The Survivor

walk. Fell into a puddle.”

“A puddle? Where?”

Nate fought his key into the lock. “On the street.”

“A waist-high puddle? On the street?”

“I fell.” Nate’s fingers felt loose and lifeless, and the keys slipped, clacking to the concrete. He crouched, but it took some concentration to get his hand to close around them. Maybe it was just the cold, not the illness.

Abara crossed his arms. “Here’s where you probably want to stop digging. And tell me why, exactly, you called. And what the hell is going on.”

The agent’s confidence eroded Nate’s resolve. Up against the Ukrainian mob, his daughter’s life threatened, tasked with robbing a bank-there was no way he could navigate through this on his own. He had to get help from the authorities.

He turned to face Abara in the outdoor corridor. “Okay. Look, when I got home tonight-”

Abara shifted, and over his shoulder, beyond the brief throw of guardrail, a curve of street came visible down below. About a hundred yards away, a streetlight dropped a yellow funnel onto the sidewalk, encircling a man who stood motionless.

Misha.

He stood in the brazen open, his hands in his pockets, a statue. The night seemed to fragment, and Nate had to remind himself to keep drawing breath as he pieced it back together, shard by shard.

Abara, impatient: “You got home and what?”

Below, Misha moved his arms, letting them hang at his sides. Something glinted at his left fist, pointing down at the concrete.

Nate forced his eyes back to Abara. “I … called you because I was scared. I just made up an excuse to get you over here.”

Abara ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, his eyes skeptical. “Don’t waste my time.”

Nate nodded. His gaze pulled right again, to the middle distance. Misha vanished behind a passing car, reappeared. The man was standing in the middle of the sidewalk gripping a gun, and no one seemed to notice.

“Okay. Sorry. You can go, then.” Nate pointed to the stairs, a nice broad gesture so Misha could see that he’d refused to cooperate with the agent. Turning, he fumbled the key into the lock, his fingers half responsive.

“The bank manager who was killed,” Abara said.

“Flores Esposita,” Nate said.

“Her funeral’s tomorrow. Forest Lawn, eleven A.M. Family asked if you could be there. You know, you being the guy who saved the day and all.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Yeah,” Abara said, walking away, “you seem to have a lot on your plate.”

Nate went inside, closed and locked the door, leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. Gripping his wrist, he flexed his fingers, balled them. More tingling. The living-room window beckoned. With dread, he crossed to it, the street drawing into view by degrees.

Misha remained, watching. Waiting for Nate.

Misha lifted the gun, aimed at the window, at Nate. A flush rolled beneath the skin of Nate’s face like a breaking wave. Misha cocked his head. Tugged the barrel up an inch like a kid playing soldier. Even at this distance, Nate saw his lips move.

Pow.

Misha returned the gun to his pocket and stepped away from the streetlight, vanishing into the darkness.

Chapter 15

At first light, Nate emerged from the depths of a slumber, his cheek buried in the bare pillow. Despair washed over him, magnified by aches. Stab wound in his shoulder. Freeze burns on his legs. Chafe marks on his wrists. Concerned that his fingers were still weak, he sat up and tested his grip around his own forearm. Not great.

Trudging through the living room, he tapped the photos of Cielle and Janie as was his morning ritual. No matter how unpleasant it would be, he’d have to update them now in some fashion. He owed them the truth, but he’d rather not do it during the morning rush to school and work. This afternoon, then.

Reaching the kitchen, he confronted the puddle of bourbon and half-dissolved pills he’d spit on the floor last night when he’d decided not to go through with it. A pathetic postscript ensued-him on his hands and knees, wiping the mess off the linoleum with a dishrag. There’d be no easy way out now. Sitting, he took his pills, properly this time. Fifty milligrams, twice a day, on an empty stomach. Because deteriorating from Lou Gehrig’s wasn’t unpleasant enough, he had to forswear alcohol and caffeine while taking riluzole. Sober, tired, and dying-a cheery little triad. He downed some Keflex-antibiotics for the stab wound-and sat, rubbing his eyes, trying to ratchet himself fully awake without the benefit of coffee.

The situation was surreal, beyond nightmarish. Had he really, ten hours prior, been ensconced in a Volkswagon-size block of ice? Had a Ukrainian thug actually threatened to murder his daughter if he didn’t break into a safe-deposit box? He tried to formulate a next move, but his brain couldn’t find traction.

When it came to robbing a bank, where did one start?

He grabbed the morning paper and read the account of yesterday’s events. “Local Man Foils Heist.” There he was in grainy black and white at the press conference, mouth ajar as if in mid-belch, being steered aside by the police captain. His current job was listed, Professional Crisis Responder for LAPD, and he was described as a former soldier. An Upstanding Citizen, brave and newsworthy. He wondered how the article might have read had the reporter known he’d slunk out onto that ledge to give up the ghost. No mention was made of his family. With that in mind, he flipped back a few sections. The obits were thin today. Henry Vivian White, global head of corporate development for a Century City-based investment bank, had died due to complications of a malarial infection he’d contracted while on safari.

Henry leaves his beloved wife, Beatrice (Poundstone), and sons Robert (24) and Michael (22).

Atta boy, Henry.

After disabling the fire alarm, he retrieved his suicide note from the coffee table and burned it in the kitchen sink over the disposal. The words curled and vanished into black.

The ringing phone jarred him from his quiet desperation. A chirpy front-office woman was on the line, confirming his dental appointment for next week.

“Oh,” Nate said, staring at the dying embers, “no thank you.”

“Would you like to reschedule?”

“Nah. I’m gonna be dead soon, and one of the great benefits is not worrying about plaque.” He thanked the puzzled silence and hung up.

Then he called to check in on Erica and Sean O’Doherty, the parents to whom he’d served the death notification yesterday. One advantage to still being alive was that he could do his job another day. Reaching voice mail, he left his information again should they need anything.

Into the shower, blasting the heat, flexing that left hand beneath the stream. Leaning into the burn, he thought, I can still feel this. My nerves still function. My muscles still work. Little victories. Little defeats. Breathing the steam, he contemplated his first step in dealing with Pavlo Shevchenko. He’d go into the office. What better place to gather information than at LAPD headquarters?

Given that the funeral for Flores Esposita, the bank manager, was in a few hours, he pulled his suit from the back of the closet, brushing dust off the shoulders. His gaze caught on the gun safe buried beneath a pair of kicked-off trousers. Squatting, he twirled the dial, inputting Cielle’s birthday. The safe clicked open for the first time since he’d lugged it into the apartment. With some hesitation he peered inside. There the pistol sat. An M9, the