Good Guys

  Whittier stood next to the bar. He was a sandy-haired man who wore clothes that cost more than Donovan had ever seen in his life, and who wore a ring on his right pinky finger that was worth even more. “How do you do,” he said. “I’m Paul Whittier. I am somewhat familiar with your Foundation.” He felt around his pocket like he was looking for a pack of cigarettes; maybe he’d just quit or something.

  “Good,” said Donovan. “That saves time. I’m Donovan Longfellow.” He introduced the others. “We think you’re about to be attacked again.”

  “Then, you know of the first one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” he said. “What should I do?”

  Well now, thought Donovan. That certainly is the question, isn’t it?

  * * *

  As we approached, a black guy and two white women got out of an SUV and walked up to the door.

  “Wait,” said Shveta.

  “You know them?”

  “No. But the small woman’s a sorcerer. I can smell it.”

  They rang the bell, and someone answered, and the guy talked to him for a while. The big dark-haired woman started to turn and Shveta pulled me back behind a tree. She watched through the trees for about fifteen minutes, then said, “Okay, they’ve gone in. Come on.”

  I was fingering the stone in my pocket. Then I fingered the other. First the left, then the right. First the left, then the right. I followed her.

  “When I say ‘now,’” she said, “use the first one. The glass bead. That will take down the defenses of everyone in the room, including you. You know that, right?”

  “Yes. The glass bead. Left pocket. Not the stone. If I need to. Whittier’s defenses are already gone.”

  “I know. But we don’t know if the others have their own protections. Assume they do, at least the sorcerer. I need you to back my play.”

  “Yeah, I get it. When do I use the stone?”

  “Depends on how things go down. If everything works, I’ll just tell you. If not, you’ll have to pick the moment as best you can.”

  “All right.”

  “But you need line of sight with him.”

  “I know.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  We reached the front door. She gestured with her hand and the door blew inward.

  * * *

  Donovan was still searching for an answer when there was a muffled thump from behind him.

  Donovan’s first clue that it might be important was when Susan reacted by turning and facing it, and she had that every-nerve-alert-ready-to-kill look that she’d had back in ’13 just before the newsstand guy pulled a gun. Then the “butler” came back into the room, running, a pistol in his hand. He stepped between Whittier and the door and started to speak. Maybe he was going to tell Whittier to get to a safe spot, or ask for orders or something.

  Whatever he was going to say, he didn’t. Whatever he was going to do, he didn’t. He flew against the wall next to Donovan, and the sick, awful, sucking thump of his body hitting the wall made its way into Donovan’s ears and took up residence in his head in a way that Donovan knew would never go away. He pulled the bag of marbles with his left hand and the blackjack with his right

  Well, all right, he thought. This is going to suck.

  Four people came charging into the room like an out-of-control subway train.

  * * *

  She walked so calmly, so smoothly, like there was nothing going on, nothing to worry about.

  Yeah, I’d done some shit. I’d stood there in a crowded restaurant and blown a guy apart with a shotgun. I’d watched a woman drown. But those were matters of just deciding to do something and doing it; this was everything happening at once, from every direction, and I know you want me to tell you what happened, but I can’t. I can’t.

  I remember Shveta moving, her hair blowing back as if she were walking into a windstorm, with one hand pointing forward, flanked by her toughs, me behind them. I remember the sound of glass breaking. I remember pictures falling from the wall, and one of them flinging itself across the room as if to attack someone.

  And there were gunshots that echoed so much I have no idea how many there were, and there was the smell I remembered from the restaurant, from the shotgun.

  There was a loud crack, very loud, and my memory tells me it was deafening, and I know there was ringing in my ears, but somehow I heard—or maybe saw?—Shveta say “now” and I used the bead, holding it over my head, squeezing it, and saying the word Charlie had taught me. I don’t know how I remembered to do all of that; it’s crazy. But I did it, and the dark-haired woman was flying across the room at Shveta, and the girl was on her knees shouting something that seemed an invocation to the gods, and everything spun and the room dipped and, God help me, I don’t know what happened next.

