night, the papers vanished, at one with the black stone.

...

Japonica lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. In her mind, she paraded the scenes of her past: as a little girl, with scraggly blonde pigtails, running after her father, and laughing; as a teenager, wearing a tempting red dress for her first real party, delighting at the hunger she inspired in the boys, and the envy that burned in other girls eyes; as a young woman, winning her first stage audition with no more than the promise, the steamy promise in her eyes. The man who'd been casting had sent all the other girls home that day, and taken her out to lunch. That was a small victory; netting Cato had been her biggest.

Tears welled up in eyes already red from sobbing. She surprised herself; she'd thought she had no tears left, but here were more. She might run out of clothes, of food, of money, of love...she would never run out of tears. That was the one gift Cato would keep giving her forever. Forever, or until death.

"I had a future once," she said to herself. "I had dresses, and shoes. I had children, I had a husband who loved, who loved-" She choked on the words. Cato had cut her so deep, had cut into her heart, and had bled out the dreams. It felt as if he had reached into the past, and stained her whole life with the subtle shade of blood.

"What's left? What do I have left?" He had told her the answer. She would die. He would kill her. It had a kind of terrible logic; he had killed her hopes, strangled her soul. It made sense that he would kill her body.

She wept. She had looked into the future, and seen nothing. All she had left was the grim vigil, alert for the moment when he would end her. She didn't even consider running. Japonica knew her husband now, knew what kind of power he could wield when he chose. If she ran, she might have got free for a day, or a year, but always, always she would be waiting for the day. He would come for her, and he would make it worse for the running. Who else would suffer if she ran? Should she bring him down on her family? She shivered at the thought.

Nothing left. Nothing but the wait. No hope, but that it would be quick, painless. The one choice left, to struggle or not. She stood up, wiped her eyes and face with a tissue, and opened the cabinet beside her bed. She took out the handcuffs, his handcuffs. He liked to play with toys sometimes, real, living toys. These were police type cuffs, strong and solid. She found a thick nylon cord, another of his toys, and took it to the cupboard. Her cupboard was big and strong, and built into the wall. She opened it up, and tied the cord to the hanger rack. Then she tied the other end around her neck. She yanked on the line, made sure it was all firm. Then she cuffed her hands together.

She paused for a second, realising she hadn't left a message. Then she laughed, a cold, bitter chuckle. This would be all the message she needed to leave. "Fuck you, Cato Block," she said.

She stood, facing away from the cupboard. She closed her eyes, and remembered being a little girl. She remembered the summer she turned six, taking swimming lessons in elementary school. Standing on the diving board, looking into the deep blue water, and listening to the voice of her instructor, "come on, Japonica. The water's warm. It won't hurt." She smelled chlorine, and heard the squeals of children at play, and the echo of the pool. She remembered standing on the diving board, looking down, and thinking it was such a long way down. "Come on, little Japonica. It won't hurt."

He lied.

Chapter 23

It was time. Corben had seen the guys at the gate walk away, out into the park. His watch told him he had about half an hour before midnight, but he wanted to keep an eye on those guys. If he had any chance to get the drop on Cato, he wanted to take it. His back-up was ready, and he had the Zippy Express package in his hands, heavy with the gun.

The men walked away from the cemetary, and away from the front of the park. Corben frowned, and followed at a distance. They were leading him into the middle of the park. He guessed they'd got a call, unless this was part of the plan. They kept going, and he saw that Fern park was bigger than he'd first thought.

They crested a gentle hill, and down in the broad sweep of the valley, Corben saw a field of stars. He shuddered, and looked up; it was a clear, cool night, and the sky was velvet, and studded with gems. The moon was a curve of light, less than half left after the bite of the dark. He narrowed his eyes. It wouldn't matter a damn if the sun were shining, if summer's full heat were burning his skin. It would still be dark in his heart.

He searched the lake, and saw a line of old lamps running from the near shore to a darker mass in the centre. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and the shapes he saw resolved themselves, after a few more moments, into a bridge that ran from the shore to a small island. The men he'd followed were a pair of lighter patches on the dark shoreline, and, as he watched, they were joined at the end of the bridge by a larger party, five or six people. He was several minutes walk away, and he couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see that two of the new people were wearing white, and that was all he needed to know.

Corben started to run. His legs had cooled down and stiffened, and running hurt, but he ran. He reviewed Cato's words, 'don't keep me late', 'what does an ankle matter'? He was't late. He wasn't, was he? It was hard to check his watch as he ran, but he made out the time, and still he had almost half an hour. Why were they there? Why were they crossing the bridge? He didn't kid himself that it was a different group of people, out for some innocuous jaunt. He knew, in his skull and in his belly, he knew it was Cato, out there on the water.

Running, to the lake, he remembered running to another lake, a lifetime ago. It was the same thing again. The images rose up, though he hated and fought them. It was just the same...

...

He was a kid. He knew how old he'd been, but he didn't care. His brother was a kid, too. They were teenagers, and they went to the same school. Randall got into trouble. That was easy to say, and it said it. Randall hit on the wrong girl, always the wrong girl, every time. He'd hit on Sarena Gelsom, Billy Larsen's girl, right after the party when she'd let Billy kiss her. That was Randall.

Billy had come after Randall with a hockey stick, and Corben had wished his brother had been born with a few more brains, or been born a girl. But they were brothers, so when Randall had come running, Corben knew what was coming after him. He'd let Billy swing at him, and then he'd jammed the stick with his left hand, socked the ugly tyke with his right, and bust his jaw. Damn near broke his hand, too, and he'd cussed Randall out for that, but the fool kid was already making eyes at Lisa Lawrence. Corben had sighed, and put some ice on his hand. That was Corben.

It went on like that for a while, and then the brutish kids worked out that Corben wasn't going to let them kick Randall around. He'd thought it would get better, settle down, but it didn't. One guy, Fred Pickle, hung with Billy Larsen, and picked up his girl when she fell. So Randall tried her again, and Fred caught them in the gym, and Randall would've run, but Fred had a couple of pals with him. They gave Randall a beating after school, and then they tied him up, hid him in the locker room at the back of the gym.

Some kid, and Corben could never remember his name, a little guy with fuzzy brown hair and a drippy nose, came and handed him a photo, a polaroid. No one had a digital camera back then. It was a picture of Randall, all bruises and flaking blood, and a message on the back, in red felt-tip: come to the lake.

There was only one lake, at the back of the school grounds, on the edge of the fields. He went to the lake after school. He went with fists clenched, and anger in his heart, for the punks and the fools who kept picking on Randall. He went with rage for the school system that let idiots like them exist. He went with fury at his brother for having learned nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

"Where is he?"

They stood on the shore of the lake. It didn't have a name. To them, it was just the lake. Fred Pickle looked him up and down, looked at him like he was a bug, but Corben had got plenty of that from Fred before; it didn't mean a thing.

"You get my brother out here right now," he'd said. That's what he remembered.

