depending on the ocean. Weather report says fair and clear; high in the nineties, low in the high seventies. The Mayor’s going to welcome him and there’s going to be a big crowd ... and a big demonstration, too.”

“Who?” Wesley asked.

“Some exiled Haitians who think this country shouldn’t let him come....”

“They’ll be glad he did.”

“Where’ll I be?”

“Right here, watching the TV for the news. Aren’t they going to cover it live?”

“Yeah, fuck that! Why should I be here?”

“I don’t need you.”

“You got the whole thing figured?”

“Yeah, I told you ... you got the sextant?”

“Look, Wesley, I got everything you said. But you left out something.”

“What?”

“After you hit him, right? How you going to come out?”

“I guess I’m not.”

“No good.”

“No good! What the fuck do you mean, ‘no good’? Who’re you to— ?”

“I know who I am ... and this is fucked up, Wesley. It’s not what you said.”

Wesley watched the kid carefully. “How isn’t it?”

“You killing this faggot as an experiment, right? Sure, it’ll maybe help a bunch of other people ... but you’re going to see, right? If it works, then we going someplace else, right? That rifle’s no machete, Wesley ... and you’re no Latin American, either.”

“Look, I...”

“I know. But you can’t go home behind this one, Wesley. I won’t keep you past the right time.”

“You can’t keep me.”

“Yes, I can. Because you owe me, like Pet owed you.”

Wesley focused on the kid’s face, seeing deep into his skull. “What’re you saying?”

“Didn’t the old man look you in the face when you sent him home?” the kid demanded.

“You know he did.”

“Then you need to look me in the face before you go, too, Wesley.”

76/

1:45 a.m., Saturday. The Ford pulled up outside the red steel door. The kid sat behind the wheel with a .12 gauge Ithaca pump gun across his knees. He held a Ruger .44 Magnum in his right hand. The engine was running, but it was impossible to hear, even with an ear against the fender. Wesley climbed out of the passenger seat and walked quickly to the door. He pulled a clear plastic bag from under his coat and extracted a long, thin tube of putty-colored material. He applied the plastique evenly all around the door, between it and the frame ... an extra blob went over the handle. A string hung loose from the blob. Wesley pulled the string hard and moved quickly back across the street in the same motion.

The putty briefly sparked—there was a flash and a muted popping sound. The street was still empty. Wesley grabbed the large suitcase from the back seat, swung the duffel bag over his shoulder, and got out again.

The kid looked across at him. “Wesley, I’ll have the radio tuned to pick up the TV station. I’ll move under a minute or so just before, okay?”

“I’ll be coming out, kid.”

“I know.”

The Ford remained idling on the street until Wesley crossed and threw open the red steel door. He tossed his gear on the dark floor and closed the door from the inside, just as the kid crossed the street holding a gasoline- soaked rag. The kid wiped down the outside of the door as Wesley attached the floor-mounted brace from the inside. Working in unison even though they could no longer see each other, the kid and Wesley each broke open a full tube of Permabond and squeezed a beady trail of the liquid all around the edges of the door. The kid smacked the door sharply twice with an open palm to tell Wesley that it looked fine from the outside now—in a few minutes the door wouldn’t open unless it was blasted again. The body language of the men he’d seen told Wesley that finishing this building wasn’t a rush job, and a phone call had told him no work crew was scheduled for Saturday.

Wesley began to plan out his moves ... then he realized that his open hand was still pressed against the door in unconscious imitation of the way people said good-bye to each other in the Tombs—palms pressed against the cloudy plexiglass....

The kid, driving the Ford back toward the Slip, was thinking too, looking for clues. He didn t take the dog with him, the kid said to himself, finally relaxing. He drove professionally the rest of the way.

Wesley carefully, slowly laid out the two dozen sticks of dynamite the kid had purchased from a construction worker a few weeks ago. After he had screwed in the blasting caps one at a time, he stuck them all together with more of the plastique putty, driving the wires through and around the deadly lump and into the rectangular transmitter. Finally, he gently positioned the unit under a dark-green canvas tarpaulin in a far corner of the first

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