Crying Wolf

31

Freedy felt pretty good. He kind of liked the way things were going down. Sure, the arm wasn’t tip-top, his right arm, almost like another person, ready to go to war for him at the drop of a hat. And he was all out of andro, all out of crystal meth. But funny: he didn’t even need them anymore. Had he ever felt stronger? No, not even close. He could knock down brick walls, lift cars right off the ground, smash things to smithereens, whatever smithereens were. Had to be momentum. Momentum was on his side at last. Everything was easy now. Take just walking down College Hill in the darkness, right in the middle of the deserted street, snow swirling around him and he didn’t even feel it. Didn’t feel the cold. Momentum: all he had to do was let it take him.

Soon, very soon, he would be a millionaire. A millionaire! Was that the most beautiful word in the language or what? A millionaire, and out of this goddamn town forever. Tomorrow-a matter of hours-he would be in Florida. The beach. The biggest cigar in the world. One of those drinks with an umbrella. Cool shades, the very best, like Revos, not ripped off somebody’s towel, but store-bought, legitimate. He pictured it all, saw it as clear as life, or clearer. A picture in his mind tonight; tomorrow: reality. He was an entrepreneur, a risk-taker, one of the daring few, who, as they said on all the infomercials, made things happen. The kid from the flats makes good. At that moment, reaching the bottom of College Hill and trudging through knee-deep snow in the alley that led to the back of the Glass Onion, Freedy felt not just pretty good, but better than he’d ever felt in his life.

Only one problem. Not a problem, really, just something he hadn’t made up his mind about. The girl. Would he ever find another girl like that, a girl so right for him? She was something: a girl who’d given him more trouble than Saul and his big boys. Remembering what had happened to Saul’s nose, he smiled to himself in the darkness. He’d taken Saul down a peg or two, but good. I got you last-a game he’d played at recess as a kid. Freedy always won, had now won again. Florida tomorrow. He’d finished with Saul Medeiros forever, would never even think of him again, had got him last.

Much more fun to think about the girl. An amazing girl. She’d actually helped him- if you’re with the hostage, that makes you a hostage too. She’d even suggested this place, in a way; a vacant lot, she’d said, or an empty building. The Glass Onion was perfect. Freedy saw just how perfect when he moved behind it.

The alley made an L-shaped turn back of the Glass Onion and ended there. On one side was the loading dock of the old hardware store, also boarded up; at the end of the alley, a Dumpster; before him, the service entrance of the Glass Onion, the door padlocked, the bulkhead buried in snow. He was happy about the snow, another sign of the momentum on his side. Supposing they had been stupid enough to call the cops, didn’t it stand to reason that the cops would already have checked this place out? But they hadn’t: he could see, dark as it was, that there were no footprints except his in the snow. He crouched under the loading dock, giving himself a good view back up the alley, all the way to the street. The alley was dark, but the entrance glowed orange from a street-light; the blowing snow came and went as black streaks. Freedy pulled an old pallet from the shadows under the loading dock, upended it in front of him, waited.

Out on the street the storm was making noise, but it was quiet in the closed-in space behind the Glass Onion. The Glass Onion had been boarded up for almost as long as Freedy could remember. He had to say almost because the truth was he’d been inside once. Must have been very young, but he had a clear memory of a guitar-playing singer with a long beard up on a stage, a yellow drink with a straw, a dish of noodles or some shit in a sauce the same color-ginger, was that the word? — as the singer’s beard. The beard and the noodles and that yellow drink had got all mixed up in his mind and he’d ended up puking on his mother’s lap. She’d been wearing one of those striped Arab robes. The stripes, the noodles, the beard, the puke-all the same ginger color. She’d never taken him to the Glass Onion again, so it worked out fine.

