The shock, ran up through his spine and exploded in fireworks in his head. His vision blurred.
Not yet. Not yet . He'd do a deal with this fucking headache; it could make him throw up, or even faint, once he was all the way downor even on any of the bottom three steps. But not here. Not here .
Another three steps down. He tried just stepping down the mere twenty-eight inches or so. That was better. But the pain still jagged up his back to his skull and exited through the crack in his skull on the right side every time he dropped the other leg and foot. And it was harder to keep his balance that way with his arms behind him. The overly tight flexcuffs had long since cut off circulation to his wrists and hands, and now his forearms were going numb, with a line of pain moving up above the pins and needles of numbness advancing like little forest creatures running from a forest fire.
What? Stay focused, Joe . He paused on the narrow concrete shelf, his toes hanging over, panting, sweat in his eyessweat he couldn't blink or rub awayand looked up the near-vertical ziggurat steps at the dark forms looking down at him. The Major wasn't there, but Colonel Trinh was. He wasn't smiling. The other Vietnamese men were. They were enjoying this, probably betting on when he'd fall. Trinh looked like he was enjoying it as well, just too much so to smile.
Stay focused . The cliffside here on either side of the steps was slippery limestone with some granite mixed ina steep mish-mash of slabs and dirt, with some lichen and low plants and the occasional scrub oak. But getting off the steps would be suicide here; even if his hands were free and circulation flowing, it would take a mountain climber to deal with that slippery slope.
Kurtz hopped down another step, waited for the fireworks to quit going off behind his eyes, and dropped another.
I don't think Dr. Singh would recommend this as therapy for the concussion .
Who was Dr. Singh ? Kurtz wondered dully. It was interesting how the headache pain flowed in like breakers along the surf, never stopping, never pausing, just rising and falling and then crashing down.
He dropped to another step, teetered, caught himself, stepped to the edge, and dropped to the next. Was it his imagination or were the horizontal parts of each step getting narrower? The backs of his heels scraped when he tried to put his feet down solidly, even with his toes hanging out over space. Kurtz had started down being glad that he'd worn his sneakers today, but now he wished he had his old combat boots on. His ankles felt splintered. His heels were already bloody.
He dropped again. Again. The sweat stung his eyes and burned in counterpoint to the real pain.
It can't get no worse ran a line from some old army song. Kurtz didn't believe that, of course. If life had taught him one thing, it was that things could always get worse.
It started to rain. Hard.
Kurtz's hair immediately matted to his head. He tasted the rain and realized that blood from his scalp wound was mixing in. He couldn't blink away the water in his eyes and on his lashes, so he paused on a step. He didn't know if he was halfway down, two-thirds the way down, or a fourth the way down. His head and neck hurt far too much for him to crane his neck to look up again. And he didn't want to look down anymore.
It can always get worse.
Lightning flashed so close he was blinded. The thunder almost knocked
him down. The world was filled with the stink of ozone. Kurtz's wet and bloody hair tried to rise off his head as the hillside around him glowed white from the blast.
Kurtz sat down heavily, his legs flying up. He was panting, disoriented, and so dizzy that he doubted if he could stand again without falling.
The rain pelted him like fists pounding his shoulders and neck. It was cold as hail fell and hurt his head. Cold as hail , he thought again, trying it out with a Texas accent Everything hurt his head. Why the fuck didn't that Yemeni kid aim better? Get it over with ? Only it hadn't been the Yemeni kid, had it? He'd already shot the Yemeni kid by then. Then someone else shot him, Kurtz knew. The someone else who had brought the Yemeni kid there to kill who? Peg O'Toole , he thought. Pretty Peg O'Toole, who just one year earlier had risked her job as PO to stand up for him, hell, to save his life, when a detective on the Farino's payroll had ramrodded him into county lockup on a bogus charge in preparation to send him back to prison where the D-block Mosque and a hundred other guys were waiting to get the bounty on him Focus, Joe .
Can't get no worse
The rain was coming down in a torrent and the hillside was turning into a thousand rivulets, but the main flood was pouring down this ziggurat stairway. The water struck Kurtz's shoulder blades and butt and threatened to wash him right off the step.
If I stand up, I'm screwed. If I keep sitting here, I'm screwed.
Kurtz stood up. The water flowed around and through his legs, geysering out in an almost comical jet Kurtz resisted the impulse to laugh.