He stepped down another step. His arms were completely dead to sensation now, just long sticks he was hauling down the hill with him like so much firewood on his back.
He dropped another step. Then another. He resisted the temptation to sit down again and let the waterfall carry him away. Maybe he'd just ride down on it like all the people in all the movies who leap a thousand feet off a cliff and then ride the rapids out of sight of the enemy, who shoot uselessly at them Focus, Joe .
They're going to kill her anyway. Rigby. No matter what I do or don't do, they're going to kill her with my gun and blame it on me. She may be dead already if that bullet even nicked an artery. Leg wounds that high hurt like hell until you go all cold and numb at the end.
He blinked away water and blood. It was hard to see the edge of each step now. Every step was a mini-Niagara, the concrete invisible under swirling water.
Malcolm Kibunte was the name of the drug dealer and killer he'd dangled over the edge of Niagara Palls one wintry night just under a year ago. He was just asking the gang leader a few questions. Kurtz had a rope on the manit was Kibunte who'd thought that his best chance was to drop the rope and swim for it right at the brink of North America's mightiest waterfall.
Joke him if he can't take a fuck , thought Kurtz. He stepped over the edge of this waterfall, dropped, fought the pain to stay conscious, teetered on the ever narrower step, found his balance against the flood, and stepped down again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
He finally fell. The step seemed to shift under him and Kurtz fell forward, unable to find the next step or throw himself backward.
So he leaped instead. He leaped out into space, legs as high as he could get them. Leaped away from the waterfall and into the rain. Mouth contorted in a silent scream, Joe Kurtz leaped.
And hit solid ground and crumpled forward, just twisting in time to keep from smashing his face on the wet asphalt. His shoulder struck instead, sending a blinding bolt of pain up the right side of his head.
He blinked, twisted around as he lay prone on the drive, and looked behind him. He'd been on the third or fourth step from the bottom when he'd fallen. The ziggurat stairway was invisible under the waterfall of water. The rain kept coming down hard and the flood washed around his torn sneakers, trying to push his body out along the asphalt.
"Get up," said Sheriff Gerey.
Kurtz tried.
"Grab an arm, Smitty," said the sheriff.
They grabbed Kurtz's unfeeling arms, hauled him to his feet, and half-dragged him to the sheriff's car parked there. The deputy held the rear door open.
"Watch your head," said the sheriff and then pressed Kurtz's head down with that move they'd all learned in cop school but also had seen in too many movies and TV shows. The man's fingers on Kurtz's bloody, battered skull hurt like hell and made him want to vomit, but he resisted the urge. He knew from experience that few things prompted cops to use their batons on your kidneys faster than puking in the backseats of their cars.
"Watch your head," the deputy repeated, and Kurtz finally had to laugh as they shoved him into the backseat of the cruiser.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
They'd given everything backexcept his.38when Sheriff Gerey had dumped him out at the Pinto where he and Rigby had left it down the hill from Cloud Nine. He even had the Ray Charles sunglasses back in his jacket pocket, which was good. If Kurtz was lucky enough to survive all this other shit, he didn't want Daddy Bruce killing him for losing the Man's sunglasses.
He fumbled, found the cell phone Gonzaga had given him, and keyed the only preset number.
"Yes?" It was Toma Gonzaga himself.
"We need to meet," said Kurtz. "Today."
"Have you finished the task?" asked Gonzaga. Not "job," but "task." This wasn't your average hoodlum .
"Yeah," said Kurtz. "More or less."
"More or less?" Kurtz could imagine the handsome mob boss's eyebrow rising.
"I have the information you need," said Kurtz, "but it won't do you any good unless we meet in the next couple of hours."
There was a pause. "I'm busy this afternoon. But later tonight"
"This afternoon or nothing," interrupted Kurtz. "You wait, you lose everything."
A shorter pause. "All right Come by my estate on Grand Island at"
"No. My office." Kurtz raised his wrist He'd strapped his watch back on as soon as his fingers had begun working again, but now his head hurt so much that he was having some trouble focusing his eyes. "It's just about three P.M. Be in my office at five."
"Who else will be there?"
"Just me and Angelina Farino Ferrara."
"I want some of my associates"
"Bring an army if you want," said Kurtz. "Just park them outside the door. The meeting will be just the three of us."
There was a long minute of silence, during which Kurtz concentrated on navigating the winding road. The few cars that passed going the opposite way had their headlights on and wipers pumping. Kurtz was driving faster than the rest of the traffic going north.