Something was bothering him about the girl. Oh, yeah. Even though she was amazing, he was a little pissed off with her. For one thing, there’d been that business with the broken glass. He admired it in a way, but she could have actually hurt him. Worse than that, though, was this tendency she had to maybe not respect him enough, maybe talk down her nose a little. Had she even laughed at him at one point? Of course, with the way things had been left between them, she might be reconsidering her attitude by now. She would come around. Human beings were animals, after all, not in a bad way, that was simply scientific fact. So what he’d thought before-breaking a horse-was right. If he decided to take her along with him, take her into this golden future-and the decision was his, not hers-she’d end up-what was the word? Infatuated. Like a broken horse. She’d end up infatuated with him. Could he picture her with her hands all over him, staring up at him with big horse eyes, going down on him by request? Yes, he could. He could have both: the money and the girl. But the decision would be his.

And first, the money. What time had he said? Six. Six sharp. Freedy was wondering what time it was now, the plan kind of depending on it, when he heard, very faint in the storm, the bell tolling up at the chapel on College Hill. That bell was part of his life, one of the bad parts, but this-the last time he’d have to listen to it! — was different. This time it was working for him. He counted: six bells.

Six o’clock. Sharp. But what if they didn’t come? That would mean they thought he was bluffing. Freedy knew what had to be done in a case like that, no matter how perfect for him this girl was, no matter how infatuated she could become with his body and his mind. In a case like that, when you said if something doesn’t happen then something else is goddamn well going to, in a case like that, you had to follow through. Every infomercial said that; it was like one of their Ten Commandments.

He’d been getting ahead of himself. There, down at the end of the alley, in that orange light with the black snow swirling around, someone stepped into view. Someone fairly tall, although not as tall as Freedy, but who did look a bit like a certain type of football player, the quarterback type specifically. Freedy had always hated quarterbacks. The wonderful Thanksgiving leg-breaking hit? That had been on a quarterback.

Whoever it was came closer, and just as he reached the point in the alley where the orange light ended and the shadows took over, he glanced back for some reason. And, in glancing back, revealed his profile. The college kid. Nat. He had a backpack-those college kids all went around with backpacks, like life was a camping trip-but he had it in his hand, not on his back. The college kid: born on top of the Hill. But then Freedy remembered: He works in a mill. His old man’s not around. That made him even angrier.

Now the college kid was entering the quiet, closed-in space. How to handle this, exactly? The first idea that came to Freedy’s mind was to take him out, take the money, take off. Break him in two, just like he’d wanted to do since the first time he’d seen him. Then-goddamn it, yes-then go back and get the girl. Why not? He couldn’t think of one good reason. The first idea, the best, the only. He had momentum, he had the power, he had the element of surprise. Like the wolf or the tiger, he got ready to spring.

The college kid was looking around. Looking at the back of the Glass Onion, the Dumpster. What was this? He’d noticed the footprints, was following them with his eyes, like he was tracing Freedy’s movements or something. Freedy didn’t like that at all. The college kid’s gaze came up, directly on the pallet propped up under the overhang of the old hardware loading dock.

The college kid, Nat, spoke. “Where is she?” he said. Didn’t raise his voice; sounded almost steady, in fact, like he wasn’t afraid or some bullshit. “I’ve brought the money.”

Freedy pushed the pallet over, came out from under the overhang in a crouch, a little awkward, rose to his full height, making up for it. Yes: taller than the college kid, and much, much stronger. A fuckin’ animal of another species. “Let’s have it,” he said.

It was Freedy. Nat made no move to hand the backpack over. Freedy, without question. Nat recognized him from the football picture; there wasn’t much light, but enough for that. Freedy looked older, of course, but the expression on his face was the same. Enough light, too, to make out the scratches over his eye and on his chin: not good signs. Nat’s heart still pounded, but slower now. “First I have to see her,” he said.

Freedy was silent. They stood there-if both had held out their arms at full length, their hands would not quite have met-stood there behind the Glass Onion, the snow drifting in corkscrew patterns down through the partly sheltered space between the rooftops. A smile appeared on Freedy’s face; he had big white teeth, like a movie star.

