`Almost above us," I said. "Sixth floor."
"No higher?"
"No," I said, eyeing elevator doors. "Over here."
As Wanda predicted we'd experienced no interference; all
seemed involved in their own matters of mortality too much to be
concerned with ours. Some did eye Jake's suit overclose, as if
admiring the cut and style. We stepped aboard the elevator as the
door slid open; saw that it had been pulled open by the elevator
operator, a short black man seated within.
"What floor, sir?" he asked me, a faint smile round his lips.
"Sixth," I said. "Thank you."
As we rose Jake stood silently, facing front, his mind somewhere
distant. Whether Oktobriana would still be alive by the time we
returned-if we returned-I had no idea, and I suspect that lack of
certainty only made him all the more assured in his action. As the
man twisted a lever to halt our ascent, we readied; I'd sized
Skuratov's locale as being elevator-near. In a deep alcove close by,
hidden from immediate view, showed an unmarked door with
translucent window A policeman slept in a chair just to door's right.
"Bottleneck," Jake muttered, moving ahead. "Let's unclog the
drain."
"Move with reason, Jake," I said.
"As always."
The cop snorted himself awake, started rising as he saw us head
for him. "Better have a good reason for wantin' in-" he started to
say. Jake's right hand, palm up, flew out; landed on the nostrils with
solid punch, sending the small bones deep within, pithing the
brain. As the cop's eyes crossed, a blood strand dripped towards his
lip. Jake shook his hand free of mucus and pushed open the door,
looking in; a short hall led to another, unguarded door. Through
my jacket's cloth I heard the tracker's beep.
"The best," Jake responded, dragging the late one off his chair
into the hall as he entered, leaving him floored as we moved on.
"Jake," I reminded. "Careful."
"An enclosed space ahead," he worded, lowvoiced. "They won't
attempt overkill even if they're prepped in this event." He readied
something undercoat. "They expect communion. We give them
surprise. "
He surprised, kicking open the door and leaping in. Within, a
middle-aged man wearing a brown suit sat upon a chair facing a
curtained space. Before he could move Jake floored him, thrusting
the Omsk into the man's mouth with undue passion. I shut the door
behind me, quietly, so as not to disturb.
"Looking for someone?" Jake asked. "Where's the guest of
honor?"
The man pointed towards the curtain, his eyes showing full
white. Pulling the drapes away I found Skuratov, bedded flat, both arms needled with intravenous tubes. Another tube sent breath
through his nose. Only his eyes showed awareness. His legs were
bound thick with plaster; I saw no sign of those twotone shoes.
Around his head a heavy pad and bandage were wrapped.
"Mal?" I said; he offered no more harm than a nursery's denizen.
"He won't answer you," said the suited man, his face tight as he
awaited Jake's sentence. "He can't talk-"
"Can't talk?" I said. "Who took his tongue?"
"For God's sake get this guy off me-"
"Unarm him, Jake," I said. "Why can't he talk?"
"Poor bastard probably won't last till morning," he said. "Broken
legs. Internal injuries. Fractured skull. Crash threw him sixty
feet-"
Jake refigured. "Thirty," he said, taking the man's single pistol,
keeping his own shooter straightaimed. Skuratov seemed so much
smaller than he was.
"You guys must be the ones came with him," he said.
"You're FBI?" I said. "What's told, then. What did he say?"
"Nothing. Truck driver saw the wreck out there around dawn
yesterday, told the Secaucus police. They found him lying out
there in the swamp, found the plane. Called us, called the New
York cops. Jersey claimed jurisdiction but Mister Hoover said as a
Russian plane was involved it was a federal matter. And now, with
this Stalin stuff-"
Skuratov's breath came in gasping spurts, as if it were being
squeezed free by other's hands. Jake tossed me his Omsk so that I
might continue live coverage. Stepping calmly over to where
Skuratov lay, Jake bladed his longest switch, meal's companion;
twirled it round his fingers and then slashed Skuratov's intravenous
tubes. One recognized the other, undoubted. In the room's ill light
I saw Skuratov's lips slapping wordlessly together as if to wet themselves. So small.
"Where you got Uncle Joe, anyway?" the man asked.
"We don't," I said, noting the bruises on Skuratov's face. "If legs
are broken, doesn't that infer a particular landing pattern?" I asked
the man.