"Your brother is a dumb piece of shit," said Fred Pickle. His voice was squeaky. "He ain't learned what's polite and what's not. You shoulda reigned him in long ago."

"You give him back to me, Fred Pickle," he said, "or I'll give you what I gave Billy Larsen, twice over."

"Nah. You want that wild stud back? You gotta take a swim."

Corben had gone up to Fred, ready to pound the fool, but Fred had started tossing picture at him, more polaroid shots of Randall, Randall getting beaten, Randall getting cut. He backed up and threw more photos at Corben, and then he got out a lighter, and set fire to the photo in his hand. "You see this, Corben Jatthew? That's what I'll do to Randall. He's tied up now, and if you don't do what I say, I'll burn the house with him in it."

Corben had stopped, still angry, but beginning to be more than angry. He was beginning to be afraid.

"You know what I done to the Johnson's cat? A cat's not much different from a person. It hurts the same, I reckon. Makes the same shitty noise, when you poke it with a needle."

"Shut up."

"Wish I hadda tape recorder, so's I coulda played you the noises come outta your little brother when I done that."

"You shut your goddamn mouth!"

"You're scared, Corben Jatthew. You know you can't touch me."

"I could beat it out of you."

"You'd of done it already," said Fred. He giggled. "You're shit-scared of what I done. Maybe he's dead! Maybe he's dead already."

"Where is he?" He felt weak. His anger had cooled, and left him cold all over. It was hard not to shiver.

"He ain't dead, don't worry 'bout that. But he might need a doctor, yeah, he might need that. You gotta buy him back."

"Fred...what do you want?"

"I told you. You gotta take a swim."

He looked out across the water. "Over the lake?"

"Just a little way. Just a little swim."

He'd rubbed his face, feeling weary. He'd felt old, older than a teenager should. "You promise. You'll let him go. Because if you don't, I'll kill you, Fred Pickle. I will kill you."

Fred had giggled again. "Go on. Water's getting cold. Leave your shoes and stuff on, too. I like it better that way."

Shaking his head, Corben had walked up to the edge of the water. He'd watched it lap his shoes, clear in the waning light of the early evening.

"Go on!"

He'd sworn, and taken his first step. It didn't feel bad, and he'd taken another, and then the water had got inside his shoes, and it stole their warmth. His feet were cold, and his shoes began to feel heavy, and he wavered. Then he'd remembered those pictures, and thought of Randall, tied up somewhere, and Fred, playing with lighters and gas. He'd walked right in, then.

"Deeper. Go deeper." The kids with Fred echoed his order, and added jeers and insults of their own.

Corben had walked out into the lake until he was waist-deep, and then Fred had told him to stop. "What do you want, Fred? I got in the lake, like you said. I can't swim in my clothes." It was cold in the lake, and he tried not to let his teeth chatter as he spoke. His school clothes were soaked.

"Lie down."

He thought he'd missed Fred's order. "What? What did you say?"

"Lie down. Lie down under the water."

He felt something in him get colder than the water. He felt ice in his belly, ice that seemed to flow in his blood to chill his heart. "That's crazy! I can't do that."

"You lie down in that water, Corben. Lie down until I tell you to come up, or I'll burn him. I'll burn your brother up until he's black as bad toast."

He didn't want to. He thought it was awful. He was cold and wet all through, and he was starting to shiver. The water was sucking the warmth out of his body, and he was afraid that if he stood there for much longer, he would turn blue.

"Do it!"

Fred was crazy. He wasn't just a bully, he was crazy. Corben tried to figure out if Fred would keep his word; would he burn Randall? They all thought Fred had been the one who'd tied up that cat, cut it, and let it bleed to death in the schoolyard. Would he do that to a person? Would he do that to Randall? Corben didn't want to believe it, but he started to think it was true. Standing waist-deep in freezing water, unable to stop himself from shivering, he knew it was true. Unless he did what Fred said, Randall would burn to death.

He lowered himself to one knee, and the water came up to his chin. The bed of the lake was rocky, and it hurt his knee. The water was cold, and it was drawing the power out of his chest, so he had to struggle to breathe. He could still hear Fred and his pals, shouting at him from the shore. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew what they wanted. He took a long breath, and felt warmth on his face, stinging his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks and mingled with the water of the lake.

He took a last, long breath, and lay back. The water rose over his ears, over his face, and over his eyes. He sank down, and watched the light change as he went further under the water. His back came to rest on the lake floor, and he knew that he would soon float back up, as he had done in the school pool. He reached down with both hands, reached down through the water, and scrabbled, scratching his fingers, until he caught hold of a couple of big rocks. Anchored, he lay there, looking up at the rippling surface of the lake. He lay there, and his tears spread out, lost in the waters, until the entire lake was all his own, a vast pool of tears.

He lay there, as his hands went numb. He lay there as his body trembled, and choked, and filled with ice water. He lay there watching the light until the light was gone. He lay there until he died.

...

Randall had come. Randall had saved him. But this time, it was worse. Randall was free, or was he? Jeff had his back, unless he didn't. An angel, a stone guardian, held his hope in a hand that would never weaken, unless her heart was stone.

Corben ran to the shore, he ran to the bridge, and there he saw Brandt. Brandt stood on the near end of the bridge, under a lamp. His thick, ugly head was lowered, and his face was dark. His hair glistened in the light, and then his head rose, and the blood flecks and scratches glistened, but his eyes were holes, pits, gouges in the soul.

"Corben," he said, in that voice of gravel and smoke, "ya not gonna enjoy this." Corben walked closer, and Brandt shook his head. "Ya should of run."

"I'm here to make the trade," he said. His fears did not turn into a wisp of smoke and blow away. He did feel stronger and more confident for facing Brandt, for speaking to him as a free man, and not as one of the condemned. Yet he sensed, in Brandt's words and in the way he looked on him, not anger, but a kind of...anticipation. Brandt looked like a victor. He looked at Corben the way a lion eyes a lame gazelle.

Corben wasn't about to be anybody's gazelle. "Take me to him."

"Oh, Cato, he's looking forward to meeting ya. And so is everyone else." Brandt turned, and walked away across the narrow wooden bridge. Corben followed.

They crossed the bridge, and came to a small island. There was a cafe on the left, locked up and dark. A climbing wall rose on the right, cut out of a spur of rock that reached up high above their heads. Corben looked around, but saw none of the people he'd seen crossing the bridge. Brandt walked past the climbing wall, and led him up a path that led to a stair cut into the other side of the rock spur. Corben climbed the stair, and it was too dark to see the steps. He could hear the water as it lapped against the island in ripples. For a moment he thought he could feel cold water lapping against his ankles.

He came to the top, and there was Cato. He stood out. There were people crowded around him, but he stood out like Goliath in the ranks of the Philistines. "Come for your prize, Corben Jatthew?"

There were four men behind Cato, and Brandt stood beside him. It was crowded on top of the rock; the place was made for a few climbers to rest after working up the miniature cliff. Corben could see a flash of white through the men. He saw they had guns, and one was holding a box. "Show me. Show her to me," he said.

