useful when I need something done I can’t supervise myself.”
Jack found what he was looking for in the drawer with the gloves, stuffed in the very back; a canvas shopping bag. He went over to the fridge, opened the freezer door, and start rummaging through the contents.
He dumped several blocks of frozen tofu, the contents of two ice cube trays and a bag of frozen peas in the bag, then tied it in a knot. Swung by the handles, it would make a halfway decent club. He pressed the cold bag against the burns on the inside of his leg; it helped a little, but his other injuries were still intensely uncomfortable. The bases of his ears where he’d removed his earlobes radiated pain with a steady, pulsing frequency.
“I’m actually glad you’re here,” Remote said. “I don’t blame you for the deception—after all, what sort of ally would I be if I were so easily caught?”
“Good question. I suppose you could say the same about me.” Jack got a firm grip on his improvised weapon and peered into the hall. Empty. No more than ten minutes had passed since he’d woken up in the wheelchair, which meant he had maybe another fifty left before the benzodiazepine kicked in again and he passed out.
“But who has caught whom, Closer?” Remote’s voice was intent, excited. “That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is.”
“Outstanding. Let’s see how we both do . . .”
P ART T WO: M ECHANISM
The machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply into them. –Saint-Exupéry, Wind, Sand, and Stars , 1939
C HAPTER T EN
People started calling Gordy Mason “Goliath” when he was still in grade school. He was always big for his age, and he used that size to get what he wanted; he was a born bully, and by the time he dropped out of high school and got his first bike he pretty much knew what he wanted out of life and how to get it. He lived in a blur of drugs, violence, sex, and speed, and figured he’d be dead before he hit thirty.
Despite that, he wasn’t stupid. Cruel, selfish, reckless and quick-tempered, yes—but his brain, even after decades of drug and alcohol abuse, still worked pretty well. Goliath even understood the basic principle of evolution: the weak died and the strong got to pass on their genes. So far nothing Goliath had encountered had managed to kill him, and he had at least four illegitimate kids by four different women. He figured that meant he had to be pretty damn evolved.
He was more than just a killer; he was a survivor. He’d wrecked his bike three times and walked away twice--the third time had given him fourteen broken bones and a lingering addiction to painkillers, but he still rode and could kick the shit out of most guys half his age. He’d done a few stretches behind bars, but never went away for anything serious. He was too smart for that.
And if there was one thing he’d learned how to do in stir, it was scope out a situation.
He’d shanked three guys in prison, killing two and putting one in intensive care. He’d gotten away with it every time, never spent so much as a day in solitary—not for the murders, anyway. He knew how to lay low when he had to, when to use his size to make people think he was slow and thick. Being tough had nothing to do with how much pain you could cause, it had to do with how much pain you could take. Goliath’s initiation, back when he was eighteen, involved six bikers pounding on him in a parking lot for five minutes with their fists and feet; when they were done he’d stood up, walked back into the bar and bought them all a drink.
He was closer to forty than thirty now, and had no intention of dying anytime soon. Not without taking somebody else with him, anyway.
He still couldn’t believe he’d been taken like a rank fucking amateur. Guy must have slipped something in his drink—last thing he
Jack found what he was looking for in the drawer with the gloves, stuffed in the very back; a canvas shopping bag. He went over to the fridge, opened the freezer door, and start rummaging through the contents.
He dumped several blocks of frozen tofu, the contents of two ice cube trays and a bag of frozen peas in the bag, then tied it in a knot. Swung by the handles, it would make a halfway decent club. He pressed the cold bag against the burns on the inside of his leg; it helped a little, but his other injuries were still intensely uncomfortable. The bases of his ears where he’d removed his earlobes radiated pain with a steady, pulsing frequency.
“I’m actually glad you’re here,” Remote said. “I don’t blame you for the deception—after all, what sort of ally would I be if I were so easily caught?”
“Good question. I suppose you could say the same about me.” Jack got a firm grip on his improvised weapon and peered into the hall. Empty. No more than ten minutes had passed since he’d woken up in the wheelchair, which meant he had maybe another fifty left before the benzodiazepine kicked in again and he passed out.
“But who has caught whom, Closer?” Remote’s voice was intent, excited. “That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is.”
“Outstanding. Let’s see how we both do . . .”
P ART T WO: M ECHANISM
The machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply into them. –Saint-Exupéry, Wind, Sand, and Stars , 1939
C HAPTER T EN
People started calling Gordy Mason “Goliath” when he was still in grade school. He was always big for his age, and he used that size to get what he wanted; he was a born bully, and by the time he dropped out of high school and got his first bike he pretty much knew what he wanted out of life and how to get it. He lived in a blur of drugs, violence, sex, and speed, and figured he’d be dead before he hit thirty.
Despite that, he wasn’t stupid. Cruel, selfish, reckless and quick-tempered, yes—but his brain, even after decades of drug and alcohol abuse, still worked pretty well. Goliath even understood the basic principle of evolution: the weak died and the strong got to pass on their genes. So far nothing Goliath had encountered had managed to kill him, and he had at least four illegitimate kids by four different women. He figured that meant he had to be pretty damn evolved.
He was more than just a killer; he was a survivor. He’d wrecked his bike three times and walked away twice--the third time had given him fourteen broken bones and a lingering addiction to painkillers, but he still rode and could kick the shit out of most guys half his age. He’d done a few stretches behind bars, but never went away for anything serious. He was too smart for that.
And if there was one thing he’d learned how to do in stir, it was scope out a situation.
He’d shanked three guys in prison, killing two and putting one in intensive care. He’d gotten away with it every time, never spent so much as a day in solitary—not for the murders, anyway. He knew how to lay low when he had to, when to use his size to make people think he was slow and thick. Being tough had nothing to do with how much pain you could cause, it had to do with how much pain you could take. Goliath’s initiation, back when he was eighteen, involved six bikers pounding on him in a parking lot for five minutes with their fists and feet; when they were done he’d stood up, walked back into the bar and bought them all a drink.
He was closer to forty than thirty now, and had no intention of dying anytime soon. Not without taking somebody else with him, anyway.
He still couldn’t believe he’d been taken like a rank fucking amateur. Guy must have slipped something in his drink—last thing he
Similar Books