"What?"
"How'd he split his skull if he settled footways?" I asked, pressing
the barrel into his forehead, breaking the skin. "You'd beat an
injured man?"
"God, don't. During the interrogation. City cops. You know
how they are. They got kind of rough-"
"So you break his head like an egg? To what purpose?"
"He wouldn't talk-"
"You will?" I asked, taking his collar with my free hand, wringing tight but no more; no Jake, I. "I wish answers."
"You two came with him. From Russia-"
"AO," I said. "What was possessed?"
"You two must've been the ones in Harlem last night-"
`As you must be the one here, now. Where're his goods?" I asked,
driving the barrel in even harder, choking him with greater vigor as
I tried to keep back memory's blight. "What was on him? Where
are they?"
"H-headquarters," he stuttered. "D-don't hurt me-"
Small ones? I asked Klonfas as I walked across the field, seeing
the lumps there grounded. No sounds came from the house but
those of crackling flames.
Kids.
In the new-mown field, its rich dirt unturned for planting, lay
the black crinkles that preteens left. How many had been male,
how many female-couldn't tell any longer; didn't matter.
See how many, I said, breathing through my mouth.
"On him should have been a plastic and metal camera," I said,
clearing my mind, calming myself though stupidity ran rich
around me. "Was it found?"
"It was a camera, then," he said; his face brightened, as if with
victory. "Most of 'em didn't think it looked right, but I did-"
Jake stepped back, leaving Skuratov undisturbed in body. Unreeling and opening his jacket's line length, he looked round the
room as if judging its proportions. Near the radiator a long pipe ran
from ceiling to floor. Looping one end, he knotted it tight with
doubled squares and a half hitch, saying nothing, listening to all.
"Was a camera?" I said. "Is or was-"
The door banged open; a new suit and a fresh cop entered, guns
leveled.
"Get 'em-" yelled the agent I held. As if allowed by ones on
high, I became as Jake, firing the Omsk with instinct's aim, blasting the cop's chest with a softball-sized blow. Jake, as figured, had
swung round as the door opened; as I triggered, he sent his own
regrets, blading the fed in the throat with quick-thrown switch.
The G-man's machine gun dropped from his hands as he lingered,
grasping neckways. Face first he fell with crunching thud. I looked
out to see if the far door remained open; it didn't. Positioning the
policeman with care I certified that the inner door could not be
immediately reopened. Jake left his knife where he'd pitched it, an
odd action; unreeled his line, assuring its firm fix upon the pipe,
finding the opposite end, some thirty curled meters from the knot.
"This won't be long," he said, approaching Skuratov's bed.
"God," our more animate prisoner whispered. "Don't hurt me.
Please don't. Please-"
Please, I heard; heard the calming shot, didn't turn to look. The
day's count was seventy-nine; doubling the count as pro forma per
HQ's wish, Klonfas tallied our success and forwarded records.
Shards of blown containers within the rubble evidenced that
there'd been a gasoline stockpile within. No adults turned up; the
place was no traditional school. In a basement refrigerator two had
crawled in, pulling the door shut after. Whether they'd suffocated
or baked, we couldn't say. The Long Island War ran a twenty-year
run before Mister O'Malley rang down the curtain; its residents
would have fought to the last child. These, that afternoon, were
among the first. Those within we left entombed. Those who'd
made it onto the field I wanted buried; the beach seemed likeliest to
allow a quick dig.
If we just leave 'em out, sir, they'll be gone before the month's
out, said Sergeant Rich.
Bury them, I said, going to find my own shovel.
"Semantics are all," I said, settling us both by lowering my
voice, showing I meant no harm. "Again. Is a camera, or was a
camera?"
"Luther," Jake said, pulling terrycloth towels from dresser
drawers; padding across the room he heaved open the window,
knocked loose the screen and bent it in, removing it. Traffic's
breath sounded clear. He leaned forward, looking down. "If he's
not helpful-" With good arm he wrenched the line; it held.
"-thumb out his eyes."
"Answer," I said.
"We couldn't figure out how to get it open," he said. "One of the
guys decided to take a hammer to it. Just tap it, that's all. Damn
thing flew all to pieces, like it was made in Hong Kong or something. Nothing inside it looked like anything, all those boards with
the little things on 'em-"
"Within," I said. "A small blue box. Where?"