"Brandt, it's crowded up here," said Cato. If he was in a trap, he made it looked comfortable. His brother sent the men back down the stairs, back to the car. He sent them away, revealing Mimi. Corben called her name, but the cry wasn't answered, because Brandt was still moving, and Mimi was cuffed and gagged. Her eyes were not covered, and they shared a moment of painful relief. It was good to see her, and it stung like a blister at the back of your eye. She was there, almost close enough to kiss. Almost. Brandt showed him Cato's other prisoner.

"Randall! Oh God, Randall," said Corben. He felt a shock in his body, like a punch, at the sight of his captive brother. He'd thought the idiot had got free, maybe run to Canada, or, at worst, was trying to catch some sleep in a dank police cell. He'd never expected this. There had been a moment, when he'd seen two people in white among the party crossing the bridge, but he hadn't thought, he'd just run.

"Isn't it good, Corben," said Cato. "Isn't it good to see your family again? You must have been so worried."

Randall looked awful, like he'd been hit by a train.

"Let them go," said Corben. "This doesn't change anything. I'm still ready to shut you down, Cato. I don't care how many people you kidnap, or how many men you brought. Let my family go."

"You must have been worried, more worried than ever before. Have you ever lost something that you couldn't replace? Have you ever lost someone?" Cato seemed calm, but Corben was sure it was just a surface. The man he'd spoken to, the man who sent Brandt out on brutal errands, he was a living threat.

"Have you lost your memory? Don't forget what I can do to you. Let them go now, or you'll wake up in a federal prison."

"You did lose something. Do you want me to tell you what it was? No, let me show you." Cato turned his back on Corben, and went behind a spur of rock, pulling out the last of his prisoners. Corben saw his hope, dying. He saw a little fat man with a scraggly beard and a red t-shirt, a guy he hadn't seen in person for a long time. He saw Jeff Mcgubby.

"Oh no," he said. "Oh no, no, not you too, Jeff, not you as well."

"So you did lose something," said Cato. "Now you remember how it feels. Now you can begin to understand."

Corben ground his teeth. He wanted to swear. He wanted to let go of the swelling rage within, to let it burst out and drown Cato in a pestilent wave. He wanted to curse the man as God cursed Sodom. He wanted to take the gun from the box in his hands, and blast a hole in Cato Block's head.

Fighting down the anger, forcing it into a tight knot in the centre of his chest, Corben made himself say what he needed to say. "You got Jeff, but you can't stop me from sending you away. I've still got the power to put you in a cage."

"You don't fall at the first punch, do you," said Cato. He picked something off the rocky ground, the box one of his men had held. He opened it out. Corben saw it was a laptop. "See this?"

"That doesn't-"

"Your power. This is your power. This was your power." Cato hurled it into the lake. "That was your power. You still have things to lose, Corben, but I don't."

"You're wrong. I have a copy of the files that Jeff dug up. Enough to throw you down. I can still throw you down."

Cato took a gun from inside his jacket, and pressed it against Jeff's head. "You didn't tell me that." Jeff shook his head, and mumbled something in a pleading tone of voice. Corben wanted to help Jeff, he took a step forward, but Cato fixed him with a glare. "I lost something tonight. I lost my wife. That stupid woman let this snake into our bed," he spat on Randall, "and then, when I gave her a second chance, what did she do? She killed herself. I loved that dumb bitch, and she killed herself! I saw her, hanging there in my own bedroom, and the mess she made, I punched her in the head, and she couldn't even cry. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Put the gun down," said Corben.

"It feels like someone reached into my chest." Cato let the barrel of the gun drift down, rubbing against Jeff's face and neck, until it rested on his chest. "And tore a hole in my lung." He fired. The blast was muffled, but still so loud it hurt. Jeff jerked, his wide eyes fixed on something no one else could see. He then he slumped down, a heap on the stone.

Corben shook his head. "No," he said. Mimi was on her knees, hunched over, her face pressed down, her arms twisting as she fought against the cuffs that held them behind her back. Randall was still and silent, but there was no blood in his bruised face.

"That feels better," said Cato. "That feels a little better." He turned to Corben. "You did that. All I wanted was your brother. Now I have to kill you, your wife, and this fat slob. All I ask for is a little justice, and this is what you give me."

All along, Corben had thought he was struggling with a bad problem, but one that he could solve. Now, as he saw Cato act, and listened to him speak, he realised that he'd made a terrible mistake. Cato wasn't a rational person, the kind he could bargain with. Cato was insane. There was something wrong with him, like he was a changeling, a monster, pretending to be a man. Even so, he couldn't stop trying. Now, with more at stake then ever before, he needed to win this man round, or stop him somehow. It hurt to think, it hurt to do anything, with his friend lying on the cold stone at his feet, dying as he watched. He wanted to help Jeff, to get an ambulance, to get him to a hospital, but he couldn't. He knew that unless he dealt with Cato right then, more people would die. Mimi would die, and Randall too.

He would die.

He held up the Zippy Express package. "See this," he said, putting fire into his voice. "I have you in this box, Cato Block. I have your life."

Cato shook his head. "I have your life. Here, here she is." He walked over to Mimi, and yanked her arm, lifted her to her feet. She cried out. "I got to know her while she stayed with me." He stroked her hair.

Corben narrowed his eyes. "Will you listen to me? I'm talking about prison."

"I'm talking about marriage," said Cato. "It's a grand thing, if you get the right woman. If you get the wrong one, forget it. But you, hey, the way you've been running around all night, hitting me like Kasparov, I think you got the right one. You sure act like it. But," he twisted her arm, and she shrieked. "What if you lose her?"

"I won't lose her. Cato, I'm going to show you what I can do," said Corben. He put his hand inside the open top of the package, but he didn't take out the sheet of paper he'd left there. He wrapped his fingers around the gun he'd put there, under the stone eyes of an angel. It felt hard and cold, cold enough to hurt his fingers. He didn't like the feeling.

Cato let go of Mimi. She sank to the ground, trying to cry under that gag. Corben could imagine her feelings; she must have been so scared, unable to speak, unable to run. He wanted to go to her, to pick her up off the stone underfoot, to hold her and comfort her. It was pain, to see her, and be unable to help. He froze, not sure if Cato was going to get reasonable, but damn sure he wouldn't shoot anyone if he had any chance to end things in peace.

"She told me things. So did he," said Cato. "You died once. It was a place like this, right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You died for this lump of shit. I'm amazed. Hey Brandt, would you drown for my sake?"

"In Bourbon? Sure," said Brandt.

"See what kind of fuckups I got in my family, Corben? He's a fuckup too, isn't he? Randall; what a goddamn disappointment, am I right? He picks up the girls, and you get a fat lip. He pisses off some gang, and you drown. Is that right? Seems to me you're owed some payback."

"Let them go," said Corben. "If you're worried about justice, don't worry. I'm gonna give Randall a kicking if we live through this."

