Fun and Games

ankles

 sknees

     hips

         elbows

Finally—if you can remember to do this—Enrico taught her to slap the ground with her palms to help break the fall. Lane ran through these steps countless times while training for Your Kiss Might Kill Me—hours of nothing but falls on an exercise mat. Then Enrico took away the mat. If Lane could do anything, it was fall.

There was no mat here. No flat surface either. And her bendable parts were already sore beyond reason. But the technique still worked, and after Lane slapped the ground, she reached out for the fat stubby trunk of a bush. She rolled over onto her back just in time to see Charlie sliding past. Lane reached out and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt. Which ripped six inches and then… held, preventing him from sliding the rest of the way down into the canyon.

At the end of her arm, Charlie wriggled like an insect caught until he found some handholds, some footing. One he’d stabilized himself, she heard him hiss:

“I’m going to fuck up that motherfucker.”

And then up Charlie went, scrambling through the brush and cacti. He’d just cleared the top when Lane heard a door creaking open.

Lane made it up just in time to see Hardie launching their tormentor over the edge.

The craziest thing was the absolute exhilaration Hardie felt watching Tallboy’s body disappear. It was a sensation he thought had been lost to him. Strange that the one thing that made him feel alive for the first time in three years was killing somebody.

20

Listen, Charlie, before we go in,

there’s something I have to tell you. It’s been on my conscience,

and you can punch me if you want to.

—Oliver Platt, The Ice Harvest

THE KEYS were still in the van, hanging from the steering column. They climbed inside. Lane eased back into the passenger seat, not offering to drive, not saying a word. Hardie was about to give her shit about being Miss Daisy but then remembered the accident. She’d probably done enough driving for one day.

He craned his neck around to make sure there were no hidden surprises in the back of the van.

Now he saw that the back was loaded.

Lane heard him move and cracked open an eye.

“Where are you going?”

“Hang on.”

The cargo area was packed neatly, efficiently. Row upon row of plastic containers assembled on metal racks. Some of the stuff he recognized. Hardie popped open the top of one container. Syringes, sterile and sealed in plastic. Hardie checked another. Rubber tubing, the kind nurses use when they draw blood. Another container: gauze and tape. Hardie knew he should grab as much of this crap as possible. He was in shock and in too much pain to be slapping on bandages at the moment, but they would come in handy later. If there was a later.

Another container was full of small plastic bags of coke, heroin, and other goodies Hardie recognized from his days battling Philly drug gangs with Nate. The street value, based on his best guestimate, was enough to buy a house in the suburbs. And probably a sweet piece of automotive eye candy to park in the front drive.

Other items weren’t so familiar. Hardie popped the top of a plastic container that held a bright orange suit that was heavy and reeked of rubber. Another contained little pouches labeled RSDL—“reactive skin decontamination lotion”—and next to it, a box of injectable ampoules of hydroxocobalamin.

Then there was a box in the middle of the floor, half full of little spring-loaded vials. Just like the ones Hardie saw in that box they’d mounted on the front door of the Lowenbruck house. He fished one out, held it up to the light. Inside, clear liquid. Didn’t look like anything, really. Hardie slid it into his back pocket. You never know.

There were no guns. With every container top he opened, Hardie kept hoping, wishing, praying. But there was not so much as a slingshot.

“Charlie, come on. What are you doing?”

“One minute.”

There it was. Tucked into the corner, sealed in thick, opaque plastic.

His luggage.

Hardie reached out and touched it, just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage. He pressed his fingertips against it, saw the headless Spider-Man, and yeah. Definitely his bag. Hardie wondered what they had planned on doing with it. Burn it? Bury it? Divvy it up with a dice game? Which made Hardie think about the poor courier who’d had the unlucky assignment of delivering this bag. His body wasn’t in the van, and his delivery truck was nowhere in sight. Which was further proof that the world was random and mean and didn’t really give a shit about anybody. The world would run you down and slam a tire over your exploding skull and not even wonder what it had just hit.

Hardie was about to go back to the front of the van, when he remembered his carry-on. It should be back here somewhere. Maybe tucked away in some secret compartment?

Hardie began opening more tiny doors, kicking others. Had to be here. Where else would they have put it?

“Charlie! Get up here now or I’m getting behind the wheel.”

“Hang on.”

“Seriously? You’re really going to do this to me?”

“Coming, coming…”

The carry-on bag contained the only thing that couldn’t be replaced, the one link to his old life, the one reminder that he used to be a decent person…

Had to be here.

Somewhere.

While Lane waited, literally on the edge of her seat, trying not to scream at Charlie for taking, like, fucking forever back there… her eyes fell on the GPS unit mounted in the dashboard. Huh. Maybe this would show where these creepy bastards lived. She tapped the touch screen and cycled backward through the searches until a familiar address popped up.

Her own.

572 Westminster Avenue, Venice, CA.

Goddamn it, did they come to the house last night? How long had they been watching her?

She tapped the screen again and another address appeared. One that made her body turn ice cold.

No…

They couldn’t.

The carry-on wasn’t back here. Clearly the fuckers had stashed it somewhere else.

Hardie knew he was wasting time. They had to move. Now.

He gathered up a bunch of first aid–type supplies, unzipped the side of his bag, and shoved everything inside.