  * * *

  Donovan was still standing, and so was Whittier, stock still and shaking, and so was the guy who held something clutched in his fist. The woman next to him was also standing, but her right arm was at an odd angle, there was blood coming from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes didn’t seem to be focusing very well.

  Donovan found his voice. “Let me guess. Nick Nagorski, am I right?” He nodded to the woman. “And you would be Shveta?”

  Nagorski’s voice was raw, like he’d been shouting, and maybe he had been. “Stand aside, please. I need to kill that guy.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Donovan.

  “Why?”

  Donovan glanced around the room. Marci’s legs were twisted up oddly underneath her, and Susan was pressing a hand against her own chest trying to stop the bleeding. There were two large men he didn’t recognize. One was gasping and holding his stomach and seemed to have a broken leg; the other’s head was at an odd angle.

  Donovan turned back. “You’re going to get existential with me, motherfucker? That thing in your hand. You drop it right now, then lie down on the floor with your hands behind your head.”

  “Naw,” said Nagorski, and raised his fist. The woman, Shveta, blinked, shook her head, and looked up.

  The top of the doeskin bag was already open. Donovan threw all the marbles at them.

  * * *

  The ceiling was textured, a sort of pink that, no doubt, appealed to someone, somewhere. Donovan didn’t care for it much. A sudden panic gripped him as he realized he had no idea who had done what to whom, or what state anyone was in, and he heaved himself to a sitting position.

  Nagorski was on his face, whimpering and clawing the carpet. Shveta was on her back, eyes open and staring, her body rigid.

  Donovan pulled himself to his knees, then his feet; then he stumbled toward the two bruisers who’d shown up with Nagorski. They both had guns near them, one a Beretta .340 semi-auto, the other a Ruger .357 revolver. Donovan kicked both guns aside. It was only then he noticed the guy—what was his name? Mark. Yeah, Mark. Mark was on his back, his eyes wide and staring and glassy, and he was dead dead dead. Whittier was shrunk against a wall, but had no sign of injury. So, a win for the good guys. Yay.

  Donovan knelt next to Susan. “Hey, Hippie. How you doing?”

  “Hey, Laughing Boy. How are the others?”

  Donovan looked around. “You’re hurt the worst, Marci’s banged up, but she’ll be fine. Bad guys are down; target is safe.”

  “A win, then.”

  “Yeah. Can you hold on for me, Hippie?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I’d feel terrible about giving you a guilt complex or something.”

  She was pale. Scarily pale. There was a lot of blood—Donovan was kneeling in it.

  Donovan looked up and caught Whittier’s eye. He was about to ask him to call 911 when Whittier said, “It’s part of the service to clean up this mess, isn’t it? I need this cleaned up.”

  Donovan stared at him for a minute; then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It is. I’m all about cleaning up messes.”

  He picked up the Ruger, rai
sed it, and put four shots into Paul Whittier’s chest. Four red spots blossomed on his chest, spreading and growing, and Whittier fell back and started twitching.

  Donovan used his shirt to wipe down the gun, then dropped it and turned his attention back to Susan.

  “Damn, Laughing Boy,” she said. “I don’t think you were supposed to do that.”

  “Shit,” he said. “Must have got my orders confused.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’ll happen from time to time.”

  His hand found hers. She gripped it tight; then her grip relaxed, and her eyes rolled up, and she stopped breathing.

  He heard sirens.

  * * *

  You—Donovan, right? I didn’t know your name then, even though I guess we’d been playing cat and mouse for a couple of weeks. I can tell you what happened from my perspective, if you want, though, I mean, you were right there. I watched you put the dead woman’s head on the floor, close her eyes, and stand up. The effects of whatever you’d done to me were just wearing off, leaving nothing but a memory of vertigo and synesthesia. I looked for Shveta, but she was gone. I wasn’t able to stand yet—there was still some dizziness—but I could speak.