"'If'. You hear that, Randall? Your brother's given up on you already. Can you swim? Can you swim with those hands cuffed behind your back like that? I bet you could, couldn't you. You're dumb but you're lucky. I bet you could swim from here to the shore. Hmm, I gotta even it up a bit. What if I shoot you in the foot, first?"

"Just look at this file," said Corben. "I brought enough to show you I'm serious, but the rest is with someone I trust. It's enough to send you away for a long time. Look at it!"

Cato smiled at him. "Sure, I'll look. Put it on the ground, and I'll look."

Corben's hope was reborn. Maybe Cato could be reasonable. He put the package on the ground.

"Step back a bit, so I won't worry that you'll jump me."

Corben stepped back, a little closer to the edge of the stairs. "Okay? It'll only take a quick look, and then you'll see I mean what I say. This can end well for everyone."

Cato laughed. Corben felt uneasy.

"I knew you had Brandt's gun," said Cato. "I knew what was in that box. Brandt didn't know; look at him, with his mouth hanging open. Ha! You didn't have the balls to shoot me, Corben. You might've saved your pal here," he kicked Jeff, "but you didn't dare. You sure can be wrong about people, eh? I didn't figure you for a coward."

Corben felt sick all over again. Cato had hit him with the load of guilt he'd been fighting off ever since he'd seen Jeff up there on top of that rocky hill. Poor little Jeff, with his watering eyes and his face pinched by terror. Poor slob Jeff, all folded up on the stone, his life stolen away. It's my fault, thought Corben, and knew it was true.

"Don't look so damn sad, you bastard," said Cato. "I'm not gonna shoot you. I'm gonna let you be the hero. They're both going in the water. With their hands tied, neither one will swim far. That water's dark and cold, Corben, so cold. It'll suck their strength out. You won't have much time. Which one are you gonna save?"

He knew it wasn't going to work, but he couldn't let it go without trying. "I have enough shit on you to get you chained up."

"And what if you do?" Cato laughed. "Look at me. Will I spend one night in jail? Look at this," he kicked Jeff's corpse. "Who do you think gave him to me? The cops are my friends. The feds are...friends of my friends. Who do you think owns this land?"

Corben felt defeated. He felt lost. Cato had a gun in his hand. Corben's gun was gone; Cato had taken it from him, just as he'd taken his other weapons: the money, the hacked accounts, the incriminating files. Cato had stripped him of everything, the safety of his home, his wife, his brother, his friends. In a way, Cato had even taken Larry Vess from him; if he lived, he'd never trust that chiselling accountant again. Cato had torn it all away, and left him with nothing but his body and his clothes, and the growing fear that soon, in a few icy seconds, he would lose even those.

The water stretched out on all sides, and all around him, those shadowy waters shone with stars dancing on gentle waves. It should have been beautiful. Corben knew that water, he knew it from the inside. Corben knew, in a minute or less, that water would swallow his brother or his wife, and he was afraid that it had already swallowed his courage. He feared the lake, as he feared nothing else. Even the death in Cato's hand, the gun, was not so terrible as the dark and the shine of the water.

He saw no way out. Still, he tried. "Please," he said. "Please let them go. Please."

"Are you begging?"

"I'll do anything to keep my family alive. Please let them live."

"Are you a beggar?" It made Cato angry. He turned to Randall, and slapped him in the face. "Thieves and beggars!"

"No," said Corben, but he saw that Cato had stopped caring what he wanted.

Cato slapped Randall again, so hard he reeled. Then he punched him low, low down in the belly. Randall dropped to his knees, and he snorted as air was forced out of his nose, his mouth gagged tight. He folded over, and gave a sick cough. He looked like he was retching, but the gag was choking him.

"Stand up," said Cato. "Stand up, or I'll kick you like a dog." Randall didn't stand, he looked as though he couldn't stand. Cato grunted, and kicked him.

"Stop it," said Corben, all of his calm and confidence blown away on the night wind. "Do it to me. Do what you want to me, but let them go."

"I can do anything to you?" Cato jabbed the pistol at his face. "I can splash your brain all over this island? I can cut your hands off and throw you in the lake? Would you like me to watch you try to swim with no hands?"

He was gripped with fear, caught from inside by a freezing hand that squeezed his lungs so he couldn't breathe, squeezed his belly so he felt it would burst, and numbed the blood in his heart. He had no power left, no weapons, and no armour. They were all dying, on that island. They were all on the edge of death. It took the last of his strength to speak. "Kill me then, but let them go."

"You're a disappointment. You're like Japonica. My stupid wife, soft in all the wrong places. She fell apart, just like you. You're both weak. Give you a rope, and you make a noose. As for Randall," he turned back, and kicked him again. "You brought this on yourself. You asked for this, you sonofabitch. Brandt, hold him. I wanna see his eyes. I wanna watch the light go out."

Brandt got behind Randall, and hefted him up to his feet. He looked so big, and Randall, crumpled over, looked little, like a rag doll. Cato slapped his face, and pulled his head back by his hair. He took the gun in his hand, and rubbed it against Randall's cheek, grinning. He tapped it against his forehead, and Corben could hear it, the sound of metal on bone. Cato knew what he was doing, and he wanted them to know he enjoyed it. The total loss of power to that sadist made Corben feel worse than ever.

"Randall," he said, not know what words could express the aching desire he felt, the wish to let his brother know he was there, he was with him, and if he couldn't save him, at least he was with him.

Randall caught his eye, and though his mouth was gagged, he spoke with his eyes. He didn't look defeated, he didn't look broken; his eyes belied the obvious pain in his body. His eyes were alive, and they spoke of love.

Corben didn't have time to digest his brother's message. Randall slumped forwards, and Brandt bent over to heave him up, and, as he lifted with his broad back, Randall jumped, throwing both men off-balance. Brandt staggered backwards, and Randall threw his body back, into Brandt, and they stumbled towards the edge of the cliff, and Brandt had a second to see his death, and he shouted, "no," but his own mass betrayed him, and he slipped back, and fell, and Corben's heart jumped, for Randall had cut their enemies in half, but he was still stumbling, and he was on the very edge, and then his feet slipped from under him, and he fell onto the edge of the cliff, and Corben and Cato were both closing on him, but there was no time, no time, as Randall rolled, and fell.

Corben had no words, the shock he felt too strong and too sudden. Cato dashed to the edge of the cliff, and looked over, "Brandt, Brandt," over and over again. Corben saw his chance. He wouldn't let Randall's leap be made vain. Randall had shown him there was hope. Even when his hands were bound and his body beaten, he hadn't given up. Corben threw himself to the stone ground, and grabbed at the Zippy Express package. He was ready. He was ready to do what he should have done when he had the chance.

Cato heard him moved, and turned to see Corben pulling out the gun. His pistol was still in his hand, but he didn't use it. Instead, he grabbed Mimi, who was hunched up nearby, staring at the cliff edge, her eyes wide with shock. He grabbed Mimi, and showed his strength as he lifted her up in his hand, and set her feet on the edge of the cliff. It took him a heartbeat, and then he looked back, and locked eyes with Corben.

