“Why doesn’t that surprise me? Why doesn’t that surprise me in the least?” He looks, to Laney, as if he’s on the verge of laughing. “Well. You can try. You can certainly try. Please do. But if you can’t, then he’ll kill you. All of you. Every last one. But I shouldn’t worry about that, should I? Because I’ve got your brochure here, and it’s really a wonderful brochure, printed in Geneva, spare no expense in presentation; full-color, heavy stock, and it assures me that I’ve hired the best, the very best. And I really do believe that you are the best. We did shop comparatively. But I also know that he is what he is. And God help you.”
Harwood hangs up.
Laney feels Libia and Paco tugging at him, urging him elsewhere.
He wishes that he could stay here, with Harwood. He wishes that he and Harwood could sit opposite one another across that desk, and share their experience of the nodal apprehension. He would love, for instance, to hear Harwood’s interpretation of the node of 1911. He would like to be able to discuss the Lucky Dragon nanofacsimile launch with Harwood. He imagines himself sending a replica of the garage kit Laney-though “sending” isn’t the word, here-but where, and to whom?
Libia and Paco tug him to the place where that thing is growing, 225 and he sees that it has changed. He wonders if Harwood has looked at it recently: the shape of a new world, if any world can be said to be new. And he wonders if he will ever have the chance to speak with Harwood.
He doubts it. Some things never happen, he reminds himself.
But this one always does, says the still small voice of mortality.
Blow me, Laney tells it. 226 55. BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS LATER Fontaine would remember that when he woke, hearing the sound at his door, he thought not of his Smith & Wesson but of the Russian chain gun, plastered away beneath gypsum filler and gauze some four months earlier, out of sight and out of mind.
And he would wonder about why that was, that he’d thought of that particular ugly thing as he became conscious of something clicking urgently against the glass of the shop door.
“Fontaine!” A sort of stage whisper.
“Spare me,” Fontaine said, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the luminous hands of a soulless black Japanese quartz alarm, a gift of sorts from Clarisse, who liked to point out that Fontaine was frequently late, particularly with the child support, in spite of owning such a great many old watches.
He’d gotten about an hour’s sleep.
“Fontaine!” Female, yes, but not Clarisse.
Fontaine put his trousers on, slid his feet into his cold clammy shoes, and picked up the Kit Gun. “I’ll say it was self-defense,” he said, glancing back to see his mystery boy sprawled whale-like on the camping pad, snoring again but softly.
And out through the shop, where he made out the face of Skinner’s girl, though somewhat the worse for wear, really major serious shiner going there, and looking anxious indeed.
“It’s me! Chevette!” Rapping on his glass with something metal.
“Don’t break my damn window, girl.” Fontaine had the gun out of sight, by his side, as was his habit when answering the door, and he saw now that she was not alone; two white men behind her, the one a big, brown-haired, cop-looking person, and the other reminding him of a professor of music known decades before, in Cleveland. This latter causing Fontaine a prickling of neck hair, though he couldn’t have said exactly why. A very still man, this one.
“Chevette,” he said, “I’m sleeping.” 227 “We need help.” “We’ who, exactly?”
“It’s Rydell,” she said. “You remember?”
And Fontaine did, though vaguely: the man she’d gone down to Los Angeles with. “And?”
She started to speak, looked lost, glanced back over her shoulder.
“A friend,” the one called Rydell said, none too convincingly. He was hugging a cheap-looking drawstring bag, which seemed to contain a large thermos, or perhaps one of those portable rice cookers. (Fontaine hoped that this wasn’t going to be one of those pathetic episodes in which he was mistaken for a pawnbroker.)