29.

By the time I get back to Mark Ray’s apartment, there is a body, and a wet swamp of blood, and Mark’s there, and he is crying.

I’m sorry. I should have been here. I’m sorry.

Hands me the note.

A kid’s scrawl. Thumbprints in blood like lipstick kisses in the margins.

You said you would protect me.

Persephone’s gone.

We lock the front door behind us and figure we’ve got at least three days until someone reports the stink.

Speaking of three days and stink, Harrow’s Crusade is rolling into town.

In three days.

Ready or not.

Back in Hoboken, I read about Rick in the Post.

Body in a dumpster.

Tattoos closed the case.

GANGLAND SPRAY SLAY.

The Post really needs to find a new synonym.

Mark Ray doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t curse, but right now, on my sofa, he’s drinking, smoking, and cursing.

The smoking’s not going so well. He gets through two puffs. Rick’s brand. In memoriam.

These are fucking gross.

Stubs it out.

Pardon my language.

Swigs a beer. Holds it up to the light.

So people throw away their whole lives just for this?

It’s an acquired taste.

Mark puts the bottle down.

Okay. What now, mastermind?

You’re the mastermind, Mark. I’m the muscle.

Well, we have to find her. That’s first.

Is it? What for? We haven’t exactly done a bang-up job on her behalf so far.

Are you kidding? You saved her.

The only person I really saved her from so far is me. Everyone else, not so much.

Mark stands up. Paces. Hard to imagine how he ever lies still in a bed. He turns to me.

So what then? That’s it?

No. Like you said. Three true outcomes.

Okay. Well. Giving her to them is not an option anymore. Not that it was.

No, it wasn’t.

So that’s out. And without her, we have no prayer of luring Harrow into the dream. Which is fine, because without Rick, we have no prayer of crashing their construct in any case. Unless you know of someone else who you trust who can pull that kind of thing off.

Not offhand.

So that part’s out. Which also means I’m more or less useless to you now, because if it comes down to a street fight out here, in the nuts and bolts, realistically, you’re on your own.

Seems so.

And I don’t know what you may have in mind, but I can’t see a way for you to pull this off cleanly by yourself.

Me neither.

So there you go. There aren’t three outcomes anymore, Spademan. Only two. Maybe not even two. Just one.

Which is?

He kills you. He kills her. He kills us all.

That’s a terrible outcome.

No kidding.

Mark slumps back on the leather sofa. Knees bobbing. Can’t sit still. I can tell he wants badly to puzzle this out. I can also tell he can barely wait to tap back in and be rid of this puzzling world. But he won’t abandon me. I like him for that. He also doesn’t have his answer yet.

But I do. So I tell him.

You’re wrong, Mark. There are still three outcomes.

Really? Are you planning on sharing them with me?

Yes. Three outcomes. He kills me. I kill him. Or both.

Mark stares me down. Silent for a moment. Then scoffs.

Sure. Back to the kamikaze plan. Brilliant.

You said yourself, no way we get close enough to Harrow out here and still get out alive.

Yes, but you’re missing the most important part of that statement, which is the getting-out-alive part.

You and I both know she’s out there right now, running. Alone. Thanks to us. Thanks to me. And Harrow won’t stop until he finds her, Mark. You know that. Which he will.

Spademan, stop it. It’s suicide.

I shrug.

You have a better idea?

Come on. It’s not an option.

It was for you.

Here’s the part I can’t explain to Mark.

It’s been a long time since I needed to do something.

I’ve done a lot of things, but not out of need.

And I’ve learned there are a lot of ways, and ugly places, where things can end.

Backyards. Garbage bags. Subway trains.

Most people don’t get to choose.

We don’t discuss it further. Watch football instead.

While Mark works on acquiring a taste for beer.

Overtime. Fumble.

Miami scores.

I flip the channel.

Fucking Jets.

Another note.

This one hand-delivered.

Slides under the door like a base-runner stealing home.

By the time I get the door open, hallway’s empty.

They just want us to know that they know.

Note’s from Milgram.

I believe I mentioned we’d be getting back in touch.