I'd been resting my head against the pawnshop door, and I suppose I must've dozed off, because my eyes flew open at the sound of Kate's voice. Startled, I jerked upright. The sudden muscle tension sent waves of searing pain down my leg, and up into my gut. A cold sweat broke out across my face, and I thought I was gonna puke. At least it did a number on the cobwebs.
'Jesus, Sam, are you all right? I thought I might've lost you there.'
'I'm fine,' I replied. 'What'd you say?'
'I said we've got movement,' Kate replied. 'Second floor. Bedroom, it looks like.'
'Left side or right?'
'Left,' she said.
'Huh. Looks like I owe you a buck.'
We sat in silence for a while as lights came on and off inside. After maybe fifteen minutes, the lights went out, and the left-hand door clanged open. A heavyset dude in a pair of dusky blue coveralls and a good week's worth of scruff stepped out onto the porch, shuffled down the stairs, and hopped into the rusted-out Chevy pickup that sat in the driveway. It was the pickup that had tipped me off, or rather the Department of Sanitation sticker that adorned its rear window. Good thing I'd spotted it, too – I'd barely managed the six or so blocks from the hospital parking lot on this bum leg of mine, and it was only a matter of time before the cops fanned out looking for us. All of which meant we needed to get the hell off the street, and fast. The way I figured it, a garbage man is the first guy out the door in the morning, which meant we'd just scored ourselves an empty apartment, and the luxury of busting in while the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep. Hell, it was practically Christmas. All we had to do was wait, and cross our fingers it wasn't our guy's day off.
Lucky for us, it wasn't. We watched him pull away, and as soon as his tail lights disappeared around the corner, we made our move. It was a slow, gimpy move, I'll admit – Kate helping me to my feet and supporting my weight as we crossed the street and scaled the porch steps – but it was the best that we could manage under the circumstances. Near as I could tell, there wasn't anyone awake for blocks to see us, anyway.
When we reached the door, I grabbed the jamb for support, and took a long, hard look at the lock. Just your garden-variety deal, damn near as old as the house itself, and no deadbolt, which was a relief. Still, I didn't have anything to pick it with, which meant we were gonna have to do this the hard way. I'm not sure which I relished less: the idea of trying to kick this thing in with a bum leg, or the attention the racket of doing so would attract. Still, it's not like we had a lot of options.
'Listen, Kate – here's what's gonna happen. I need you to grab hold of my left arm. I'm gonna give the door a swift kick with my good leg, and you've got to support my weight, you got me? It might take a couple kicks, so you've got to keep me up, OK? If I don't get the thing down quick, we're gonna wake half the neighborhood, and somebody's bound to call the cops. C'mon – we go on three.'
But she just stood there, grinning at me. 'What?' I snapped.
'You're really all about the hard way, aren't you?' Kate lifted the lid on the mailbox and reached a hand inside. After a moment of fishing, she pulled out a key. 'I mean, seriously, were you even going to
I mentally scrolled through a couple dozen witty rejoinders before settling on: 'Just open the damned door.'
She did, and once we were inside, she locked it behind us, setting the chain as well. The inside was at least as shabby as the outside. We were standing in a cramped living room, made all the more so by the oppressive green-brown of the carpet, and wood-paneled walls that seemed to press inward from all sides. The stench of spent cigarettes hung in the air. A thrift-store couch and easy chair were arranged around a TV that would've looked old when the Nixon hearings aired.
Kate dropped me into the easy chair and disappeared from sight, returning a moment later with an armful of supplies and a chipped glass half full of water. She dropped her payload on the couch, and handed me the glass. 'Here,' she said, shaking loose a handful of ibuprofen from the bottle she'd scored, 'take these.' I complied. 'This place is a dump, by the way.'
I said, 'I've seen worse.'
'Yeah? You may wanna check out the bathroom before you go making any claims like that. How long you figure we got here, anyway?'
'I dunno – eight hours, maybe nine?'
'We'd best get to it, then,' she said. 'C'mon, we've got to get you out of these pants.'
I made no move to take them off. Kate just laughed. 'Don't go all modest on me now, Sam. We've got to dress that wound, or you won't be going anywhere, and besides, this body isn't even
Eventually, I acquiesced, undoing the belt I'd wrapped around my leg, and tossing the bloodied towel on the floor. I nearly dropped the belt as well, but Kate shook her head. 'Unh-uh – you're gonna need that in a sec.'
A few moments' struggle, and my tattered, bloodsoaked pants were just a crumpled mess on the threadbare carpet. The meat-suit, as it happens, was a briefs guy. Can't say at that moment I was psyched with his choice, but Kate was polite enough to pay it no mind.
'Looks like that Bishop dude got you pretty good, but the bleeding's slowed at least. God knows where Anders' knife has been, though – I'm gonna have to disinfect the wound if you want this guy to last the week.' I nodded. She snatched up a bottle of rubbing alcohol from her pile of supplies, and twisted free the cap. 'You might want to bite down on that belt of yours – this is gonna sting a bit.'
That, as it turns out, was a bit of an understatement. I've been kicking around this world for going on ninety years – most of those damned – and I've gotta say, the ten or so seconds after the alcohol hit and before I blacked out were perhaps the most excruciating moments of my life. Every fucking muscle tensed at once, and I thrashed so hard, I thought this body might just tear itself apart. I clenched my eyes so tight I thought I was gonna pop 'em, and my teeth bit clean through the belt, even doubled over on itself as it was. Leather and blood mingled with the prickling scent of alcohol, and the roar of my pulse in my ears nearly drowned out my own tortured screams. And then, for a while, there was nothing.
When I awoke, I was on the couch, my leg bound tight with gauze and duct tape and propped up on a mound of pillows, the wound throbbing dully in time with my pulse. Kate sat on the floor, eating a bowl of cereal by