“It’s not that kind of kidnapping,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” Nat said. “There’s no other kind.” He was aware of a strange assurance suddenly in his tone, as if some older self had stepped inside him when he most needed it.

Freedy’s smile faded. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

“It’s a trade. I bring the money. You bring her.” Nat looked beyond Freedy, tried to shape another person from the shadows under the loading dock, could not.

“Don’t blame me,” Freedy said.

A remark that Nat didn’t understand, but he asked for no explanation, just waited. He felt a certain rhythm coming from Freedy, sensed that it was important to break it, and that silence, waiting, might do that. In the silence, he watched Freedy’s face, saw nothing of Professor Uzig, except around the mouth. Their mouths were similar-almost identical, in fact, if you allowed for the difference in age.

“What’re you staring at?” said Freedy.

“I’m waiting.”

“What for?”

“For you to say where she is.”

“I already told you-don’t blame me. It was her idea.”

Her? Was Freedy talking about his mother? Was she somehow involved, was that why they were meeting here, behind the Glass Onion? Had he misunderstood everything?

Freedy was smiling again. “Not so sharp, huh, for a college kid. She, me, and the money in the same place means I’m a hostage too. Get it now? I got it right away.”

Nat didn’t get it. He realized that Freedy was talking about Grace, not his mother, but what did that mean? If Grace was giving Freedy ideas, were they in some sort of collaboration? Was it still a fake kidnapping? Would she take it that far? No: the scratches on his face, the phrase hostage too, the note-she’d never have worded it, or let him word it, like that-all told him no. It was real. Therefore the fact that Grace was giving Freedy ideas probably meant she’d been trying to trick him in some way, and almost certainly meant she was still alive.

“Is she in there?” Nat said, nodding toward the Glass Onion.

“I’m getting bored with this,” Freedy said. “Hand it over.”

“And then what?” Nat said.

“Hey,” said Freedy, “I’m not a prophet.”

“That’s clear,” Nat said.

Could those eyes of Freedy’s be said to harden, to become even harder than they were? They did. “You better explain that,” Freedy said.

“If you could see at all into the future,” Nat said, “you wouldn’t be doing this.”

“Are you, like, threatening me?” Freedy said.

“I’m stating a fact.” Freedy seemed a little closer to him, although Nat wasn’t aware of any movement; if they held out their arms now, their hands would be in contact.

“Shows how much you know,” Freedy said. “By tomorrow I’ll be down in Flor-I’ll be in fucking clover.”

“Only if there’s been an exchange,” Nat said. “You don’t get the money until we get her.”

Freedy was even closer now; Nat sensed his physical strength-like a magnetic field, except repellent. “This is starting to feel like negotiating,” Freedy said. “I don’t like negotiating.”

“Then you shouldn’t have done this,” Nat said. “It’s not too late to undo it.”

“Shake hands,” Freedy said, “and go out for beers?”

“Just walking away with no more damage will be good enough.”

“Nope,” said Freedy. “Doesn’t work that way, got to take risks if you’re going anywhere in this life. Got to put it on the line. Everybody knows that, except you rich boys.”

“You can drop that one,” Nat said. “I grew up with no more money than you, maybe less.”

“What the hell do you know about how I grew up?”

“And you’re putting another person, an innocent person, on the line, not yourself.” Nat was getting angry now-bad strategy, bad timing, bad self-control-but there it was.

“What’re you getting at?” Freedy said.

“If you think you’re some sort of daring risk-taker, you’re full of shit,” Nat said. “That’s what I’m getting at.”

Had he heard right? Freedy couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe this college kid would say something like that to him, but he had to trust his hearing; his hearing, like all his senses was very sharp, the best. No one could talk to him like that without being punished. He’d handed out punishment for a lot less. But was this the time? Not quite. Instead, he thought of something amazing to do, something cool and amazing, while everything bottled up in him had a chance to get bottled up more. He reached across the space between them, not much of a space now, reached real slow, and laid his finger on the lips of the college kid. Shushing him, like. Was it the coolest thing he’d ever done? And at the most important moment in his life? What did that say about him?

