breathe, but he made a small laugh. “And so sober,” he said.
There were two shots. In the open like that it was simple murder, though with the light as it was it was hard to tell who was shot But as if to a magnet which never lets go he had to come back to the box a while later. He went slowly this time, creeping through shadows, though by the time he crossed the square he no longer cared if he were seen or not. Because it was almost over and he was almost there. I’ve got nine lives, he thought, and I’m going to use all of them In the warehouse he could hear the voices and walked no further than the nearest stack of bales.
“He’s out there,” said the voice which was panting hard.
“You shot him and left him? Did I tell you to shoot, you son of a bitch?”
“Listen, all you said…”
“Shut up and get the tools and get the thing fixed up!”
Voice high and tense like a mouse and then Cipolla’s hard step on his extra-high heels, that too a high, tense sound coming closer.
No haste now, thought Quinn by his bale. He’ll freeze all by himself.
Cipolla did. One chopped heel sound and he stood very still by the dark bale. Quinn did not hit him. He reached out and dug his hand into Cipolla, high on the neck. This was pure satisfaction. There was no talk.
Cipolla, though small, turned out to be very strong. He started to see life and death come and go, nine lives come and go, and he now had all the strength of all his hate for everything he had ever hated.
It seemed to Quinn that he cared less than the other man. The silence of their grip on each other was much like a drug to him. I see nine lives go, he thought, and don’t care. I only care that I have none left over Then came a death, slow like a sigh.
When they found the body in the desert, very dry and the eyes staring up, there had been no doubt about this one because of the hair. Nobody in Okar had had hair like that; only Whitfield had blond hair, which was the only thing which had not changed on the corpse.
The one with the hole in the skull, the one who had been in the water for such a long time, there was some delay and some doubt about the identification, because so little was left. But of all the ones missing, only Remal used to wear the long shirt which was still floating around the thing.
And much later, in New York, where Ryder made a special trip for the occasion, there had been no doubt or delay when the box was opened. Ryder gave one look, stepped back quickly, and said, “I thought he was going to get back here alive.”
“Accidents happen,” said somebody.
“Stupid punk,” said Ryder and got into his car. “They don’t shrink that much, you idiot. That one’s maybe half of Quinn’s size.”
Okar, except for the missing people, did not change very much. There was talk for a while, but no change. About where the woman might be, the one who had left suddenly after having known everyone, and where the man might be, the one who had come in a box.
