This isnt working, she said, as though she were indicating a minor appliance, and Laney heard himself whimper, a sound he hadnt made since childhood. He needed to see those wrists, but couldnt, holding her. He was walking her backward, toward a wicker armchair he wasnt even aware hed seen.
Sit, he said, as if to a stubborn child, and she did. He let go of her wrists. Ran for where he guessed the bathroom had to be. Towels there and some kind of tape.
And discovered himself kneeling beside her where she sat, red fingers curled in toward red palms, as if in meditation. He rolled a dark green hand towel around her left wrist and whipped the tape around it, some rubbery beige product meant to mask specific areas during the application of aerosol cosmetics. He knew that from her product-purchase data.
Were her fingers turning blue, beneath their coat of red? He looked up. Into that same recognition. One cheekbone brushed with blood.
Dont, he said.
Its slowing.
Laney wrapping her right forearm now, the tape-roll dangling from his teeth.
I missed the artery.
Dont move, Laney said, and sprang up, tripping over his own feet, crashing face-first into what he recognized, just before it broke his nose, as the work of the editor of lamps. The carpet seemed to whip up and smack him playfully in the face.
Alison
Her ankle stepping past him, kitchenward.
Alison, sit down!
Sorry, he thought he heard her say, and then the shot.
Blackwells shoulders heaved as he sighed, making a sound that Laney heard above the traffic, Yamazakis glasses were filled with jittering pastels, the walls here all neon, a glare to shame Vegas, every surface lit and jumping.
Blackwell was staring at Laney. This way, he said, finally, and rounded a corner, into relative darkness and an edge of urine. Laney followed, Yamazaki behind him. At the far end of the narrow passage, they emerged into fairyland.
No neon here at all. Ambient glow from the towers overhead. Austere rectangles of white frosted glass, the size of large greeting cards, were daubed with black ideograms, each sign marking a tiny structure like some antique bathing cabin on a forgotten beach. Crowded shoulder to shoulder down one side of the cobbled lane, their miniature facades suggested a shuttered sideshow in some secret urban carnival. Age-silvered cedar, oiled paper, matting; nothing to pin the place in time but the fact that the signs were electric.
Laney stared. A street built by leprechauns.
Golden Street, said Keith Alan Blackwell.
8. Narita
Chia deplaned behind Maryalice, whod had a couple of those vitamin drinks and then tied up one of the toilets for twenty minutes while she teased her extensions and put on lipstick and mascara. Chia couldnt say much for the result, which looked less like Ashleigh Modine Carter than something Ashleigh Modine Carter had slept on.
When Chia stood up, she felt like she had to tell her body to do every single thing she needed it to. Legs: move.
Shed gotten a few more hours sleep, somewhere back there. Shed packed her Sandbenders back in her bag, and now she was putting one foot in front of the other, as Maryalice, in front of her, shuffle-swayed along the narrow aisle in her white cowboy boots.
It seemed to take forever to get out of the plane, but then they were breathing airport air in a corridor, under big logos that Chia had known all her life, all those Japanese companies, and everything crowded and moving in one direction. You check anything? Maryalice asked, beside her.
No, Chia said.
Maryalice let Chia go ahead of her through Passport Control, where Chia gave the Japanese policeman her passport and the Cash-flow smartcard Zona Rosa had forced Kelsey to come up with because this was all Kelseys idea anyway. In theory, the amount in the card represented the bulk of the Seattle chapters treasury, but Chia suspected Kelsey would wind up footing the bill for the whole thing, and probably wouldnt even care.
The policeman pulled her passport out of the counter-slot and handed it back to her. He hadnt bothered to check the smartcard. Two week maximum stay, he said, and nodded her on.
Frosted glass slid open for her. It was crowded here, way more than SeaTac. So many planes mustve come in at once, to have all these people waiting for their luggage. She edged aside to let a little robot stacked with suitcases pass. It had dirty pink rubber tires and big cartoon eyes that rolled morosely as it made its way through the crowd.
Now, that was easy, said Maryalice, behind her. Chia turned in time to see her take a long deep breath, hold it, and let it out. Maryalices eyes looked pinched, like she was having a headache.
Do you know which way I should go to get the train? Chia asked. She had maps in her Sandbenders, but she didnt want to have to get it out now.
This way, Maryalice said.
Maryalice worked her way between people, Chia following with her bag under her arm. Emerging in front of a carousel where bags were sliding down a ramp, bumping, swinging past and away.
Heres one, Maryalice said, snagging a black one and sounding so forcefully cheerful that it made Chia look at her. And two. Another one like it, except this one had a sticker on the side from Nissan County, the third largest gated attraction in the Californias. Would you mind carrying this for me, honey? My back goes out on long plane rides. Passing Chia the bag with the sticker. It wasnt too heavy, like maybe it was only half-full of clothes. But it was too large for her; she had to lean over in the opposite direction to keep it off the ground.
Thanks, Maryalice said. Here, and she handed Chia a crumpled square of sticky-backed paper with a bar code on it. Thats the check. Now we just want to go this way.
It was even harder getting through the crowd, lugging Mary-alices bag. Chia had to concentrate on not stepping on peoples feet, and not bumping them too hard with the bag, and the next thing she knew, shed lost Maryalice. She looked around, expecting to see hair-extensions bobbing above the crowd, who were mostly shorter than Maryalice, but Maryalice was nowhere in sight.
ALL ARRIVING PASSENGERS MUST EXIT THROUGH CUSTOMS.
Chia watched the sign twist itself up into Japanese letters, then pop back out as English.
Well, that was the way to go. She got in line behind a man in a red leather jacket that said Concept Collision across the back in gray chenille letters. Chia stared at that, imagining concepts colliding, which she guessed was a concept in itself, but then she thought it was probably just the name of a company that fixed cars, or one of those slogans the Japanese made up in English, the ones that almost seemed to mean something but didnt. This trans-Pacific jet lag thing was serious.
Next.
They were feeding Concept Collisions suitcase through a machine the size of a double bed, but taller. There was an official of some kind in a video-helmet, evidently reading feed off the scanners, and another policeman, to take your passport, slot it in the machine, then put your bags through. Chia let him take Maryalices suitcase and flip it up, onto the conveyor. Chia handed him her carry-on. Theres a computer in there. This scan okay for that? He didnt seem to hear her. She watched her carry-on follow Maryalices bag into the machine.
The man in the helmet, eyes hidden, was bobbing his head from side to side as he accessed gaze-activated menus.
Baggage check, the policeman said, and Chia remembered she had it in her hand. It struck her as strange, handing it over, that Maryalice had thought to give her that. The policeman ran a hand-scanner over it.
You packed these bags yourself? asked the man in the helmet.
He couldnt see her directly, but she assumed he could see the clips stored in her passport, and he could probably see her on live feed as well. Airports were full of cameras.
Yes, Chia said, deciding it was easier than trying to explain that it was Maryalices bag, not hers. She tried to read the expression on the helmeted mans lips, but it was hard to say if he even had one.