The college kid got this pissed-off look in his eyes, more than pissed off, angry you could call it, and batted-yes, batted-Freedy’s arm away. With some force, even, a surprising amount. Thing was, since Freedy’d been intent only on shushing, he’d used his right arm, the one that wasn’t working so well on account of that tire iron business. Also, the one that would hurt if someone batted it. And now someone had.

“You know what I’m going to do to you for that?” Freedy said.

“You’re going to take me to where she is,” the college kid said. “I’m going to give you the money. After that, you can try whatever you want.”

The answer confused Freedy. Truth was, he couldn’t recall a moment of confusion like this, ever. Made him look away for a second, almost like he needed a break from staring the college kid down. Good thing, though-momentum was still on his side-because in that moment of looking away, he saw someone else in the alley.

“What the fuck?” said Freedy.

The college kid turned to see what he was talking about.

“Get back,” he called to whoever it was.

Making that turn, of course, the college kid took his eyes off Freedy. Mistake. Beginner’s mistake, taking your eyes off old Freedy, especially at a moment like this, when things were a bit confusing, maybe even getting out of hand, and when there was so much bottled up inside him, due to all the composure he’d been keeping. Freedy let him have it. A left hand, yes, not like his right, not like another whole person, but still, he put everything into it, legs-those legs of his! — hips, back, chest, all those reps, all those sets, all those curls, dips, presses, raises, all those years in the gym, all those supplements, all that andro, he put that kind of everything into it, and hit the college kid a good one, bang on the side of the face, a crusher. Orgasm? Orgasm had nothing on the feeling that spurted through him at that moment.

College kid went down, no surprise there, and Freedy grabbed the backpack. Bit of a surprise there; he didn’t grab it clean. The college kid kind of held on to it, kind of fought him for control of the thing, didn’t let go-never let go, in fact-until Freedy booted him one in the gut, making his grip soften enough for Freedy to snatch the backpack away.

Turned out a million was easy to carry. Freedy slung it over his good shoulder, gave the college kid another boot, aiming for the head, but maybe not connecting square, what with all the snow on the ground. No time to do any better, with whoever it was in the alley, and the alley the only way out.

Freedy ran into the alley, a funny, heavy run in the deepening snow. Out on the street the storm was howling now, but between him and it stood this other person, at the edge of the orange light. Freedy switched the backpack to his other shoulder even though it smarted at bit, freeing his left arm.

This other person stepped right into the middle of the alley, blocking his way.

“Stop,” she said.

Turned out to be a she, and with a familiar voice. Then Freedy got a good look at her-snowflakes in her light brown hair-and it gave him a shock. She’d somehow gotten free! Undone all that tape, climbed out of the tunnels, come after him. Was it possible? No, not with her face like that. Not a mark on it, both eyes open, no sign of all they’d been through. Somehow, this had to be the other one.

“Stop right there,” she said, in a real commanding voice, like he was a dog.

He was no dog. Two more steps and he let her in on the secret of that left, caught her a nice one, marking her, making them more like twins again. But: something hurt. In his left forearm, something hurt awful, awful enough to make him cry out. He looked at that forearm, held it up in the orange light, that mighty mighty forearm: and what was this? A knife, a goddamn switchblade, angled deep into it, deep in the heart of the muscle. Freedy boiled over. He hit her again with his left, the knife still in it, but didn’t connect the way he’d wanted, only staggering her. She was moving away, running now, down the alley, calling, “Nat, Nat.”