  You remember what I said? I don’t, exactly. I think it was, “You motherfucking son of a bitch,” or words to that effect.

  You looked up and made eye contact with me.

  If I had to put words to your expression, they would be, I can’t decide if you’re worth the trouble of squashing like a bug. Then you twisted your head in a circle like your neck was stiff and said, “What, that I killed him instead of you getting to, or that he died too easy?”

  “Both.”

  I saw you look at Whittier. “He’s still alive. Even … yeah, I think he’s still conscious. So there’s that.” You shrugged. Your face was expressionless, but there were tears running down your cheek. I guess that hit me, because all of a sudden my anger drained away, leaving me feeling empty—I mean, completely empty, scoured out, like the idea I might ever feel something again was absurd.

  You went over to the girl—I call her that because I swear she barely looked eighteen—and said, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Susan?”

  “She didn’t make it.”

  The girl started sobbing. It was around then that I realized the ringing in my ears was actually the sound of sirens and they were getting close—probably right outside the house.

  You said, “Marci, I need you to focus. Just for a minute, then we can both collapse. The extraction team is coming to transport us out of here ahead of the cops, and they’ll get this asshole”—you gestured toward me with your head—“and I don’t trust Becker with him.”

  She said, “What—”

  “Can you get this guy back to my apartment?”

  “I guess—”

  You walked over to me and knelt.

  “Hurry up,” you said, and I saw something dark in your hand. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I’m pretty sure you hit me with it.

  * * *

  “I was pleased,” said Donovan carefully, “that you were able to extract us before the PO-lice arrived.”

  He was in Madrid, on a hard chair in Becker’s cubicle at the Foundation headquarters. The fluorescent light overhead was nearly the only one on in the office area—empty offices, thought Donovan, had their own, special kind of spooky. Becker, in his desk chair, looked at him steadily for a long moment, then said, “Mr. Longfellow, I am truly sorry for the loss of Ms.—of Susan.”

  Wow. Genuine emotion from Becker. Must be a sign of the Apocalypse. “Thank you, Mr. Becker. How is Marci?”

  “She’ll be fine, Mr. Longfellow. She has two broken legs, which we are endeavoring to help knit.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the infirmary.”

  “Do you know if she’s awake? I’d like to visit her.”

  “I don’t know; you can certainly go down there and check.”

  “Okay.”

  “I wish you could have saved Mr. Whittier.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And held on to Ms. Tyaga.”

  “I’ll get her. We’ll get her. Marci and me.”

  Becker nodded, then shifted in his chair. The chair squeaked. Wow. The man actually looks uncomfortable. Definitely a sign of the Apocalypse.

  “Mr. Longfellow, what I can’t help but wonder about is who wasn’t there.”

  “Mr. Becker?”

  “It was clear that this—” He stopped and glanced at a paper on his desk. “That this Mr. Nagorski was there, and that it was he who wanted to, and apparently did, kill Mr. Whittier. And yet, when the sorcerer arrived to extract you, there was no sign of him.”

  Longfellow looked him in the eye. “Things were pretty confused there, Mr. Becker. He must have escaped.”

  “I see.”

  Looking someone in the eye is a sure sign of lying. Donovan knew that, and he knew that Becker knew it as well.

  “If that is all, Mr. Becker. I believe I’ll head to the infirmary and see Marci.”

  “Of course, Mr. Longfellow. I’m going to email you a JPEG of a Mr. Charles Leong, who may be involved in this in some capacity.”

  “Some capacity, Mr. Becker.”

  “It is possible.” Becker looked him in the eye.

  “I’ll see you later, Mr. Becker.”

  The infirmary was in the basement, on the opposite side from the holding cells. Donovan took the elevator down and followed signs. Marci was next to what looked like the nurses’ station at any hospital, though on a smaller scale and with less equipment sitting in the hallways. She was in a wheelchair, both of her legs in casts.