Corben stood, the gun up, trained on Cato. "Let her go," he said.

"He was mine," said Cato. "They were all mine. This is justice." He shoved Mimi off the cliff.

Corben didn't wait. He ignored Cato, he ran to the cliff edge, and he jumped after his wife. He felt the awful sensation of falling for a second, and then the water hit him, hit every part of him, and soaked through his clothes to his skin. It stung. He tried to hold onto the gun, but the water pulled it out of his hand. His mouth opened to breathe, and it filled with water. He swallowed some, and he almost choked on it. Everything was black, there was no light anywhere, and his eyes and his nose were full of water. He was surrounded by water, touched by it, pressed by it on every inch of his skin. It caressed him, it squeezed him, and it pulled him down.

Panic rose. Old fears, almost twenty years of fears, welled up inside, as if the water had penetrated his skin, and soaked the marrow in his bones. His body was limp and weak and cold, and his mind a mass of primal terror. He was dying, he was dead.

Something in him refused to die. Mimi was out there, and so was Randall. They weren't dead. They were falling through water, and if he had to fall with them, if he had to swim down to the bottom of the lake, or the bottom of the Atlantic ocean, he would. He would have to. He had no choice. He might be afraid, he was afraid, but he had to find them. He couldn't speak, but he could think, and his mind rang with one thought, one word, "Mimi," over and over, "Mimi."

He looked. The cold water hurt his eyes, but he looked. He had plunged deep into the lake, and he couldn't tell which way was up or down. Paddling with his hands, he turned his body around in the water. At first he saw nothing but the black of deep water at night. Then his eyes caught a flash, he saw a flash of white. He swam towards it. His strokes were uneven, unpractised, but he made up for low skill with power, with determination. He swam to the white flash, but no matter how hard he tried, he didn't get closer, he couldn't bring himself closer.

He broke the surface with a gasp, and swallowed a mouthful of water as his head dipped back under the water. He came up coughing, fighting to fill his lungs with air. He blinked in the air, his eyes freezing, and looked for the white flash he'd seen in the depths. He saw it in he sky; he'd been following the moon. Cursing, he threw himself back into the water, and circled, searching.

His eyes had adjusted to the watery dark. He found the moon's rays cut a pale shaft through the water, faint, and fading. Further out, he saw nothing, nothing of light. He tried again. He looked further. He saw nothing. He didn't give up. If he had to, he would spend the rest of his life searching those waters.

There. There, he saw her, saw the white shimmer of her dress, off to his left, and down, down in the water. He swam. With all of his strength, he pulled his body through the water, all forgotten but this one frantic desire, this need, to reach his wife before she drowned. The further he swam, the further away she seemed to get. He pushed himself harder, but gravity pulled her away from him, pulled her down to the depths. His clothes dragged on him, and his shoes were two heavy blocks, binding his feet. The water was cold, sapping his strength. His arms hurt, and his chest felt as if his lungs would burst within him. He swam, and he felt as if the whole lake was fighting him.

He pushed himself until he felt he could swim no further, but he kept going, he kept going, and he kept saying her name in his mind, "Mimi, Mimi, I'm coming." Her name scorched his heart, burned it with a heat strong enough to fight back the cold, to melt the ice he felt in his bones. The fire kept him going, the roaring word in his mind, the burning name on his heart.

She was close now, close enough for him to see her face. Her eyes were open, wide with panic. He could see her mouth, moving around the gag, and he knew she didn't have long. He reached out, and felt her dress brush his fingers. He tried to catch her, he snagged her dress, but she slipped out of his grasp. He tried again, but it was hard to grip her under the water. Having come so far, he wouldn't give up. He tried harder, swimming under her body, and wrapping his arms and legs around her. She was warm.

He started to swim up, and that was harder than the chase down. Mimi's body was a loose weight, and Corben's arms were tired, worn from swimming. He couldn't swim up with both hands, and hold her at the same time, and swimming with one hand was difficult. He felt disorientated, like when he first hit the water. He wasn't sure which way was up. The he saw the light on her dress, and knew he getting closer; the moon was no longer lying to him. It was lighting his path.

The surface was close now, it was close, and still out of reach. The water weighed him down, it sucked at him, and Mimi was slipping in his hands, slipping out of his grasp. He felt like crying, he was so frustrated, and so cold, and so tired. He got her back in his arms, but he lost momentum, and had to make a new effort to lift his body through the water. His lungs were red-hot, he was a steam engine, he was about to explode. The surface was so close, and he was about to die.

He broke the surface. He coughed and choked, and heaved air into his lungs, and he gripped Mimi, he hugged her, with all the strength left in his arms, he hugged her, and got her head above water. Gasping, and bobbing up and down, he tried to see if she was breathing. With nothing but the pale light of the moon, and the water shaking them both, he couldn't tell. He sobbed, and looked for the nearest land. The only ground he could reach was the lower part of the island, the island with the tiny mountain in the lake. He couldn't see anyone, but he knew what had to be waiting for them.

There was no choice. He swam for the island. His shoes were heavy with water, and so were his pants and sweatshirt. Mimi was heavy, and it was hard to keep her afloat, to keep the water from covering her face. His arms and legs felt stiff. It wore at him, it made him feel old, but he swam.

At last he got her on the shore. His fingers were numb and stupid as he worked at the gag, but he got it untied, and then he put his ear to her face, to check if she was breathing. He couldn't tell. If she was breathing, it was nothing but a puff of air. He felt her chest; her heart was beating. He pinched her nose, and breathed into her mouth. She didn't respond. He fought down his panic, and tried it again, with no effect. Then, on the third try, she coughed, and choked, and then she retched, vomiting water onto the earth of the shore.

She lay on her side, shivering and gasping, but she was breathing. Corben sighed, the tension seeping out of his body and down into the ground. He held her, and it was good, it was so good, and he laughed, he laughed and laughed, there on the shore. The tears started with the laughter, and stayed when the laughter died, and then he was crying.

"Corben?" she said. "Corben? Oh God, is that you?"

He laughed through the tears, and he took her in his arms, and he held her close, saying over and over, "Mimi, Mimi." She cried too, and she tried to hug him, but her arms were still cuffed behind her back.

"Corben," she said through her tears, "...Randall?"

He stiffened. He looked back at the waters, and words came to his lips, "he's still in there. Oh no, Mimi, he's still in the lake. I have to go back for him."

"I'm scared, Corben," she said, and bit her lip. "Don't leave me."

He looked at her, wet black hair plastered across her cheeks, her thin dress soaked through, the warmth sucked out of her body. She was shivering. If she stayed out for long, she would suffer from exposure, and with her arms bound, she was helpless. If Cato, Brandt, or one of their hired thugs found her, she would be unable to save herself. They could do anything to her.

He looked around, aware that every second he wasted could be bringing Randall closer to death, but also sure that if he neglected to check, he would expose Mimi to even more danger. They sat on the grassy shore of the island, near a few trees at the back of the cafe. They were close to the stairs that led up to the top of the tiny mountain, up to the place where he had left Cato. They were alone.

