killed tonight at the 40/40 Club. What was his name?"
Before I could answer, he slammed my hand down on the table, his other hand picking up the butterfly knife. He looked down at my fingers.
"Now. How many lies have you told me?"
I licked my lips. "Listen..."
"Four? Five?" He nodded. "Five at least, I think. Little ones. So we'll start with the pinky."
22
What are the responsibilities of an educated person? (Yale)
The scream that came from the other side of the room sounded like no other sound I'd ever heard. That was because it was actually several screams at once—human and animal mixed together. When Morozov heard it he dropped the knife and let my hand go at the same time. He jumped up, his elbow knocking over the bottle. Vodka went spilling down the side of the keyboard, pooling around a bundle of cables, sparking off the wires.
I looked back. A man was running toward me with an enormous bleeding gash in his upper arm. I could see the shoulder joint through his torn flesh. Behind him, men ran in every direction. I heard furniture tipping over. A Tiffany lamp went sideways with a splintering clink.
Then I saw the bear.
It had gotten loose from the pit and was crashing across the room, still trailing its harness, mauling people as it went. Nobody seemed able to find the exit. I saw a man pull out a pistol and try to shoot at it, and the bear lunged, landing on top of him with its front paws and burying its snout in the man's face. I heard the shots going off, very loud in the enclosed space, and the man's screams became different, soggy and thin and then gone.
The bear sat up, its muzzle dripping red, and let out a chest-shaking roar. Across the room another man stood up from behind a bar with a machine gun. He started shooting. An ellipsis of bullet holes appeared in the wall above my head. The bear howled and pounced. I heard glass explode in front of me.
I ran for the door.
"You're dead," I said.
Gobi didn't answer. We were sitting in a dive bar on Van Brunt Street, six blocks away from the red brick building. It was one thirty in the morning, but the place was still full enough to offer some semblance of urban camouflage. Hipsters and longshoremen and a few lost-looking Manhattanites were sitting on the couches and mismatched chairs that filled the back half of the room. Nobody seemed to notice the kid in the tuxedo and the dark-haired girl in the dress hunched together in the corner over a burning red candle.
"Did you hear what I just said?" I asked.
"Be silent." Gobi flattened the bloodstained pages that I'd gotten from Morozov across the wooden table in front of her, concentrating on what was printed there.
"Morozov said you died three years ago. He said somebody cut your throat. That's why the old man freaked out when you told him your name, right? He was looking at a ghost."
"Lower your voice."
"What's going on here?"
She drew in a breath and looked up at me. "Why does it matter?"
"What?"
"All you want to do is survive the night. Get away from me and never see me again. What does it matter to you what I am?"
"Because—" I didn't know how to finish.
"Believe me, Perry. The less that you know about me, the better."
"Yeah," I said. "I used to think that too. But now I'm thinking knowledge is power."
"Then you are wrong."
"What really happened to Gobija Zaksauskas?"
"You are looking at her."
"I don't believe in spooks," I said, amazed at how much effort it took to get those words out. Even after all we'd been through, I half expected her to give me a look like I'd gone crazy, or even laugh in my face.
But she didn't do either of those things. Instead she reached across the table and took my hand, placing it on the side of her neck alongside the scar so that I could feel her pulse. Her skin was soft and pliant, almost hot to the touch. I could feel the blood tracing through her veins and felt her eyes on mine. It was like she saw something in me that I didn't see, wouldn't see
Before I could answer, he slammed my hand down on the table, his other hand picking up the butterfly knife. He looked down at my fingers.
"Now. How many lies have you told me?"
I licked my lips. "Listen..."
"Four? Five?" He nodded. "Five at least, I think. Little ones. So we'll start with the pinky."
22
What are the responsibilities of an educated person? (Yale)
The scream that came from the other side of the room sounded like no other sound I'd ever heard. That was because it was actually several screams at once—human and animal mixed together. When Morozov heard it he dropped the knife and let my hand go at the same time. He jumped up, his elbow knocking over the bottle. Vodka went spilling down the side of the keyboard, pooling around a bundle of cables, sparking off the wires.
I looked back. A man was running toward me with an enormous bleeding gash in his upper arm. I could see the shoulder joint through his torn flesh. Behind him, men ran in every direction. I heard furniture tipping over. A Tiffany lamp went sideways with a splintering clink.
Then I saw the bear.
It had gotten loose from the pit and was crashing across the room, still trailing its harness, mauling people as it went. Nobody seemed able to find the exit. I saw a man pull out a pistol and try to shoot at it, and the bear lunged, landing on top of him with its front paws and burying its snout in the man's face. I heard the shots going off, very loud in the enclosed space, and the man's screams became different, soggy and thin and then gone.
The bear sat up, its muzzle dripping red, and let out a chest-shaking roar. Across the room another man stood up from behind a bar with a machine gun. He started shooting. An ellipsis of bullet holes appeared in the wall above my head. The bear howled and pounced. I heard glass explode in front of me.
I ran for the door.
"You're dead," I said.
Gobi didn't answer. We were sitting in a dive bar on Van Brunt Street, six blocks away from the red brick building. It was one thirty in the morning, but the place was still full enough to offer some semblance of urban camouflage. Hipsters and longshoremen and a few lost-looking Manhattanites were sitting on the couches and mismatched chairs that filled the back half of the room. Nobody seemed to notice the kid in the tuxedo and the dark-haired girl in the dress hunched together in the corner over a burning red candle.
"Did you hear what I just said?" I asked.
"Be silent." Gobi flattened the bloodstained pages that I'd gotten from Morozov across the wooden table in front of her, concentrating on what was printed there.
"Morozov said you died three years ago. He said somebody cut your throat. That's why the old man freaked out when you told him your name, right? He was looking at a ghost."
"Lower your voice."
"What's going on here?"
She drew in a breath and looked up at me. "Why does it matter?"
"What?"
"All you want to do is survive the night. Get away from me and never see me again. What does it matter to you what I am?"
"Because—" I didn't know how to finish.
"Believe me, Perry. The less that you know about me, the better."
"Yeah," I said. "I used to think that too. But now I'm thinking knowledge is power."
"Then you are wrong."
"What really happened to Gobija Zaksauskas?"
"You are looking at her."
"I don't believe in spooks," I said, amazed at how much effort it took to get those words out. Even after all we'd been through, I half expected her to give me a look like I'd gone crazy, or even laugh in my face.
But she didn't do either of those things. Instead she reached across the table and took my hand, placing it on the side of her neck alongside the scar so that I could feel her pulse. Her skin was soft and pliant, almost hot to the touch. I could feel the blood tracing through her veins and felt her eyes on mine. It was like she saw something in me that I didn't see, wouldn't see
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