The man closed his eyes, undoubtedly certain they were about
to be thumbed. "It wouldn't open either."
What he awaited, what he deserved, never carne. Opening
again, he saw; saw me staring at Jake, wondering if he'd even heard,
so intent he seemed over whatever it was he did. As if ribboning a
giftwrap Jake wound the line's loose end twice around Skuratov's
neck.
"When we drop keep the towels tight round your hands or they'll
burn," he said, slipping Skuratov's nasal tube loose, dragging him
into vertical, grunting with the effort of lifting dead weight.
"You heard?" I asked. "That's it." Jake nodded, working his better
hand beneath Skuratov's plastered legs.
"Heard plain. Stand aside, Luther."
As I watched I recalled the rest, unable to contain the flood.
Three remained to be planted and I chose to be their farmer. They
were no heavier than papier-mache, I thought, carrying them one
by one to the beach. As afternoon became evening I designed their
final homes. We had time overmuch, now; orders were to hold
position until dawn, when again we could attempt entry townways.
Additional planes would toast aboveground survivors during the
night hours. As I readied the last slot, Johnson appeared from
beach's direction, shouldering a heavy bag, his stumble slowed by
its weight. In the fading light I discerned that half his shirt was
burned away; closer, I saw that he wore no shirt. The men of our unit and the survivors of the others had set camp beyond the ridge,
near the ruin. We alone, alive, walked the beach.
Let me know it's fireworks hour before you give the AOK next
time, he said.
You got inside? I asked. He nodded.
Then got blown out.
Lifting myself from the grave with shovel's support, finding feet
again on unearthed ground, I stared down into the pit.
Why didn't you report?
Look here, Lieutenant. He unshouldered the bag, dumped its
contents onto the sand. I saved one for you.
She was seven, perhaps, crowned with blond hair matted with
sandy mud. But for her bloodied thighs her body remained whole,
though covered with bruises and scratches. Her wide eyes, long
cried dry, held no more life than Jake's. As she stared my way she
held her breath, keeping it, at least, from attacker's touch. Johnson
grinned when he looked at me, showing steel braces.
Lieutenant?
"Jake-"
While trying to haul Skuratov upward, Jake's foot tripped over
his dangling line; inadvertently he crushed Skuratov's leg against
the window frame, splitting the plaster. "I'm sorry," Jake said,
balancing him on the sill so that his stiff extremities countered his
seated weight. Guiding his torso forward and down, Jake took care
not to strike Skuratov's broken head against the sash. He paused
then, as if for effect; probably for thought. With good hand, he
pushed. Skuratov sailed through Sunday haze. Inertia took its
course; the line tightened as if to give tune, and then as quickly
went slack once more. Jake wrapped towels round his hands,
considered the view.
"Not a far drop," he said. "Let's slide, Luther."
I answered Johnson, swinging the shovel full-force against his
head. Nothing gave; pitching forward, he whumped into the hole.
The little girl sat on the sand, squeezing herself together; she looked
on as if watching a puppetshow of uncommon design. The shovel's
sound came as shuff as I rescooped what I'd thrown, lifting a load,
tossing it onto Johnson. Sunset's colors inflamed the horizon; night tinted the sky's other side. Ocean's breeze ruffled our hair. Without
warning Johnson rose from his uncompleted vault, turning in his
grave, stretching out his hand; sand poured from his eyes, his
mouth, his wound.
Nigger, he said. Can't keep a good man down.
Repeatedly I applied the shovel: swung it flatside, drove it in
edgedown, clubbed and reclubbed until the sharp crack first heard
muffled into the sound of a smashed melon. My arms free of ache,
my mind clear of thought, I shoveled all the more quickly, heaving
in sand atop blood, shortly building a fresh dune. Dropping the
shovel I sank onto the beach, rolling over it as if to make sand
angels, pressing my head between my hands as if to burst it.
Looking up again, I saw the little girl, sitting there still, seeing and
not seeing; she shivered, as though cold. I'd seen a tenth of what
she'd seen, felt a twentieth of what she felt, knew nothing of what
she knew but knew she shouldn't know it, so early on. There was
one thing to do, I knew, for mercy's sake. I unholstered my sidearm.
There remained but one mercy more to grant.