'I don't know why,' he said, shaking his head. 'But — but it, GABRIEL, the disassembly program, it doesn't fucking work. I've tried several times to trigger the DP but there's no sign that Abraham has been infected. No sign at all. It's weird. I simply don't understand how he could be resisting it. I mean, the DP is specific to Abraham, written into his basic architecture. It's like you were born with some kind of congenital disease, or some genetic predisposition to cancer, and all you needed was the wrong kind of diet to set it off. The only thing I can think of is that somehow Abraham has discovered a way of making himself immune. But I really don't know how.'
The already angry expression of the face of Curtis grew more murderous.
'So you can't unplug it,' he growled. 'Is that what you're telling me?'
Beech shrugged apologetically.
'You dumb bastard,' said Curtis, and drew his gun.
'For Christ's sake,' yelled Beech and leapt off his chair, backing away across the boardroom. 'You can't. Please. No one writes a tighter code than me, man. But you've got to believe me, this is completely beyond my control. There's nothing I can do.'
Curtis looked at the gun in his hand as if surprised at the reaction it had produced. He smiled.
'I'd like to. Really, I would. If my partner drowns, I might.'
He turned abruptly and walked out.
Beech dropped into a chair and pressed a hand to his chest.
'That crazy fucking bastard,' he said, shaking his head. 'I thought he was going to shoot me. Really I did.'
'Me too,' said David Arnon. 'I wonder why the hell he didn't.'
Standing on the lid of the toilet, the top of his head inches from the ceiling, Nathan Coleman felt the cold water lapping at his shirt collar. It was only a couple of weeks since he and Frank Curtis had gone to Elysian Park where the naked body of a young black female had been found floating in the reservoir that ran under the Pasadena Freeway, just a few hundred yards from Dodger Stadium.
Coleman would have hardly thought it possible, but at the very moment when the water was right under his chin, he began to remember the taped commentary given by the pathologist during the girl's p.m. At the time he had hardly been paying attention at all, leaving Frank to ask the questions. But now he found that he could recall Dr Bragg's account in uncomfortable detail. Like he had prepared the subject of drowning for an exam. Yeah, thanks very much. What a time to improve your fucking memory. A complete mindfuck.
Drowning wasn't so bad if you were committing suicide. At least then you didn't struggle. But when it was accidental, you usually tried to fight it by holding your breath until you were too exhausted or hypercarbic to continue. The girl from the reservoir had tried to fight it. Not surprising since she had been held under the water by a gang of South Central crackheads. According to Dr Bragg, she had put up quite a struggle. It had taken three to five minutes for her to die.
Coleman didn't know if he could deal with something that took that long.
When you eventually let out your breath and drew water back into your airway, that could set off the vomiting reflex, after which you just aspirated the contents of your own stomach. Plus the water. You could aspirate so much water that it might account for as much as 50 per cent of your blood volume. Jesus Christ. And if that wasn't bad enough, drowning was not just an asphyxial event. It fucked up your fluid balance and blood chemistry: the circulating blood diluted, your electrolyte concentration reduced. Red cells might swell or burst, releasing large amounts of potassium which proceeded to fuck your heart around. Actual death might be precipitated by vagal inhibition originating in the nasopharynx or glottis. But just as often you could die from fouling of the lung by filthy water.
What a fucking way to go.
Coleman tucked his toe into the door lock and pushed his mouth another inch clear of the water. His head touched the ceiling. He wasn't going to get out of this. Just like in the movies. Like one of the poor guys trapped in the torpedo room. The only things missing were the depth charges.
He drew his gun clear of the water and pressed the muzzle against the side of his head. He would wait until the last possible minute. Until the water was over his nostrils. Then he would pull the trigger.
Halfway along the corridor, Curtis met Jenny coming towards him.
'I thought I told you not to stop,' he snapped at her.
'But Will's breathing again,' she said. 'I think he's going to be OK. And what the hell gives you the…'
Jenny's voice faltered as she caught sight of the 9mm Sig in the policeman's big hand, and the thunderous expression on his face.
'What is it?' she asked anxiously. 'What's the matter?'
'The unpluggability scenario. That's what the matter is. Your friend Beech screwed up. We might just as well try and unplug the Hoover Dam.'
He strode down the corridor working the slide on the automatic to load the gun's firing chamber.
Mitch, kneeling by the breathing but still unconscious figure of Willis Ellery, stood up when he saw Curtis coming.
'Better stand well out of the way,' yelled the policeman. He took a marksman's aim at the washroom services patching cabinet. 'I'm not such a good shot. Besides, there might be a few ricochets. With any luck one of them might hit your pal Beech.'
'Wait a minute, Frank,' said Mitch. 'If Bob manages to take Abraham off-line then we might need those electrics to open the door.'
'Forget it. Abraham's here to stay. It's official. Your macho friend just put up his fucking hands and surrendered. The goddamn disassembly program or whatever the hell he calls it doesn't fucking work.'
Curtis fired three shots at the box of electrics. Mitch covered his ears against the deafening noise, and a shower of sparks flew out of the box.
'I can't think of anything else to do,' yelled Curtis, and squeezed off three more. 'And I'm not about to let my partner drown like a kitten if I can prevent it.'
Cable glands blew away from cable ends, and clips from casings as two more 180-gram rounds thudded into the WSPC.
'What I wouldn't give right now for the scatter-gun in the trunk of my car,' yelled Curtis and finished off the rest of the 13-shot magazine. Rubbing his shoulder Curtis dragged the kitchen table up to the door.
'Give me a hand here,' he said to Mitch. 'Maybe we can batter it down.'
Mitch knew it was useless, but by now he also knew that it would have been quite hopeless to have argued with Curtis.
They lifted the table, stepped back to the other side of the corridor and rammed the table's corner against the door.
'Again.'
Once more the table banged against the door.
For several minutes they kept up the battery until, exhausted, they collapsed on top of the table itself.
'Why did you have to build the damn thing so strong?' panted Curtis.
'Jesus, it's a fucking washroom, not a bank vault.'
'Not us,' breathed Mitch. 'The Japanese. Their design. When modules are used you just fit them in.'
'But the rest of it. What the hell's so wrong with a human toilet cleaner anyway?' Curtis was almost crying.
'Nobody wants to do that kind of job any more. Nobody you can rely on. Not even the Mexicans want to clean toilets.'
Curtis picked himself off the table and hammered on the door with the flat of his hand.
'Nat? Nat, can you hear me?'
He pressed an ear still ringing against the door and found it cold from the mains water that was pressing against it.
Frank Curtis heard the unmistakable sound of a single gunshot. Curtis sat down against the wall. He could feel the cold of the water now filling the men's room through his shirt. Helen Hussey sat down beside him and put her arm around his shoulders.