“Updates?” comes the crisp question. Slatt spots black boots in a reflection and thinks, SWAT. Sure.
“Fifteen minutes until the next scheduled call,” he says without turning. “We’re trying to get a dye pack together, see if they’ll take bag man’s offer–”
“Prediction: dead hostage. Two hours.”
“Well, why don’t you go get them?” He means it ironically.
“Fifteen minutes. Yes.” The voice is dead calm. Slatt, cold in realization, turns at last: not SWAT after all…
The Ad Hoc moves, then, improbably quick, flickering toward the barricade like a bad special effect. Slatt shivers. Those guys freak him out.
The street’s washed out with dead snow, sick and tired of asphalt, salted and dirtied into sullen drifts. They clump down the melting sidewalk with hats on and coats flapping open. All three of them steam like dragons.
“You have no argument!” snaps Diane.
“And you see everything in black and white,” says Rose, affecting Zen.
“That’s still not an argument. Anyway, shades of gray aren’t any better.”
“I know, Diane. That’s why I try to see things in full color.”
“Rose,” says Diane, “that doesn’t even mean anything.”
“You’re both cigarettes,” mutters Holly, and kicks an offending chunk of ice.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Chyler’s voice is a little raw, a little stuffy, trembling on the edges. Some of her words burst out accidentally when she speaks, as if her throat’s still tight and she hasn’t quite got control of her diaphragm.
“You want to come over later?” Diego asks, keeping it light and easy.
“Yeah,” she says, “I’ll–I’ll get a cab.” There’s a tired giggle in her words. She’s been sobbing. Or laughing. Or both.
“You want to eat? I can put some noodles on.”
“No,” she says, “not hungry.”
She will be, Diego thinks. He picks down garlic, basil, sage and thyme.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
“No,” says Cassie, “I’m keeping it. I still want to teach–I’d rather not be Professor Stoner.”
They share a laugh, and Clara thinks it’s going fine when she says “Well, you could hyphenate them, then you’d be–”
And freezes. Cassie’s last name. She can’t remember it. Every microsecond she spends panicking makes this more obvious, which makes her panic harder. She desperately wants an out, a blatantly dumb one-liner like you’d hear in a movie directed by Bob Saget. Bob Saget in a canvas chair, wearing glasses, honestly, who’s he think he’s kidding?
“Penrose-Stoner!” she gasps, saved by distraction.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Curtis rakes with a sullen determination, enjoying the way his hands blister on the handle. Stupid orthodontist. Stupid Mom. Stupid no money, stupid retainer, stupid deal, what are they trying to teach him? He can’t help losing things.
Doctor Rubin’s house is really too big, and hollow inside. There’s not enough stuff to go around. Curtis knows stories from other braces-bound kids, about how Mrs. Rubin sat down in the bathtub two years ago and dropped the hair dryer in too. He wonders where that bathroom is. He kind of has to pee, but he decides, on balance, to hold it.
Jane shares a coffee with Lucien. Lucien taught the best English class Jake ever took, and Jake used to draw with colored pencils with his father. Jake’s father works in purchasing at the prison where Schultz is serving six years.
Schultz sexually abused Rhiannon when she was eight. Rhiannon shares a cheap basement apartment with Ruth. Ruth sometimes sleeps with Topaz. Topaz never got back the ten dollars she lent Theo, who picked a fight after school one day with Corey, and as we speak Corey is standing alone on a stage, telling a story to
(Okay. Ready?)
(Tag. You’re in.)
“We must be in Scranton,” says Rick urgently, “in half an hour.” It’s a two-hour trip. They all know this.
“Be ready in five minutes,” says Slone, calm through static.
Two minutes later Rick and Carey are out the door; Thom kicks it shut behind him and lunges out into the road, where he barely halts himself in time. A roaring Alpine White Eldorado whiptails a U-turn around him and brakes. Thom stares through the windshield as an expressionless Slone whips off his sunglasses, revealing another pair of sunglasses underneath.
Thom feels a sudden wild hope: they just might make it!
Thursday, January 22, 2004
It’s been an odd week but still he’s known Aunt Drew (“not really but we’ve always called her”) since forever and it was good to see her, after all. She’s memories of museums and cats, books on long car rides.
She hugs Grey, then Mom, waves from a window. Her mouth is set in a thin line as the train pulls away. “She always cries,” says Mom, sighing, “whenever one of us leaves.”
Grey understands, suddenly, that Aunt Drew is in love with his mother. That she has been for years. That Mom knows. That neither will ever say a word.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Rob thumbs a glowing 22. The elevator groans up, and he idly reaches out to flick the handbar. It bells a tone, strong and clear. No telling what note, but it’s practically a tuning fork.
Rob pings the bar on his left, then the one on his right: more notes, just as definite and pure. He hesitates, then hits all three in sequence. The reverb catches him in a minor chord.
Sound and car stop abruptly. Rob squints up at the dial.
An old building–he didn’t stop to think. But now the car says it’s nowhere, between 12 and 14.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
The door slams, the light goes, and Kipeli turns to swing the weighted end of the chain straight. He’s actually paying it out, link by link; it’s far too fast for him to count, but easy for his fingers. They’ll tell him when it’s far enough.
Half a second later, they do. Kipeli stops the pay of chain, snaps a wrist and sends a spiral wave down its length. The spinning weight hits something with terrifying speed, and there’s a muffled scream. He jerks it back: another one.
One ninja down, he thinks, smiling in the dark. Probably six to go.