"Mimi," he said, "Randall is still in that water."

She understood. He could see it in her face. She was fighting her own battle, trying not to let that fear overwhelm her. "Please hurry," she said.

He kissed her, and felt proud. He went back to the shore, and looked for Randall. He searched the surface for any sign of his brother. Seeing nothing, he went in. The water felt worse than he remembered, though scant minutes had passed since he'd dragged Mimi out. He felt around the stony bottom near the shore, and looked as far into the deep water as he could.

There was no sign of Randall. He couldn't see Brandt, either. Perhaps they had found their own way out, but Corben wouldn't accept it. They had to be out there, somewhere. It wasn't a seashore, with riptides to carry them away. It was a lake. Then he thought about Mimi, and his own plunge into the depths. He had a sense of being on the edge of a vast well, and he could see his brother, sinking, falling forever through dark water.

"Randall," he said. Then he raised his voice, and called to his brother again and again. There was no answer. He was left with the silence, and the fears. What if his shouting had alerted Cato's thugs? What if they were coming for him...what if they were coming for Mimi?

He waded back up to the shore, and climbed out of the water. When he pulled himself out of the water for the second time, he felt as though he was leaving part of himself behind, as if he was tearing his being in two. It hurt, but he had to do it. Mimi was all he had left. If Cato took her again, it would kill him.

Mimi sat by the trees, she sat on the grass, and shivered. She looked up at him, and though she was hurt and cold and afraid, still she made her face a mirror of his pain. He crouched at her side, and his head dropped.

"Randall..."

She leaned forwards, and touched his head with her cheek. "Oh, Corben."

Her touch was like oxygen to a smouldering ember, fanning it to a flame. He marvelled that there was any fire left in him, that he had not burned up and exhausted all the energy left to him. He stayed there for a time, feeling her warmth feed the heat in his heart. The fire grew too hot for him to sit still. He sat up, and took her face in his hands. Her eyes went wide as she saw the new life in him, and then he saw it shine in her as well; it was their light. It was their fire.

"I..." He faltered. Words seemed too weak to carry his feelings.

She kissed him. Then she whispered, "I know."

"Can you walk?"

She nodded. She was soaking wet, and he was sure that she'd stored up enough horrors for a lifetime of nightmares, but she was ready to move. They both knew it wasn't over.

"Let's get out of this place."

He led her around the dead cafe, past the climbing wall, and up to the bridge. When they got to the bridge, he paused. Mimi was behind him, and he told her to stay back.

"Why?"

"I can see him."

She didn't need to ask who he saw. "No. Oh, no." There was fear in her voice, and injured hope.

"Stay here," he said.

"Don't go," she said. "He's a monster."

He knew he had no choice. If he could have swum away from the island, or hidden, or got a phone, and called for help, he would have done it. "He's seen us. Now he knows we're alive. If I don't go to him, he will come to us. Stay back here, you'll be safe."

"Corben..."

"Just stay here," he said. "I'm going to get you out of here, Mimi, and even a thousand Cato Blocks won't stop me. I promise, I'm going to get you out. I won't lose you again."

He wanted to kiss her, but he didn't. He walked onto the bridge. Cato waited for him, about halfway along. There was a lamp a short way behind him, so his face was in shadow. It looked as if he was a living block of shadow. Corben wished he still had the gun. He thought, I should have got it from the top of the rock. He swore at himself, but he knew why he hadn't gone back up there; he'd been worried that this would happen, that Cato had been waiting for him up there.

Cato had a gun. He raised it, aimed it at Corben's head. "How will your bitch feel if I blast off your face?"

"Is that all you are, Cato? Another thug with a gun?"

"I have your death in my hands. I can kill you any time, any time I like. I can make it fast or slow. I can make it easy, and I can make you scream for a month. My brother's dead because of you."

"That's your fault," said Corben.

"What?"

"You sent Brandt after Randall. You sent him to meet me. You've been hiding behind Brandt all day, and I bet you've been hiding behind him all of your life, like you're hiding behind that gun right now."

"You think I'm scared of you, you soaking wet skeleton?"

"You like to tie men up and hit them. I bet you hit your wife. I bet you never took on any man until after Brandt pounded them into burger meat."

"You really are stupid," said Cato.

"I'm right. I know it," said Corben. "I'd bet my life on it."

"You just did," said Cato. He tossed the gun into the water. "I'm gonna tear you apart."

Cato rushed at Corben, and lashed out with his fists. Corben was forced to back up, and he almost lost his balance. He ducked under Cato's arms, and landed a fist on his belly. It was like punching a tree, and Cato came back with a blow that shook his head, and made him dizzy. Corben staggered back and left, and came up against the railing. Cato kept coming, and Corben just slipped aside as Cato threw a kick that made the bridge shake. Corben ran at him as he was getting back his balance, and tried to knock him down with his shoulder, but Cato was fast, and turned with the blow, and he tripped Corben up, so he slipped over and fell on the wooden boards. He rolled over on his back as Cato tried to stomp on him, and he jammed the kick with his feet.

Cato stepped back, watching Corben, who lay on his back with his knees pulled close to his chest, ready to lash out with his feet. "Are you gonna lie there forever?" asked Cato.

Corben ground his teeth. He rolled over, and got to his feet, and they squared off. Cato held his fists like a boxer, and he came forwards slower this time. He faked a jab, and then he dove forward, catching Corben in the waist with his shoulder. Corben got his knee up into Cato's face, and felt something crunch, but Cato didn't stop. He fell on his back, and Cato was on him, a lump, a suffocating weight, grabbing at his arms and face. Corben bucked and struggled. Cato's hand found his throat, and squeezed. Corben choked, and tried to pry one of Cato's fingers away, but they were thick and tough as steel cable. He coughed, and tried to suck in air, but the hand on his neck was a noose, a vise. He felt weak, and faint, and this time there was no Randall to save him. He began to feel as if he was back in that icy water. He felt like he was dying.

Cato's hand was too strong. He let it go, and ran his hand up Cato's arm, up to the neck, and Cato's thick jaw. Then he slid his fingers up Cato's cheek, until he felt the hollow of his eye. Cato grunted, and moved his head around, and Corben's fingers slipped, but he pressed forward, and found it again. He felt Cato's eye. He clawed his fingers straight into it. His fingers were not flesh and bone, they were flint, they were steel, they were broken glass. He drove his daggers into Cato's eye until the eye gave way, and he felt something behind it like a like wet cable. Cato screamed. He screamed and screamed, and he fell away, and his hand fell away, and Corben could breathe again.

At first he couldn't move. It was all he could do to suck in great lungfuls of air, and try not to cough. The sound of his breathing appalled him; it was loud and wheezing, and he worried about his neck. He remembered images from a news report about suspects dying hours after their arrest, because their necks had swollen after being strangled with a cop's baton. He shook his head, and pushed himself up onto his feet. His ears filled with screaming.

