my eggs were in. But when we got to where I'd been waiting to get to, I was almost gone. The road climbed, ran straight, fell. I pushed myself back to consciousness, said, 'Here.'
'Here what?' Grice asked.
'Lydia gets out here.'
Grice gestured to Ted. The car slowed, stopped. 'Why here?'
'Because it's deserted. Because it'll take her an hour to find anyone, if she's looking. So she can't stop you doing whatever it is you're planning to do. So you'll let her go.' Buy it, I begged him silently. Buy it. It's all I've got.
Grice nodded. Arnold reached across Lydia, opened her door. He untied her hands as Grice said, 'Get out.'
Lydia hesitated, looked at me. I met her eyes. 'Walk back the way we came,' I told her. 'Don't turn around. And Lydia?' I added, 'it's okay. Remember, it's just a game.'
A light flashed in the depths of Lydia's eyes, or maybe I just needed to think I saw it there. She turned, slid swiftly from the car, and stalked rapidly away. She didn't look back.
I leaned back against the seat, shut my eyes. That was it. My part was almost over.
The car started to move again. 'That was touching,' Grice said.
'Screw you,' I murmured.
'Where are the paintings?'
'Screw you.'
Arnold grabbed my jacket, jerked me close to him. He smacked me with his open palm once, and again. Howling pain shot through my skull, blinding my left eye.
'No,' I said weakly. 'Wait.' I didn't want to be hurt any more, and I was lying anyway. Arnold pushed me back against the seat. I lay there breathing unevenly, not speaking, as long as I dared. Make them look at you, Smith. Make them think about you, focus on you.
I felt Arnold's hand tighten on my collar again. 'No,' I whispered. I didn't even try to open my eyes. 'Cobleskill. Self-storage rooms near the college.'
'Where's the key?' Grice demanded.
Key. I hadn't thought about a key. 'No key. Combination. Room number's one-twenty-four. Combination's eleven, twenty-five, fifty-one.' I swallowed, said, 'Give me a drink.'
'Screw you.' Grice laughed, Otis laughing with him. Arnold was probably grinning, but I didn't look to see.
I was cold. A drink would have helped, or a cigarette. Or a soft voice, or music. Schubert, maybe. I began to hear the soft opening chords of the B-flat Sonata, the one I didn't play. They faded, along with everything else, as the darkness thickened around me.
I woke when the car stopped moving. Outside, a silver sky pressed down like a weight on thick slate-colored clouds. Ted had brought us by the truck road to the flat, exhausted plain. I stared across the pit to the shadowed ridge rising against the sky. We had come along the road up there, the ridge road; from Franklinton it made sense. But the drive from there to the truck road was long, roundabout. You couldn't see the quarry pits from the ridge road, even in winter. If you didn't know the area well, if you didn't know where you were, you might not be able to tell anything about that road when you were on it, except that it was deserted, far from anywhere.
That was the reason I'd given Grice for letting Lydia go there.
'Is that where he's been staying?' Grice's words tore the silence. He pointed toward the shack.
'I don't know.' My voice sounded like sandpaper on a board.
'Drive closer,' Grice told Ted. He drew his gun from his coat; so did Otis. Arnold's was already out, aimed casually at my belly.
We rolled slowly over the stones scattering the plain. Ted angled the car toward the shack. My heart, beating fast, jarred, then stopped as Jimmy's van came into view.
Lydia hadn't made it. She hadn't understood, or maybe she hadn't been able to handle the climb down. Whatever; it didn't matter; she hadn't made it.
The car stopped again. Arnold leaned across me, as he had across Lydia, and opened my door. He nudged the barrel of his gun against my temple, against the place where the blood was drying. 'Out,' said Grice. I swung my legs through the door, stood with an effort. From behind, Arnold grabbed my arm. We moved clear of the car. Grice got out, kept behind me. 'Jimmy!' he shouted into the empty sky. The word echoed, faded; there was nothing else. 'Jimmy! I just want to talk to you, kid. Come on out for a minute.' There was no movement, no wind in the trees. 'Jimmy! I got your friend here, kid, and he doesn't look good. You don't talk to me, Jimmy, he could get to look worse.'
More silence. The clouds could have been painted; the surface of the water was polished marble. Grice tapped Arnold's arm, and we walked forward again, toward the shack.
Then, crashing through the stillness, a gunshot exploded, magnified by silence, multiplied by echoes. It seemed to come from everywhere around us, but as Arnold's grip suddenly slackened I spun around, ran with everything I had left toward the rock pile at the mouth of the other road.
What I had left wasn't enough. As shots came from behind me and another from ahead I tripped, stumbled, fell, and knew I couldn't get up; but strong hands seized me, yanked me forward, around the fortress of rock.
The world was reeling. Shots screamed through the air. I was hauled up, over stones and loose pebbles, until finally I was dropped, battered and breathing dust, my shoulders and arms burning with pain wherever I had feeling at all.
From somewhere above, Lydia said, 'Is he okay?'
Jimmy's voice: 'I guess.' I was helped to sit, my back against a rock. At first my eyes showed me nothing but
