Night Moves

considered it. She admired Carl, maybe even had a bit of lust for him, but she loved Alex, and there was a world of difference between those two things. For just a moment there, however, she had wondered, had felt indecision, had considered it.

'Can't hang you for thinking' was an old saying that was true because nobody could know what was in your mind, but you couldn't fool yourself for very long. How could it have even crossed her mind? This was bad. Bad.

Wednesday, April 13th

The Yews, Sussex, England

Ruzhyo adjusted the 9mm Firestar pistol in the clip-on holster on his hip under his windbreaker, canting the butt forward slightly to make it more comfortable. The previous handgun Peel had furnished him, the American- made Italian.22, was at the bottom of the Thames, wiped clean and broken into pieces, the frame and the barrel of which were separated by more than two miles. If anybody happened to dredge the parts up before they rusted out, assembled them, and if they ran ballistic tests and determined that the bullet in the dead man in the bookstore had come from the pistol, it wouldn't matter, since there was nothing to connect Ruzhyo to it. But if you left nothing to chance, then chance would not be so likely to sneak up behind you and fasten its teeth in your back.

He did not much care for the new weapon, but he could use it. It was solid, well-made, a single-action, chrome-plated steel semiautomatic that operated much like the old Colt.45 military models, a reliable, small, if somewhat heavy, piece. The gun carried seven jacketed hollowpoints in the magazine and one more in the chamber with special, scored noses that would expand in a human, causing much damage. The thing had not been designed to punch paper at a range or to plink old cans in the woods but to shoot soft targets and seriously damage or kill them.

Ruzhyo smiled. For the last several years, especially in the U.S., gun makers had been under legal attacks by antigun forces. The more recent tactic had been to sue the manufacturers for not providing adequate safety devices or warnings of danger. He could not believe how foolish this was. Carried to its extreme, there would be similar warnings necessary for automobiles, knives, even matches: Caution! You might be killed if you collide with a big truck while driving this small car! Warning! This knife has a sharp edge. Do not press it against your throat! Danger! Matches can create fire that can burn you!

This gun labeling scheme seemed to him monumentally stupid to anyone with half a working brain. It was one thing to require a lock that children could not easily open, another thing to stamp on the barrel of a gun: Caution! Do not point at someone and pull the trigger! Anybody who did not understand what a gun was and what it did would not be able to read such a warning anyhow. It reminded him of the old advertisement that used to be on the electric buses in Chetsnya when he'd been young: 'Are you illiterate? If so, please contact…'

The 9mm would do the job for Ruzhyo, and there was the umbrella to back it up. In addition, he had bought a Benchmade tactical folder, a knife that could be flicked open with a thumb, to lock its four-inch tanto-point blade rigidly into place. Given the local laws, with two guns and a knife, he was probably armed better than almost anybody walking around in this country, including most police officers. As he had in the Nevada desert, Ruzhyo felt the need to have the weapons. Things were about to go bad here; he could feel it.

He considered leaving. Simply catching a boat or train or plane for a short hop out of the country, then heading home, staying on the round to avoid directional tracking. He could do it, and Peel wouldn't miss him in time to stop him, even if he wanted to.

Ruzhyo, however, was tired. And looking over his shoulder made him more tired. He had the Americans back there somewhere, and eventually they might figure out how to track him. He did not need another enemy dogging his trail. No, he would finish this business with Peel first, and when he left, it would be on his own terms. One way or another, he would resolve things. Once he was home, then what came, came, and he would deal with it.

Peel came out of the converted church and nodded in his direction before setting off for his own car. Ruzhyo nodded in return and started his car's engine. They were going back to see the computer scientist where Ruzhyo had spotted the surveillance that had ended with a dead man in a bookstore. Apparently, Major Peel had plans for the man in that building that Mr. Bascomb-Coombs would not in the least enjoy.

Ruzhyo didn't care about the scientist. He would stay with Peel until the right opportunity came up, and then he would take his leave. And it would be soon, he reflected as they pulled out of the estate. Soon.

Wednesday, April 13th

Washington, D.C.

There had been an all-hours assembly at school, and when it was done, Tyrone drifted down the hall, waving at Jimmy Joe in passing. The hall-monster, Essay, had indeed been expelled, for at least two weeks, and while there were other denizens to be avoided in the corridors, they weren't in the big idiot's league.

As he headed for the bus queue, he saw Bella, book reader in hand, walking and laughing with three girlfriends. She spotted him and smiled. 'Ty, hey, over here.'

He felt that rush of belly-clenching cold energy that radiated excitement all the way to his groin. He started toward her, holding his steps slow so as not to seem in a hurry. He tried to look sparse, matter-of-fact, and AF — almost frozen, he was so cool. Bella wanted to see him? That was DFF and all, but no huge kluge, hey? Amble. That was the look he wanted; he wanted to amble her way. But he moved maybe a little too fast to pull it off. Kind of a twelve-frames-per-second amble that would look a lot better at twenty-four.

'Hey, Bella.'

'We're going to the mall. You want to come along?'

He smiled. And at that second, just when he was about to deliver a liquid-oxy AF 'Sure, why not?' he glanced past Bella and saw Nadine walking down the hall.

Nadine saw him, then looked away.

Bella caught his look and flicked her own gaze in that direction. It was quick, her peek, and she pretended not to notice, but Tyrone got it. Nadine had been inspected, stamped failed, and dismissed, all in a half-second glance, and thank you very much.

And all of a sudden, Tyrone Howard, pushing fourteen, found himself at the crossroads of the rest of his life. Looming here were two paths at right angles to each other, and not likely he would be able to switch from one to the other once he made his choice.

You got the com in your hand, Tyrone. Who are you gonna call?

Maybe he could still do both. He said, 'Why don't I meet you at the bus? I got something I have to take care of first.'

Bella might not be the brightest diode on the board, but she wasn't so dim she couldn't see immediately what he was doing. She let him know she knew, too: 'We're going to the mall now, Ty.' What was left unsaid, was Now or never, Tyrone. Your call.

Well… shit. It would be great to be able to have his cake and eat it, too, but that wasn't gonna happen, no way, no how, DSS — data scrambled, stupid.

The moment stretched for a couple million years. He felt like he was going to explode. Damn, damn, damn!

You could skulk one or you could skulk the other, but you didn't get both.

Hell with it. He made his decision. 'Nadine! Hey, Nadine! Hold up a second!'

Nadine turned, surprised, he could see. He didn't dare look back at Bella, though he wanted to see her face. He'd been given a second chance to get into paradise, and he'd just put it in the trash and emptied that sucker. He wanted to run and hide.

Nadine smiled, and her face didn't seem so plain. When he got there, she said, 'Your girlfriend just left without you. Didn't look real happy, either.'

He shrugged. 'So what?' He felt bad, but he also felt good at the same time. 'How's the arm? You want to go throw some?'

'You sure about this?'

'I'm sure.'

The smile got bigger. 'My arm is a lot better now. Yeah. Let's go throw.'

As he walked along next to her, Tyrone felt his own smile begin. Something his dad had told him. When you do the right thing, it almost always feels better than when you don't.

Score another one for the old man.