"My left eye," said Cato. "You took my eye." He staggered across the bridge, weaving. He looked drunk, but Corben saw he had his hands pressed against his face, so he couldn't see. Corben saw a chance to end it, but he couldn't bring himself to attack the man while he was defenceless. He nerved himself to it, but Cato heard him come near, and he swung a fist that whooshed past Corben's face. Corben took a step back, and Cato followed him, throwing his arms about, more like an angry half-blind bear than a boxer. Corben knew that one of those blows could knock him flat. He'd felt Cato's strength, and it was too great to take head-on. He stepped back, timing the blows, and then he took his chance. When Cato throw a wild left, Corben slip outside it, and shoved his arm, adding force to Cato's swing. It twisted him off-balance, and gave Corben a split-second to drive his palm into Cato's face. It rocked the big man's head, and when Corben's finger dug into that bleeding ruin on his face, Cato howled, and stumbled backwards. Corben followed his movement, pressing his finger into the socket, forwards and down, so Cato had no way to escape the pain but to fall.

The wooden bridge shook. Corben's legs got tangled up with Cato's, and he fell, sprawling across Cato. He felt a shock in his side, as Cato punched him. He yelled, and Cato punched him again and again, weak arm punches, but they weren't weak. Cato was too strong. Corben tried to roll off him, but Cato caught him by the ankle, and tried to twist it off. Corben cried out, and he couldn't hit Cato, but his other leg was free. He swung it, and it caught something, and Cato grunted, but he kept twisting. Corben drew his leg back, and kicked hard, ramming it into Cato's body, and this time he broke up into coughing, and let go of the ankle.

Corben scrambled away, and barged into the wooden railings. He hung to them, and caught his breath. He heard Cato coughing and gasping behind him. The coughing turned into swearing. "Fucking Jatthew. All you fucking Jatthews. Come into my home, and killed my family. I'm gonna kill you. Then I'm gonna hang that wife of yours, like my Japonica. Then I'm gonna find every last one of your kin, every one of them, and I'm gonna rip them apart and burn them. You're filth. You're a disease. I'm gonna scour you from the planet."

He pulled himself up by the railing, and turned on Cato. He'd tried to beat the thug. He'd tried to beat him with his brain, tried to trick him and trap him. He'd tried with his fists, and then he'd torn a hole in the man's face, trying to beat him with pain. Nothing worked. It didn't matter what he threw at Cato, the man kept coming. He wasn't a man. He was a thing, a beast left over from another age, a titan, running loose in the world to torment men, fearing nothing in this age of dead gods. He was the hunger of the world, eating men and women, and their works, breaking them down and leaving nothing but dried blood and ashes.

Cato stood, and the lamplight made the blood shine on his face, and turned the wreck of his eye into a glittering mockery of sight, as Cato was a mockery of all that men should be. He saw with a lense of blood, he saw a world of blood. All his power had gone to make that mad vision true, and Corben saw he hadn't damaged Cato's eye; he had revealed it.

Cato put his right hand into his jacket pocket. "I'm done with games," he said. He took his hand out, and it held a small black thing, and Corben felt his eyes drawn to that object, half-afraid he knew what it was. Cato made it snap, and he saw the gleam, the shine of the steel. "You're gonna pay for my eye, Corben. I'm gonna make you pay for everything."

Corben ran at Cato, and the big man flinched, and then he got the knife up, ready to stab and gut, and Corben was about to run onto it, to impale himself, but he swerved at the last moment, and jumped, and ran up onto the railing on Cato's left, swinging his arms as he did, and he caught Cato's head, and then momentum carried him over the side of the bridge, but he had Cato's chunky skull in his hands, so Cato came with him, instinct making him jump after Corben to save his neck, and the two men slipped over the railing, and Cato caught it, and hung on for one long painful second, but Corben was falling, and all his weight was dragging on Cato's neck, and Cato was slashing at his arm, trying to cut him away, but Corben ground his teeth and hung on, adding the new pain to the old pain, and Cato gasped as he realised he couldn't hold on any more without something breaking, he must have felt it, because Corben did feel it, the creaking in his neck, and Cato screamed, and let go of the bridge, and then they plunged into the water.

Corben was ready for it. He realised, only as he leapt, that he was no longer afraid of the water. He wanted it. It was his last ally. He got a lungful of air before they went in, and he clamped his mouth shut. The water had got colder since last time, but now he knew what he had to do, he kept a tight grip on Cato's neck, and swam down, following the long metal struts that held up the bridge. He swam down, and he heard a bubbling gurgle and roar, and felt Cato struggle against him, but gravity and impetus helped Corben and carried them down, and all Cato's thrashing couldn't stop their descent.

Corben felt a hand on his wrist, and then he saw; Cato was pulling himself around, pulling him in close, and that knife was still in his right hand, he'd hung onto it even through the fall and the plunge, and he was bringing it closer, closer, and he was going to stab him. Even under water, Cato would not give up, he kept attacking. Cato's arm swung through the water, slower than in the air, but inexorable. Corben knew that even though Cato was slowed by the water, his strength would still tell, and his knife would still cut flesh, veins, and nerves with no more effort than on land. He couldn't grapple with Cato, the man was too strong. He would get the knife in, even if it took him longer.

Corben let go of Cato's head, and slipped his left hand down until he felt Cato's face. He curled his fingers and clawed Cato's eyes, digging at the wreck on the left of his face. Cato stopped trying to stab him, and jerked his head back, but he couldn't get away. Corben held the pressure on his face, and made his right hand into a spear. He thrust the fingers into Cato's throat, and Cato gagged, and gasped, and then he tried to scream, as the water rushed into his mouth, rushed into his nose, and flooded his lungs. Cato let go of Corben, and he dropped the knife, and clawed at the water, and his huge body bucked and thrashed, churning the water into foam. Corben hung in the water before him, and he watched, and he watched, though he hated it, he watched. He felt the water in his own chest, felt the panic, felt the desperation and the endless wish to live. He watched the man die, and he knew that it wasn't water killing him, it was he, Corben Jatthew. In that moment, he felt himself as two men, one alive and one dead, and he knew that terrible flaw in man, impotent pity. Cato's entire body shook in one last spasm, and then he was still.

Cato stared at Corben with one good eye and one bloody wreck, he stared without sight, and his gaze was fixed. He drifted down, sinking away from Corben. He drifted through cold water, he sank into the black depths. Corben watched him, and felt his heart beat, and heard it as a drum in his flooded ear, and with every beat of that drum, he thought he would see Cato turn his head and look up. He thought that if he took his eyes off Cato, the monster, the titan, would awake, and reach up, and take him by the ankle, to drag him down to abyssal depths, down and down to death. He knew, if that black miracle took place, he would fight again, and he also knew it would be just; justice for every killer to die with his victim.

Corben watched until Cato sank into darkness. He felt the fire in his chest, the old fire. He'd forgotten himself in the fight, forgotten he needed air. Watching Cato, he hadn't dared to think of his own needs, lest the echo of a thought would wake the beast. Now he knew that Cato was dead, and he needed to get out of the water fast, fast or he would drown.