Freedy looked at that knife in his arm and felt like puking. Funny, to be puking again at the Glass Onion. He didn’t let himself. Get a grip, he thought, or maybe said aloud. Getting a grip meant figuring out what to do. First, the knife. He got his right hand on it-right hand not at its best either, they were maddening him, maddening him like a bull-sucked in some air, yanked out the switchblade knife. That hurt too-even though there wasn’t much blood-hurt enough to make him cry out again, although he kept it inside. Or maybe not. Meth: oh, how he wanted it, and lots of other drugs. He dropped the knife in the snow and stepped out into the street.

At least he had the money. At least? What was he thinking? That was the whole point. No pain, no gain: how true. A millionaire! A millionaire at last! And right away, his life started changing, because parked by the curb, just a few feet away and motor running, was a Mercedes convertible. An old one, but immaculate, and very cool. Not only that, but the top was down, like it was all ready for Florida. Did he need an invitation? He did not. Freedy slipped behind the wheel. No CD player, but he could always add one later. Which way to Miami?

The girl? What about her? The girl maybe wasn’t so perfect after all. That part was confusing too. These girls, coming at him with jagged glass, with switchblades, could he ever really trust one of them? Could he ever really be sure she was broken like a horse? He made a decision, an executive decision: forget her. There were girls in Florida, girls who’d be hopping into this new car of his every time he stopped to take a piss, for Christ’s sake. No, he would start his golden future alone, like a man.

Miami: what a word, a perfect match for millionaire. Which way to Miami? He knew: south. South meant the turnpike; the turnpike meant Route 7, Route 7 meant driving his cool new car down the Hill and taking a right on Main. Freedy was doing that, had switched on the headlights and released the clutch, was actually rolling, when he realized he’d forgotten something important, maybe even basic. He hadn’t checked the money. He pulled to a stop beneath the nearest street-light and picked up the backpack. What if they’d cheated him? Was it possible? He tore it open: no, it wasn’t possible, because there, inside the backpack, was money, beautiful, beautiful money. Hundred-dollar bills, in thick wads held together with rubber bands, wads and wads and wads of them. He pawed through. This wasn’t orgasm time, but a pretty good feeling just the same. He was rich! It was that easy. Real life begins.

But hey, what was this? Another little wad down in there, a little deeper, held together by a rubber band like the others, but didn’t feel like the others. In fact, it felt like-he held it up in the orange light-it was: just a stack of goddamn note cards. And here was another. And another, and another, and another. He was hurling them around now, out of the convertible, into the snow, maybe hurling around some of the money too. A million dollars? Wasn’t anything like that here, not even close. He wasn’t a millionaire. He wasn’t rich.

They were maddening him, maddening him like a bull, inciting violence. Wasn’t that a crime? He wheeled the car around, tires spinning crazily in the snow, skidded to a stop outside the Glass Onion, jumped out, slamming the door shut hard, but nothing like the way he was going to slam them around. Slam. The street-lights went out.

The whole town went dark. Everything disappeared: the street, the buildings, the ground, the sky. Even the blowing snow was now invisible, but Freedy could feel it stinging his face, maddening him more. He entered the alley, felt his way along to the space behind the Glass Onion.

Couldn’t see a goddamn thing, no people, no footprints, only darker shadows and lighter shadows. He slogged his way through the snow, bumped into what had to be the overhang of the loading dock. A good hiding place, as he knew well. He lashed out with his boot a few times, hit nothing.

“I want the money,” he said, not hysterically, just making an announcement. He found the Dumpster, one of the darker shadows, kicked out at any small dark shadows he saw around it, connected with nothing human.

He made another announcement: “I’m going to murder you.” Then he had a disturbing thought. What if they’d slipped by him, were already out of the alley? What about the car? Freedy hurried back to the street, slipping once and falling in deep snow. So cold. He hated the cold.

