Firebreak

The first kitchen he came to was empty. There was a small bathroom off it, and he realized his nervousness had made it necessary for him to use it. While in there, he studied himself in the mirror and saw he was a mess, hands and face scratched from the climb, clothing rumpled and dirty, hair turned into a fright wig. He washed, patted down his clothing, made himself look as neat as he could, then stepped outside to find a maid now in the kitchen. Before he could decide what to do, she nodded at him, murmured something in Spanish, and went on with her work.

So luck was with him. If he'd still looked the same mess as a few minutes ago, she wouldn't have mistaken him for a houseguest. Smiling at her, feeling all at once less nervous, he strode confidently from the kitchen.

For the next twenty minutes, he roamed the house. From time to time he saw or heard people, heard George's voice from a nearby room once, saw servants, saw people who were not servants but whom he didn't know, but he made certain no one after that first maid saw him. He was ready with lies and evasions if he did unexpectedly bump into somebody, but it didn't happen.

He roamed the downstairs, saw lunch being prepared, then took the grand major staircase, which split at the top to go left and right, both sides coming to the same large second-floor hall. There were mostly bedrooms and baths along here, and in the third bedroom on the left, when he opened the door, there was Brad, seated on an unmade bed, wearing a green polo shirt and tan chinos and pulling on a black sock. He looked up with surprise, and if that was actually fear Lloyd saw on his face for just an instant, it was immediately gone, as Brad leaped up from the bed with that false booming good fellowship Lloyd remembered so well, one sock on, one foot bare, spreading his arms as he cried, 'Larry! My God, look at you!'

And all at once, Lloyd was himself again. The nerd, the follower, the number two, the fellow born to be a sidekick. The years on his own had, after all, been horrible ones, left to make his own decisions, with no one to trail after and obey. Brad was a leader, and needed Larry. Larry was a follower, and needed Brad. It was as simple as that.

Lloyd stood there, stunned at himself more than at Brad, and accepted the bear hug Brad gave him, without actually responding. Then Brad stepped back, looked him up and down, grinning like any college pal in the presence of his old college pal once more, saying, 'Let me look at you. You've changed.'

'We both have.'

It was true. Time and prison had hardened them both, though it was less obvious in Brad. He'd always been sure of himself, and seemed now like a man it would actually be dangerous to cross.

And I thought, Lloyd told himself, I thought I was going to be dangerous to cross. What a fool I am.

Brad said, 'How did you do this? What a surprise! Why didn't you phone? I guess you saw the ink I got.'

'Yes, I read it,' Lloyd said. 'Non-violent. Ready to be rehabilitated.'

'That's me,' Brad said, and laughed. 'You gonna come back with me, Larry? We'll kick the shit out of them, you and me.'

Lloyd was bewildered by the both of them. Shouldn't Brad be full of recriminations, because Lloyd had ratted him out? Shouldn't Lloyd be full of recriminations, because Brad had stolen from him and humiliated him? But somehow they seemed to have gone immediately past all that, to be already at a

new relationship. Or the old relationship, as though nothing had ever happened.

But things had happened. Looking around, trying to get his bearings, Lloyd saw, on the antique dresser, a bottle of red wine, half drunk, the cork stuck back in it. He said, 'Still taking the wine to bed with you?'

'It's been years since I could, baby,' Brad said. 'But you know about that, you've been there. Listen, what happened to your face? You've got scratches there.'

Walking to the dresser, Lloyd said, 'I came up the cliff. Okay if I look at this?'

'Sure,' Brad said, as Lloyd picked up the bottle and read the label. 'You came up the cliff

'Uh-huh.'

'For God's sake, why?'

'Well,' Lloyd said, 'I came to kill you.' And he swung the bottle as hard as he could into that smiling lying face.

Brad staggered back, hands coming up toward his face, and Lloyd pursued him, swinging the bottle again, just as hard.

The third time, the bottle smashed, leaving him with the jagged neck. After that, it got easier.

Larry Perkins made his St. Louis flight out of Logan with half an hour to spare.

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7

It was turning out to be one of those days. Dave Rappleyea didn't like it when it turned out to be one of those days, and fortunately, here at the lodge, those days were infrequent. But this was turning out to be one of them.

By 'one of those days,' Dave Rappleyea meant a day with incidents in it. A good day, as far as he was concerned, had no incidents in it at all. A good day was one where he could sit quietly at his station in front of the bank of security monitors and play DoomRangers II from the beginning of his tour at eight a.m. through lunch at noon brought to him at the station by Myrna or Fred, till the end of his tour at four. A good day was also one in which the roster had not yet rotated back to him being the one to go up to the main house after dinner to flush all the toilets and walk through all the rooms so the sensors and monitors could make note of him, and the duty guy would therefore know that everything at the main house was still working the way it was supposed to.