No rescue.
Daniel, Milo- how could you abandon me?
My body started to shake. “You can't hope to-”
“Hope has nothing to do with it,” said Baker. “What you know amounts to supposition but no evidence. The same goes for Sturgis. The game needs to end. Here's a true test of your belief system: Is there an afterlife? Now you'll find out. Or”- he smiled-“you won't.”
“DVLL. You're the new devils?”
The needle caught ceiling light, sparking white.
His mouth tightened. Irritated. “How many foreign languages do you speak?”
“Some Spanish. I learned a little Latin in school.”
“I speak eleven,” he said.
“All that travel.”
“Travel enriches.”
“What language is DVLL?”
“German,” he said. “Nothing like the Goths when it comes to matters of principle. The crispness, none of that useless Gallic lassitude.”
Zena's comments about French. Parroting her guru.
The needle lowered.
“So what does it mean?” I said.
No answer. He'd turned grave, almost sad.
“Potassium chloride?” I tried for the third time. “Freelance executioner. At least the state offers sedation.”
Tenney said, “The state offers a last meal and prayers and a blindfold because the state's game is insincerity- pretending to be humane.”
He laughed very loudly. “The state actually takes the time to sterilize the
“Don't worry,” said Baker. “Your heart will explode, it won't take long.”
“Dust to dust, carbon to carbon.”
“Clever. Too bad we never got a chance to spend more quality time together.”
“Executed,” I said, barely able to restrain the scream that kept growing within me. “What's my crime?”
“Oh, Alex,” he said. “I'm so disappointed in you. You still don't understand.”
“Understand what?”
A sad shake of his head. “There are no crimes, only errors.”
“Then why'd you become a cop?”
The needle lowered a bit. “Because police work offers so much opportunity.”
“For power.”
“No, power's for politicians. What law enforcement offers is choice. Possibilities. Order and disorder, crime and punishment. Playing the rules like a card hustler.”
“When to fold, when to draw,” I said. Stall, stretch every second, don't look at the needle. Robin- “Who to arrest, who to let go.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Fun.”
“Who gets to live,” I said, “who doesn't. How many others have you killed?”
“I stopped counting long ago. Because it doesn't matter. That's the point, Alex: Everything is
“Then why bother to kill me?”
“Because I want to.”
“Because you can.”
He came closer. “Not a
“A sweeper,” I said, and when he didn't answer: “The elite takes out the trash.”
“There are no elites. Just those with fewer impediments. Willy and I will end up worm-food like everyone else.”
“Smarter worms, though,” said Tenney. He grinned at me. “See you for chess in hell. You supply the board.”
“Sensation is all,” I said to Baker.
Baker put down the needle again, unbuttoned his shirt, and spread the placket.
His chest was tan, hairless, a grotesque plane of ravaged flesh.
Scores of scars, some threadlike, others raised and welted.
He displayed himself proudly, rebuttoned. “I thought of myself as a blank canvas, decided to draw. Please don't talk to me about mercy.”
“At least tell me about DVLL.”
“Oh, that,” he said, dismissively. “Just a quotation from Herr Shickelgruber. Pure mediocrity, that one, those sickening watercolors, but he did have a way with a phrase.”
He got very close. Sweet breath, soap-and-water skin. How did he tolerate Tenney?
Tenney moved in and held my right hand down, elbow to the mattress. Oh, Milo, the bastard is right, nothing matters in the end, nothing's fair- fingertips drummed the crook of my arm, raising a vein.
Baker lifted the syringe.
“Happy heart attack,” he said.
Robin- Mom- go out with style, don't scream, don't scream- I prepared for the jab, nervous system crashing, alarm bells jingling-
Nothing.
Baker straightened. Perturbed.
Still the jingling.
“Shit,” said Tenney.
“Go see who it is, Willy, and be careful.”
Clang. The needle disappeared and in its place Baker held a machine pistol- black, banana-shaped handle, rectangular body, nasty little barrel.
He looked around the room.
The bell rang again. Stopped. Three knocks. More bell.
I heard Tenney's rapid climb up the stairs.
Voices.
Tenney's, the other high-pitched.
A woman?
Her voice, Tenney's, hers.
“No,” I heard Tenney say, “you've got the wrong-”
Baker moved toward the door, pistol held high.
The woman's voice again, irate.
“I'm telling you,” said Tenney, “that this-”
Then, a low, muffled stutter that could only be one thing. More footsteps, racing, as Baker pointed the machine pistol at the door, ready.
Thunder behind him- breaking glass, a glass roar- from behind the curtains, then a flute arpeggio of tinkling shards as the curtains parted and men burst in shooting.
More stutter, much louder.