The car was still there, filling up with snow. He got in, turned it on, fiddled with switches. This and that happened, but the top didn’t go up. He sat there, hundred-dollar bills and note cards all around him, blood seeping from his forearm, snow filling the car. An important business term was eluding him. What was it? Something about… taking stock. That was it. Time to take stock. What did he have? He had this car, of course, but it wasn’t his main asset. His main asset, his only important asset-yes, face facts-was the girl. He had to do something about that asset. There were two choices: protect the asset or destroy it. He tried to think of other options and could not. Protect or destroy, but it would be his choice, no one else’s. He was in charge.

Freedy switched on the headlights, the only lights in town, and gunned the car up College Hill.

Nat and Izzie, lying on top of the Dumpster lid, heard the sound of the fading engine through the storm.

“Where’s he going?” Izzie said.

“To get her,” said Nat. His jaw was bad. He felt the side of his face: caved in.

“But where is she?”

Where was she? A milion sounds nice. It was somewhere in there, right in the open. Later would be no good. He had to figure it out now. He was supposed to be smart, supposed to be good at solving problems. Solve this one. A simple sentence. A milion sounds nice. What was the most important part of any sentence? The verb. Sounds. Nat said it aloud. “Sounds, sounds, sounds. For something to sound nice…” There had to be a listener to hear it. For something to sound nice, you had to hear it. To hear it, you had to be in a place to hear it. Freedy had a place. He’d been listening.

A convincing idea, especially since he had no others. “Let’s go,” Nat said.

They went, but it was slow. He was slow, not Izzie. He was slow lowering himself off the Dumpster, slow finding his way to the street. Izzie tugged him along, stooping once to pick something up, somehow sharp-eyed and surefooted in the darkness.

“If he does anything to her, my life is over,” she said.

“That’s not true.”

“How can you be so stupid?”

His jaw hurt too much to argue.

They ran, or tried to run, up College Hill.

“What’s that in your hand?”

“For killing him,” Izzie said.

Crazy amount of duct tape. Took forever to get it all off, free her from the pipe. She fell to the dirt floor with a thump. The candle burned near her face. The other twin was a lot prettier now.

“Bad news,” Freedy said. “They fucked me.”

The gold eye, the one that would open, opened. “I need a doctor.” So quiet he could hardly hear her, even with his super hearing.

“Say that again and you won’t.” He wasn’t in the mood. What was he going to do with her? The simple solution was asset destruction, moving on. But moving on to what, exactly? And he’d invested a lot in her. Plus there was still the potential for a big payoff. He just needed a time-out, that was all, to rethink.

“Feel like a little spin?” he said to her.

She just lay there.

“Get up,” he said, louder and not so friendly.

They heard him. On the other side of the wall, Izzie turned sideways, raised one foot high like a trained Thai kick boxer, precisely as Grace had done the night they found the tunnels, and kicked in the wooden paneling in the big room of the old social club. Nat shone his flash through the opening, and there they were in a little square room lit by a single tall candle balanced on the dirt floor, Grace on her back, hair matted with blood, Freedy crouched over her.

Izzie saw her sister’s face and made a horrible sound. The next instant she was diving through the hole in the wall, switchblade glinting in the candlelight, so quick. But Freedy was quicker. Somehow he was already up, already slapping at her arm as though he’d known what was coming. The next moment, she was down. By that time, Nat was in the little room too, flashlight raised high, striking with all his strength at the back of Freedy’s head.

He never connected. Without even looking, Freedy jabbed with his elbow, a pistonlike blow that caught Nat just under the rib cage, knocking the wind out of him, knocking him down. The candle fell, started rolling, rolled through the hole in the wall, dropped down into the big room on the other side. Then Freedy’s fist started landing, although Nat couldn’t see a thing, flashlight smashed, candle gone. He took a punch in the back, scrambled away, felt Grace. He found her hand, not warm, not cold, the same temperature as his.

Nat held on to her, would hold on to her at any cost; but then came that fist, and again, and he felt her slipping, slipping away, and gone.