He swam up. He swam, and the cuts on his arm hurt, and his ankle screamed, and his chest was filled with acid steam, and he swam. He was deep in the waters of darkness and death, and he swam. Above him he saw a light. It looked like an angel, it looked like the halo of a saving saint. He saw a face in the light, he saw her face. The light called to him, and he swam.

He broke the surface, and he had never tasted air so sweet, so fresh, so full of life. The bridge was above, and the light was a lamp, and he was down below, but there was a support strut running from water to wood, so he wrapped his fingers around it and he climbed. It should have hurt, it should have taken more than strength, more strength than he had left, but he didn't feel the effort. Maybe the air gave him fresh strength, or the water had washed away his pain, but he felt light, he felt reborn with wings, he felt like he could fly.

He clambered over the railings onto the bridge, and dropped to his knees, and she was there. She was there, Mimi was there, and she kissed him, and he wrapped his arms around her, and held her close, and felt her warmth in his skin and in his bones and in his soul. He held her close, and they spoke without words.

When the sun rose, they had gone.

Chapter 24

It had hurt. Walking under the skeletal trees, crunching snow underfoot, Corben shivered. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his warm black coat, and watched his breath turn to mist. The trees were bare, their leaves long gone. He wondered if the trees felt pain, when their pieces, their green banners withered and fell away. He remembered the pain, and the fear. He remembered how he had felt when they took her. He remembered that sensation of loss, like having a piece of your heart ripped out. He remembered that night, when everyone, even those closest to him, had been stolen or changed, so he was no longer one among many, but one alone.

It had hurt. Even when he'd got her back, he'd had another fight to keep her. The cops had been out for blood after Assistant Commissioner Blair was murdered. Homeland had thought Corben was working for a foreign power, and the FBI had fought everyone because there had been a kidnapping, and because they wanted to show that they were the only agency that hadn't been compromised by the Blocks, or by him.

He had thought they would take her from him, but he would've shot himself in the liver before he'd let anyone take her again, after diving into hell to get her back. He had got help, from some of his friends, and more from an angel that had a skin of stone, but a living heart. When they'd dredged the lake, and turned up Randall's body, beaten and bound, that had supported Corben's tale, and the documents that Jeff had found him, they had given him a kind of power. They told a story that no one wanted to make public. Homeland were especially anxious to keep their Delphi program from coming into common view, in light of the ease with which it mocked privacy. At a time when constitutional freedoms were a focus of popular concern, no one at Homeland wanted to be seen with Delphi on their hands. The NYPD had wanted to send someone down, but they didn't want anyone to know that someone in Sylvester Blair's position could have been controlled by a gangster like Cato Block. When everyone had realised what was at stake, they had fallen over themselves to help Corben, and make him feel safe.

It was over now. But in a way, it would never be over. When you lose someone, they stay lost. It hurt, now, to recall the depth of his fury, his hatred for his brother. He couldn't feel that way any more. When Randall had thrown himself off that cliff, it had been pure, a selfless act. He'd paid for all of his crimes, as far as Corben was concerned. He'd paid the highest price of all. Corben felt tears in his eyes, nothing to do with the chilly winter air.

Thinking of Randall made him think of that lake in Fern park. It made him think of Cato Block. They'd got him and his brother up, out of the water. Like Randall, their lungs were full of water. They'd never found Cato's left eye. Perhaps it was still down there somewhere. Perhaps a fish, or some little animal, had gnawed it into shreds. It could be at the bottom of that lake, staring up at watery shadows. Perhaps that lake was now haunted. If so, it had swallowed all his ghosts. He wasn't afraid to swim anymore. That was a funny thing. He'd been working out at the local pool. He didn't understand it, but every time he got into the water, he felt closer to Randall. He couldn't think of his brother without tears welling up in his eyes, but it was more than loss and grief. When he pictured Randall's last moment, taking Brandt with him into the lake, he felt proud.

What felt less comforting, what made him grow tense, and sweat, and walk faster as he passed by certain houses, was the thought he'd had many times since. It was the question he didn't like to ask, the question from that one agent, Archer, from Homeland, or the FBI, or perhaps some other organisation; the question that made his bones hurt. "We've got all of our eyes out looking for people like this, and somehow Cato Block got inside, in our brain, and used our eyes for himself. It makes me wonder, how many more Cato Blocks are out there?" That still hurt. It was an irritation he could never get rid of. It bit him in his dreams at night, and chewed on his nerves when he passed by a house that didn't seem right. Whenever he met a person who somehow felt wrong, he'd get tense, and the question would come back into his mind. How many houses, how many homes, how many families had their own Cato Block?

Sometimes he had to remind himself that Cato was dead. He didn't like that, either. It raised images he'd rather forget, of that thick face, screaming in water, bubbles around his mouth and nose, his hands made weak, his strength undone, his life broken. Corben felt sick whenever he thought of that. "I had no choice," he told himself again, and every time he thought of it. It was necessary. Still, he felt sick. Cato was in a grave now, he was not still hanging, floating, thrashing under water. But on some nights, he lived again in nightmares.

He noticed that he'd slowed down, lost in his memories. He rubbed his hands together, and walked faster. Snow crunched underfoot. The cold crisp air smelled good. Somewhere, someone was baking an apple pie. The scent made him feel warm inside, and hungry. He walked faster, and turned a corner. Up ahead he saw the grand old stone face of Saint Mary's hospital.

An old station wagon rolled along the road, and then Corben crossed, and walked up to the hospital steps. He checked his watch; he was just in time. The doors swung open as he approached, and she came out. She wore a thick green coat, and a woolly red hat, and she hugged herself as she walked out into the cold winter air.

"Mimi!" He ran up, and caught her on the steps, wrapping his arms around her. She pressed herself against him, and pushed her hands into his pockets.

"So cold! So cold!"

"Would you like to wear my coat as well?"

"Yes!"

He took it off, and wrapped it around her, and then he held her in his arms, marvelling as he did every day at the joy he felt to have her back. He kissed her, and took her hand. "So? What did they say?"

She bit her lip, and looked down.

"I can't stand the tension, Mimi. You have to tell me." Inside, he was praying.

She leaned in close, and brushed his cheek with her lips, and then put her lips against his ear. She whispered, "we're going to have a son!"

He whooped, and picked her up. He danced down the steps with Mimi in his arms, screaming and giggling, and beating her fists against him with all the force of falling snow.

They walked, hand-in-hand under skeletal trees. They spoke a little, and laughed a lot, and argued over which university they should send him to, and laughed some more. They walked home along the tree-lined path, and here and there, poking out as if hiding from the snow, they saw little green buds on the trees, the promise of the coming spring.

###

About the Author

Jacob Magnus lives in South Korea with his girlfriend's dog. He enjoys travel, and practises the Korean sword art of Gumdo. His favourite game is Deus Ex.