  Donovan walked over to her and knelt. He took her face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She nodded. “Not your fault.”

  “It is, though. I should have said no to the operation.”

  “We all agreed.”

  “It’s not a democracy.”

  “Yeah, it is. Because we could all refuse to go.”

  “Shit. Why are you consoling me? Fuck.”

  “Because it makes me feel better. Shut up and take it.” She smiled.

  He pressed his forehead against hers. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Your hair is scratchy.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “What now?” she said.

  Donovan straightened up. “I need to get back home and open the package you had delivered.”

  “Wish I could be there.”

  “I’ll give you all the details.”

  “You know this isn’t over, right?”

  “Oh yeah. I know that.”

  “Are we going to end it?”

  “Oh yes. We surely are.”

  “Good,” she said.

  * * *

  My head hurt like a sonofabitch, and it was pitch-black. At least, I hoped it was pitch-black, because if it wasn’t I was blind. I brought my hands up to see if there was anything covering my eyes, and there wasn’t.

  I felt my head, and found a lump high on the temple. Touching it hurt a lot, so naturally I kept doing it, trying to figure out how big it was. I couldn’t tell—lumps on your head are really deceptive. Then I brought my fingers away to see if there was blood, but obviously I couldn’t see. Was that liquid on my fingers? Hard to say. Maybe sweat.

  I felt a little sick to my stomach. Concussion. All right, then. Not too bad, though, or the nausea would be worse. I wondered if my vision would be fuzzy if I had any vision.

  My pants were wet, and the smell told me I’d pissed myself. Goddammit. I wanted to take my pants off, but I didn’t dare until I had some idea of where I was, or what was going on.

  I tried to remember what had happened, how I’d ended up here. I kept almost remembering being hit, but then the memory would slide away. I tried to get there. I remembered the last meeting with Charlie, the drive to Darien, meeting Shveta and the thugs. Sounds like a band name. Shveta and the Thugs. Not bad. I thought I remembere
d that the term “thug” originally came from—

  Stop it.

  I shook my head.

  I resolved not to shake my head again.

  We’d gotten into the car, and then—nothing after that would come into focus.

  I was on a cement floor, with walls close by. A little exploring with my hands told me that I was at the bottom of a stairway. Had I fallen down the stairs? Was that it? The way my head felt, I might not even notice other bumps and bruises. When did I turn into a guy who ended up blind and bleeding in a tiny room, smelling his own urine? I knew the answer to that; I decided not to go there.

  I got to my feet and steadied myself against the wall. I felt around. It was a small area, and I found no indications of a door. So, I was at the bottom of a stairway that went nowhere. That would have struck me as more impossible if I hadn’t spent the last months hanging around magic.

  Whittier.

  Whittier was dead.

  I hadn’t killed him; some other guy had. I almost remembered who. Just picked up a gun and shot him, like it was nothing. I hadn’t gotten to kill him, and he hadn’t suffered enough, and now I was at the bottom of a stairway to nowhere, blind, my pants wet with piss, and my head hurting.

  Stairway to nowhere. That could be the name of my memoir.

  But things started to fill in—from Whittier’s death to the blood and the bodies around the room—and I finally remembered you slugging me. Some things still aren’t clear, like, I don’t know exactly what happened between when we blew the door of the house down and when I came back from whatever it was that made the world spin and all my senses fuck up—or, for that matter, what caused that to happen.

  I thought about climbing up the stairs to see if maybe there was a door up there. But if the place was magical, maybe I’d be getting into more trouble. Shit. I wished I could see. Hell with it.

  I went up the stairs slowly, on my hands and knees, carefully touching each step ahead of me, feeling it, before I moved onto it. I should have counted the stairs; it felt like there were a thousand of them.

  I reached the top and felt around the walls. My hand reached a doorknob, and I almost cried with relief. I turned it. It was locked.