Something was bothering him about the girl. Oh, yeah. Even though she was amazing, he was a little pissed off with her. For one thing, there’d been that business with the broken glass. He admired it in a way, but she could have actually hurt him. Worse than that, though, was this tendency she had to maybe not respect him enough, maybe talk down her nose a little. Had she even laughed at him at one point? Of course, with the way things had been left between them, she might be reconsidering her attitude by now. She would come around. Human beings were animals, after all, not in a bad way, that was simply scientific fact. So what he’d thought before-breaking a horse-was right. If he decided to take her along with him, take her into this golden future-and the decision was his, not hers-she’d end up-what was the word? Infatuated. Like a broken horse. She’d end up infatuated with him. Could he picture her with her hands all over him, staring up at him with big horse eyes, going down on him by request? Yes, he could. He could have both: the money and the girl. But the decision would be his.
And first, the money. What time had he said? Six. Six sharp. Freedy was wondering what time it was now, the plan kind of depending on it, when he heard, very faint in the storm, the bell tolling up at the chapel on College Hill. That bell was part of his life, one of the bad parts, but this-the last time he’d have to listen to it! — was different. This time it was working for him. He counted: six bells.
Six o’clock. Sharp. But what if they didn’t come? That would mean they thought he was bluffing. Freedy knew what had to be done in a case like that, no matter how perfect for him this girl was, no matter how infatuated she could become with his body and his mind. In a case like that, when you said if something doesn’t happen then something else is goddamn well going to, in a case like that, you had to follow through. Every infomercial said that; it was like one of their Ten Commandments.
He’d been getting ahead of himself. There, down at the end of the alley, in that orange light with the black snow swirling around, someone stepped into view. Someone fairly tall, although not as tall as Freedy, but who did look a bit like a certain type of football player, the quarterback type specifically. Freedy had always hated quarterbacks. The wonderful Thanksgiving leg-breaking hit? That had been on a quarterback.
Whoever it was came closer, and just as he reached the point in the alley where the orange light ended and the shadows took over, he glanced back for some reason. And, in glancing back, revealed his profile. The college kid. Nat. He had a backpack-those college kids all went around with backpacks, like life was a camping trip-but he had it in his hand, not on his back. The college kid: born on top of the Hill. But then Freedy remembered: He works in a mill. His old man’s not around. That made him even angrier.
Now the college kid was entering the quiet, closed-in space. How to handle this, exactly? The first idea that came to Freedy’s mind was to take him out, take the money, take off. Break him in two, just like he’d wanted to do since the first time he’d seen him. Then-goddamn it, yes-then go back and get the girl. Why not? He couldn’t think of one good reason. The first idea, the best, the only. He had momentum, he had the power, he had the element of surprise. Like the wolf or the tiger, he got ready to spring.
The college kid was looking around. Looking at the back of the Glass Onion, the Dumpster. What was this? He’d noticed the footprints, was following them with his eyes, like he was tracing Freedy’s movements or something. Freedy didn’t like that at all. The college kid’s gaze came up, directly on the pallet propped up under the overhang of the old hardware loading dock.
The college kid, Nat, spoke. “Where is she?” he said. Didn’t raise his voice; sounded almost steady, in fact, like he wasn’t afraid or some bullshit. “I’ve brought the money.”
Freedy pushed the pallet over, came out from under the overhang in a crouch, a little awkward, rose to his full height, making up for it. Yes: taller than the college kid, and much, much stronger. A fuckin’ animal of another species. “Let’s have it,” he said.
It was Freedy. Nat made no move to hand the backpack over. Freedy, without question. Nat recognized him from the football picture; there wasn’t much light, but enough for that. Freedy looked older, of course, but the expression on his face was the same. Enough light, too, to make out the scratches over his eye and on his chin: not good signs. Nat’s heart still pounded, but slower now. “First I have to see her,” he said.
Freedy was silent. They stood there-if both had held out their arms at full length, their hands would not quite have met-stood there behind the Glass Onion, the snow drifting in corkscrew patterns down through the partly sheltered space between the rooftops. A smile appeared on Freedy’s face; he had big white teeth, like a movie star.
“It’s not that kind of kidnapping,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” Nat said. “There’s no other kind.” He was aware of a strange assurance suddenly in his tone, as if some older self had stepped inside him when he most needed it.
Freedy’s smile faded. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.
“It’s a trade. I bring the money. You bring her.” Nat looked beyond Freedy, tried to shape another person from the shadows under the loading dock, could not.
“Don’t blame me,” Freedy said.
A remark that Nat didn’t understand, but he asked for no explanation, just waited. He felt a certain rhythm coming from Freedy, sensed that it was important to break it, and that silence, waiting, might do that. In the silence, he watched Freedy’s face, saw nothing of Professor Uzig, except around the mouth. Their mouths were similar-almost identical, in fact, if you allowed for the difference in age.
“What’re you staring at?” said Freedy.
“I’m waiting.”
“What for?”
“For you to say where she is.”
“I already told you-don’t blame me. It was her idea.”
Her? Was Freedy talking about his mother? Was she somehow involved, was that why they were meeting here, behind the Glass Onion? Had he misunderstood everything?
Freedy was smiling again. “Not so sharp, huh, for a college kid. She, me, and the money in the same place means I’m a hostage too. Get it now? I got it right away.”
Nat didn’t get it. He realized that Freedy was talking about Grace, not his mother, but what did that mean? If Grace was giving Freedy ideas, were they in some sort of collaboration? Was it still a fake kidnapping? Would she take it that far? No: the scratches on his face, the phrase hostage too, the note-she’d never have worded it, or let him word it, like that-all told him no. It was real. Therefore the fact that Grace was giving Freedy ideas probably meant she’d been trying to trick him in some way, and almost certainly meant she was still alive.
“Is she in there?” Nat said, nodding toward the Glass Onion.
“I’m getting bored with this,” Freedy said. “Hand it over.”
“And then what?” Nat said.
“Hey,” said Freedy, “I’m not a prophet.”
“That’s clear,” Nat said.
Could those eyes of Freedy’s be said to harden, to become even harder than they were? They did. “You better explain that,” Freedy said.
“If you could see at all into the future,” Nat said, “you wouldn’t be doing this.”
“Are you, like, threatening me?” Freedy said.
“I’m stating a fact.” Freedy seemed a little closer to him, although Nat wasn’t aware of any movement; if they held out their arms now, their hands would be in contact.
“Shows how much you know,” Freedy said. “By tomorrow I’ll be down in Flor-I’ll be in fucking clover.”
“Only if there’s been an exchange,” Nat said. “You don’t get the money until we get her.”
Freedy was even closer now; Nat sensed his physical strength-like a magnetic field, except repellent. “This is starting to feel like negotiating,” Freedy said. “I don’t like negotiating.”
“Then you shouldn’t have done this,” Nat said. “It’s not too late to undo it.”
“Shake hands,” Freedy said, “and go out for beers?”
“Just walking away with no more damage will be good enough.”
“Nope,” said Freedy. “Doesn’t work that way, got to take risks if you’re going anywhere in this life. Got to put it on the line. Everybody knows that, except you rich boys.”
“You can drop that one,” Nat said. “I grew up with no more money than you, maybe less.”
“What the hell do you know about how I grew up?”
“And you’re putting another person, an innocent person, on the line, not yourself.” Nat was getting angry