Total darkness. Didn’t bother Freedy. This was his territory. Freedy slung the girl over his shoulder and carried her out of the little square room and into F. Had he ever felt stronger? No. This kind of challenge or whatever it was brought out the best in him. He headed down F, the girl on his shoulder, at a fast walking pace, almost trotting in total darkness. Didn’t bother him. He turned into Z, invisible Z, without breaking stride. Z, on the way to building 13: now came the beauty part.

Total darkness: until flames shot up on the other side of the wall. Nat felt heat flowing in through the hole. He rose. Izzie was already up, the knife, half the blade snapped off, in her hand. They stepped out into a tunnel they didn’t know, heard a grunt in the distance, hurried after the sound. Flickering light followed them for a few yards, dwindled to nothing. They kept going, almost running in the darkness. Nat kept one hand on the wall; he didn’t know how Izzie was doing it. She was a little ahead, then more so.

Suddenly his hand felt nothing but empty space. He froze. “This way,” she called from somewhere on his right. “Another tunnel.” He followed her. She moved so fast, almost as though she could see in the dark. He heard another grunt, Freedy’s grunt, much closer now.

And another, closer still, followed by a moan, a female moan. Nat caught up with Izzie, brushed against her, took her hand: ice cold. He felt something else, a sort of breeze, a damp breeze, blowing in his face from the direction they were headed. “Wait,” he said in Izzie’s ear.

“Piss on that,” she said, shook him off, kept going. He went after her, stumbled on something soft.

In the darkness, but very near, a few feet away, no more, Freedy said: “Come and get me.”

Izzie made a savage noise.

Lights flashed on. Red ceiling lights, the color of exit signs, recessed behind mesh screens. In the light, Nat saw a sort of snapshot. They’d come to a sheer drop-off in the tunnel. Grace lay on the edge of it. Freedy clung to a ladder bolted to the brick wall, leading down, just his head and shoulders visible. And Izzie had stepped, or charged, right over his head, and was now turning to look back, poised in midair, the switchblade in her hand, her eyes wild. The piece of eight Grace had found in Professor Uzig’s cake floated weightless around her neck.

No one can remain poised in midair. She fell out of sight, and it was far, far too long before the thud.

“The beauty part,” said Freedy, and started up.

Nat kicked at him, kicked right at his head. An alarm started ringing, not far away, distracting Freedy for a moment, probably the only reason the kick landed at all. Not on his head, but his shoulder, the right shoulder.

Freedy cried out in pain. “Call that fair?” he said. “That’s my bad shoulder.” He lunged up the ladder, swiped at Nat with his left hand, got hold of one of Nat’s legs. With his other leg, Nat kicked that bad shoulder again, hard as he could. Freedy lost his grip on the ladder, held nothing but Nat’s leg. He dug his fingers into Nat’s flesh, trying to somehow kill him that way. Nat kicked him one more time, without compunction.

Nat heard, or felt, a faint flicking sound: Freedy’s fingernails, snapping off. Freedy looked surprised. Then he fell. Another expression, a vengeful one, was coming into his eyes when he disappeared from view.

Nat looked over the edge. A long drop to a brick floor. Freedy lay beside Izzie, both of them in postures the living can’t adopt.

He turned to Grace, lying in the tunnel.

She opened her eye. “Nat?”

Her face was so bad he could hardly look at her. But he did. And when he did, he noticed something strange. Under the matted blood, her hair was the same light brown color as Izzie’s.

He thought of things: body temperatures, raised eyebrows, Clairol bottles, Grand Central Station. How stupid could he be?

“Izzie?” he said.

She closed her eye.

Then came running feet, loud voices, people in uniform: firemen, police, maintenance workers. It was getting very hot. He saw flames behind them.

“There are lights here?” he said.

“In master control,” said someone. “Think we wander around in the dark?”

Nat didn’t know what to think, not then, not when dental records proved that the dead twin was Grace, not for a long time after.

Peter Abrahams

Crying Wolf