“How come all the talk?” Z whispered.
“I had to guess,” I whispered, “I’d guess he’s attracting our attention while his people sneak around and try to find us.”
“Maybe I’ll sneak back at them,” Z whispered. “Crees are great night fighters.”
“I thought they didn’t fight at night because if they were killed in the dark they wouldn’t reach the happy hunting grounds?”
“What movie you see that in?” Z whispered.
“Can’t remember,” I whispered. “But Gene Autry was the star.”
“He should know,” Z whispered.
“I’ll work left,” I whispered. “You go right. We’ll try to come in on each side of Stephano. Whichever of us gets there first kills him. And we’ll try not to kill each other by mistake.”
“Okay,” Z whispered. “Then what?”
“Then we’ll see,” I whispered. “His pals may come for us, or they may run. Play it by ear.”
“Think he’ll stay where he is?”
“I think he’ll keep talking,” I whispered. “He wants to distract us, and I think he enjoys it, like all the rest.”
“Come out, little rats,” Stephano called. “Be men. Don’t make us hunt you down like vermin.”
“It is a good day to die,” Z whispered, and left me.
The gutted interior of the warehouse was darkness visible. The litter of reconstruction made for very slow going. Particularly if you were trying to be quiet. I edged past something that felt like a sawhorse, and slipped under what felt like some loose wires. I stepped on a big timber with one foot and paused and felt around for a way past it. Probably a second-story floor joist. There were loose nails and screws underfoot. Enhanced by the wet weather, the black air was pungent with the effluvium of decay. I shuffled a few inches at a time. My gun in my right hand. My left forearm shielding my face.
Off to my right I heard a sudden scuffle of activity, sounding, in the thick silence, probably louder than it was. I stopped, listening. Again, silence. Was it Z, or was it one of Stephano’s helpers? A wavering holler. What the hell was that? Then I figured it out. It was Z’s version of a Cree war whoop. Z seemed to be rising to the challenge. There was no gunshot. The bowie knife must have proved useful. One down.
I smiled again. If I had been Stephano, the war whoop would have creeped me out. It couldn’t hurt. I inched along carefully, shuffle step by shuffle step, tediously edging around debris, containing the impulse to rush. I inched farther to my left, looking for the wall. Anything to give me some orientation. My shoulder hit something made of sheet metal. It rattled. I ducked low, and five rounds blasted past me as Stephano fired at the sound. I didn’t fire back. He wouldn’t be where he’d fired from. He wasn’t that dumb.
I felt the wall with my left shoulder. With my shoulder against it, I felt along the wall toward where Stephano had fired. If it had been Stephano. I didn’t bump into anything. Maybe the construction guys had cleared a passage along the wall. Stephano had no way to know if he’d hit me or not. Maybe I was dead. The uncertainty, coupled with the Cree war whoop, must have been stressful. Finally, sliding along the wall, I saw the faint square of lesser darkness, where we’d entered. I stopped. I couldn’t really make out much in the way of shapes. I was looking for movement. What I got was a bonus.
“Spenser,” Stephano said.
He was right in front of me.
“Let’s stop fucking around with this,” Stephano said. “You come to the door. I’ll be there. We’ll do it standing straight up, looking at each other, like two men.”
I raised my gun and aimed toward the sound.
“I’m right here,” I said.
And he moved. I fired at the motion, five shots as fast as I could shoot. I heard him grunt, and, after a moment, I heard him fall. I heard him breathe with a bubbly sound for a moment. Then I heard nothing.
I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled toward him. When I reached him, I put my hand out and felt him. I wasn’t sure where I was feeling. But it didn’t move. I felt around and realized I was on his leg. I traced up his leg to his stomach, then his chest, which was wet and warm. I found his throat and felt for a pulse. There was none. I stayed flat on the floor.
“Z,” I said loudly. “I got Stephano.”
From the darkness close by, Z said, “Yay.”
“Two down,” I said.
“Three,” Z said.
“Wow,” I said. “Quiet.”
“Old Mr. Bowie,” Z said.
I raised my voice.
“Okay,” I said. “Last assassin. There’s two of us, and you’re alone. We’ve killed three of you already. I got no need to kill you, too. You sit tight, we’ll leave, and you can go about your business. You do anything else, and we got all night. We’ll find you and kill you.”
Silence.
“Z,” I said. “Can you see the door?”
“Sort of,” he said.
“Okay, go for it and on out. Let me know it’s you, as you come. I’ll come out right behind you.”
As he moved toward me through the blank darkness, heading for the hint of light that was the door, he began to sing softly.
“ ‘Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight?’ ”
Then I saw him move in the darkness as he went past me. On my hands and knees, I fell in behind him.
“ ‘Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight, and dance by the light of the moon?’ ”
I was pretty sure that the last assassin would take the offer. I holstered my gun, and felt the tension beginning to drain. As I followed Z through the open door, I found myself giggling at his song lyrics. In the rain we sprinted across the short open space to the car, and got in.
“Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight?” I said, and started the car.
“Give white eyes a sense of Indian culture,” Z said.
We pulled away.
“That’s the best you could do?” I said.
“You knew it was me,” Z said.
“That song has as much to do with Indian culture as Marshmallow Fluff,” I said.
“Injun like’m Marshmallow Fluff,” Z said.
61
It was late. The rain was still raining. We sat at my kitchen counter with a siphon of soda, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of scotch.
I raised my glass toward Z.
“Pretty good,” I said.
Z nodded.
“Ever kill anybody before?” I said.
“No.”
We both drank some scotch.
“How you feel about it?” I said.
“Less than I thought I’d feel,” he said.
“How you feel depends on stuff,” I said.
“They would have killed me,” he said.
“They would,” I said. “And that helps with how you feel. Also, whether you knew them or not. If they died fast or slow. How close they were. What they looked like. It’s easier at a distance.”
“It was easier in the dark,” Z said.
“Anything that distances you from the human fact of them,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean I liked it,” Z said.
“Good,” I said. “Stephano would have liked it. But it’s worth remembering about yourself that you are the kind of guy who can stick a knife into someone in the dark.”
“Are you like that?” Z said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You wish you weren’t?”
“No,” I said. “But I keep it in mind.”
“Why?”
“So I won’t be that way when I don’t have to be,” I said.
Z nodded.
“You took Stephano out pretty nice,” he said.
“I’m supposed to,” I said.
“Yeah.”
We didn’t talk for a while. We finished our drinks at an easy pace, and made fresh ones. I could hear, faintly, the sound of the rain outside my front windows.