crowbar or something downstairs. I’ll whip up a new batch while you demolish the boards. Mind if I use your face again? No, screw it. I’ll make a flat sheet.” He went to the computer and started tapping the keys, feeding new instructions to the Bio-Press, lost to the world. Yakky went downstairs and came back a few minutes later with a rusty tire iron.
“Is this a crowbar?”
Peyton looked up. “Sort of. Give me some light, would you?”
Yakky started downstairs again. “Wait,” Peyton barked. “Not the package of bulbs. Give me real light, sunlight. And a breeze too. This place is broiling me alive.”
Yakky dutifully began to smash the boards away from the windows. Nails squealed and wood splintered. The place began to smell like a lumberyard. Peyton didn’t notice; he had jammed himself into his private world again. When the sheet was ready, he had Yakky start the stopwatch, then placed a sliver under the microscope lens.
It died ninety-nine minutes later.
He tried it again, knowing it was useless; the burn victims would have to spend their lives in a closet. Yakky sat playing with the drinking bird, the only form of recreation available. Peyton put a fresh sliver under the microscope.
It died ninety-nine minutes later.
He told Yakky to board the windows up again, but the phone rang. Julie was calling from her cubbyhole office, and for Peyton and Yakky the world as they knew it ceased to exist.
7
Durant
B Y THE TIME the phone had clanged once, Robert G. Durant was at the top of the stairs. The dimness and the ruined step had almost conspired to trip him up, but he caught himself at the last moment and whispered down to his associates—five of them—to avoid the fifth step because there wasn’t one.
Moving remarkably quietly for five small-time crooks and one big fish, they ascended the stairway and crammed themselves into the doorway, looking around with slitted, criminal eyes. Skip was there, one-legged Skip, along with Smiley, a borderline schizophrenic with a fondness for wooden legs with machine guns hidden inside. Rudy Martinez was there, he of the crooked nose and cauliflower ears, features caused by seven years as a boxer in his native Mexico. As he often sadly lamented, he could have been somebody, he could have been a contender.
Pauly was there, along with his permanent indigestion, carrying a bottle of Maalox. His lips were white and chalky with the stuff, but he didn’t mind that much. It made him feel special.
That left nervous Rick, slugging down Valium by the handful and chasing it with bourbon. He did not like crime at all, had no stomach for it, but his only talent was nonstop drinking and there weren’t many ads in the paper for that. As he sadly lamented, he could have been somebody, he could have been a bartender.
Durant saw some Japanese dude trying to board the windows in this dump. Lousy Jap, he thought. He saw a tall man looking around, a telephone cord in his hand, obviously trying to find the phone. That would be Peyton Westlake. It would have made more sense to hijack his girlfriend, Julie Hastings, but she was safe in her office and Durant had no intention of making a scene. Here in this rat hole, though, far from the teeming masses, he could be as loud as he wanted.
He turned and pointed to Martinez. “You handle the Jap,” he whispered as the phone rang for the second time. Martinez’s eyes registered acknowledgment above his mashed and crooked nose. He reached in a pocket and withdrew a small plastic bag, careful not to make it crackle and spoil the whole shebang.
“Smiley,” Durant went on, “you cover our asses in case the dork has a gun or something. Skip, hand him your leg. The rest of you, let’s have some fun.”
They slunk into the lab, quiet as snakes. The phone rang again. Peyton Westlake found it at last, lifted it up, and moved to snatch off the receiver.
“Don’t bother,” Durant said loudly. Westlake flinched in surprise, nearly
“Is this a crowbar?”
Peyton looked up. “Sort of. Give me some light, would you?”
Yakky started downstairs again. “Wait,” Peyton barked. “Not the package of bulbs. Give me real light, sunlight. And a breeze too. This place is broiling me alive.”
Yakky dutifully began to smash the boards away from the windows. Nails squealed and wood splintered. The place began to smell like a lumberyard. Peyton didn’t notice; he had jammed himself into his private world again. When the sheet was ready, he had Yakky start the stopwatch, then placed a sliver under the microscope lens.
It died ninety-nine minutes later.
He tried it again, knowing it was useless; the burn victims would have to spend their lives in a closet. Yakky sat playing with the drinking bird, the only form of recreation available. Peyton put a fresh sliver under the microscope.
It died ninety-nine minutes later.
He told Yakky to board the windows up again, but the phone rang. Julie was calling from her cubbyhole office, and for Peyton and Yakky the world as they knew it ceased to exist.
7
Durant
B Y THE TIME the phone had clanged once, Robert G. Durant was at the top of the stairs. The dimness and the ruined step had almost conspired to trip him up, but he caught himself at the last moment and whispered down to his associates—five of them—to avoid the fifth step because there wasn’t one.
Moving remarkably quietly for five small-time crooks and one big fish, they ascended the stairway and crammed themselves into the doorway, looking around with slitted, criminal eyes. Skip was there, one-legged Skip, along with Smiley, a borderline schizophrenic with a fondness for wooden legs with machine guns hidden inside. Rudy Martinez was there, he of the crooked nose and cauliflower ears, features caused by seven years as a boxer in his native Mexico. As he often sadly lamented, he could have been somebody, he could have been a contender.
Pauly was there, along with his permanent indigestion, carrying a bottle of Maalox. His lips were white and chalky with the stuff, but he didn’t mind that much. It made him feel special.
That left nervous Rick, slugging down Valium by the handful and chasing it with bourbon. He did not like crime at all, had no stomach for it, but his only talent was nonstop drinking and there weren’t many ads in the paper for that. As he sadly lamented, he could have been somebody, he could have been a bartender.
Durant saw some Japanese dude trying to board the windows in this dump. Lousy Jap, he thought. He saw a tall man looking around, a telephone cord in his hand, obviously trying to find the phone. That would be Peyton Westlake. It would have made more sense to hijack his girlfriend, Julie Hastings, but she was safe in her office and Durant had no intention of making a scene. Here in this rat hole, though, far from the teeming masses, he could be as loud as he wanted.
He turned and pointed to Martinez. “You handle the Jap,” he whispered as the phone rang for the second time. Martinez’s eyes registered acknowledgment above his mashed and crooked nose. He reached in a pocket and withdrew a small plastic bag, careful not to make it crackle and spoil the whole shebang.
“Smiley,” Durant went on, “you cover our asses in case the dork has a gun or something. Skip, hand him your leg. The rest of you, let’s have some fun.”
They slunk into the lab, quiet as snakes. The phone rang again. Peyton Westlake found it at last, lifted it up, and moved to snatch off the receiver.
“Don’t bother,” Durant said loudly. Westlake flinched in surprise, nearly
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