Grazing idly, another straggler. Pick on the weak one.
“Let me know what the Bureau says.”
It was only after they’d both gone and he was alone in the parking lot that it hit him, a lurch in his stomach that felt like nausea. Is this how Danny had felt after one of his deliveries? He saw Kaltenbach sweating at the hearing table in his shabby suit, asking someone at his side to translate, his eyes frightened, his nightmare finally coming true, what he had managed to escape. No, Germany would have been worse—he would have been killed, or left to rot in a camp. Here they would just hollow him out, use him to snatch someone else. But what was the alternative? Ben had been in Berlin. He had no illusions about Russians, the first wave of rapists and thugs now replaced by a grim occupation, the next thousand-year Reich. Nobody could want that, not by choice. And yet there would be pockets of privilege. A prized pawn trapped on the board, but not thrown away. He thought of Kaltenbach at the cemetery, spontaneous tears on his cheeks, mourning the man who had saved him, got him out. But the war, the heroic stories were over. What would Danny do now?
Kaltenbach lived a few blocks off Fairfax, walking distance from Canter’s, where his landlady used to work before she’d brought her sick mother over from Boyle Heights to nurse full time. Kaltenbach had the room now, with a ground floor window that looked out on a magnolia tree and a patch of lawn that needed cutting. Ben drove by, struck again by the Sunday stillness of Los Angeles, as quiet as one of those ancient cities where everyone had vanished, leaving their pottery. He had come to see Heinrich, driving fast, but now that he was here, what could he say? Call your lawyer?
The blinds were drawn, perhaps for a nap after the early drive down the mountain. Or maybe he’d been restless, gone over to Fairfax for a whitefish salad and coffee with other Heinrichs. Then there would be the rest of the day to get through. Ben stopped the car, then suddenly didn’t have the heart to go in. How could he explain? I know this because I’ve been informing on you? And then Minot would know. Who else could have warned him? Is this what it had been like for Danny, a balancing act, hiding from both sides? Anyway, in a day or so it wouldn’t matter. He’d be stuck. Ben looked again at the quiet house. They couldn’t serve the subpoena if he wasn’t there. The only thing to do now was buy time. Liesl could take him home—an insistent invitation, no need to explain anything, until they figured out what to do.
He drove back to the Cherokee, stopping for lights without noticing, and parked behind. Nothing in the mailbox behind the little holes. But why would there be? Sunday. And maybe he’d already taken the last piece that would ever come. The new Joel looked at him, indifferent, and nodded when he got in the elevator.
He opened the door with his key, eyes already fixed on the phone table. He heard it first, a soft whoosh, then the back of his head exploded with a lightning pain, jagged, so fast there was no time to know what was happening. A pulsing afterimage, like staring into a flashbulb, darkening, then another pain, a crack as his knees hit the floor and he realized he was falling. He put his hands out to break the fall but couldn’t find them, off somewhere to his side as his face met the floor, a louder thump, then nothing at all.
Everything was still dark when he felt the animal pawing at him, brushing his clothes aside to get at his chest. Not paws, hands, pulling at his jacket, digging into the pockets, still too dark to see, now at his collar, dragging him. Back to some den. He felt his head scrape on the ground, then a welling, slick, and he knew the blood would excite the animal but couldn’t stop it, everything beyond his control.
A change in the air, like a window being opened, a banging as a door hit the wall and even in the dark he knew it was the French window, the black now just a dimness, being pulled again, out toward the air, the balcony, and he tried to open his eyes, panicking, because he knew, not a dream, that he had become Danny. Dragged out to the balcony, heaved over like a laundry sack. His head was throbbing, a toothache pain. They were in the open air now, the animal wearing a hat, not an animal, still dragging him, another yank at his jacket, panting, almost at the rail. And then they were there, the man grunting as he heaved, turning Ben over, grabbing under his arms, about to lift. And Ben already knew what the next second would be, pitched over the Juliet balcony, no scream, jumpers don’t scream, and then the crash of garbage cans, Danny, him, a loop.
His eyes still wouldn’t open, just slits taking in gray outlines, the man bending forward to secure his grip. In the movies, Ben would leap up now in a violent struggle, but instead he’d become an animal, prey being dragged to the feeding place. He still couldn’t find his hands. No time left. Then the man’s grip slipped, Ben’s head falling again, and as the man reached to grab him, a better angle, Ben turned his head, a move of pure instinct, the effort dizzying, and opened his mouth, teeth connecting with flesh, biting hard on the man’s ankle. The howl must have been more surprise than pain, something dead come back to life, but it startled Ben’s eyes open, the world fuzzy but there, and as the man jerked his foot away, Ben’s hands came up, back now, too, and he held the leg and bit again, the man staggering as he tried to pull it away, no longer pitched forward toward Ben’s shoulders, his hands springing back, grabbing onto the French window, then using the other foot to kick, crunching Ben’s chest, lunging for him again. There was a shout from somewhere, enough to make the man hesitate for a second before he hammered his fist into Ben’s back, a squashing slam that forced Ben’s face tighter against his leg, making the man twist free, away from the window now, the fulcrum of his weight flung backward so that Ben felt the pull of the leg moving and let it go, feeling it hit his face then flying free, following the body, turning as the man reached for the rail, then kept going, into the loud scream that filled the alley, the noise Danny hadn’t made, and then was swallowed up by the crash, lids clanging, cans rolling away from the impact of the body. Ben grabbed the balcony edge and pulled himself up, just enough to look over, to see the police photos again, the pool of blood spreading from the man’s head, but in color this time, dark red, the body splayed out at odd angles, the chalk mark outline where Ben was supposed to have been. He stared at it for a second, nobody he recognized, then heard a window open, a gasp, more windows, the faint sound of a radio, the desk clerk rushing out and looking up at Ben holding on to his balcony, the loop Ben already knew. Soon the ambulance, the crime scene photographers, maybe even Riordan losing himself in the crowd. He lowered his head from the railing, putting his hands in front of him to get up, but couldn’t move, falling instead down an elevator shaft until it was dark again.