The Art of Arrow Cutting Read online

  “Oh, damn; I’m sorry. There’s one—a laundromat, I mean—on North Street.”

  “It’s okay. Tomorrow morning’ll be fine. And I’ll get that stuff for the spaghetti.” He stepped into the bathroom and turned around. “And while we’re on the subject, hadn’t you better get dressed too?” He shut the door on her reply. Quickly.

  4

  Kirisutegomen

  Morning came, and hid behind the clouds. Mage awoke after nine, rose slowly, dressed hastily, and began sorting through his clothes. The key that Amanda had given him fell from the pocket of his jeans; he picked it up and looked at it for a moment. It was shiny and seemed fairly new, with the Volkswagen-shaped head of a Lockwood but without a brand name. Obviously a copy. A letter “A” was stamped crookedly on one face; the other face was blank.

  The thong looked less like leather than like plaited hair—dark hair, not the girl’s blond—and it certainly didn’t smell like leather, though it didn’t exactly smell like hair either. He stood there for a moment remembering the cool, strangely flat scent of Amanda’s hair … then shrugged and stuffed the key in the pocket of his jacket with his coins.

  The laundromat was at 37 North Street, and Mage walked past the small apartment building at 44 North without particularly noticing it. It was only after he had bundled his clothes into the washer and reached into his pocket for coins that he found Amanda’s key and realized where he was. He glanced around the room and frowned. The machine had a fifteen-minute cycle, the laundromat was chilly, and the plastic-seated chairs, with their uneven metal legs, looked far less comfortable than a Greyhound seat. The antique fluorescent tubes flickered arrhythmically like something out of Alien, making reading impossible, and there was no one else around to talk to (Mage had never actually picked up anyone in a laundromat, nor did he know anyone who had, but he lived in hope). Besides, Amanda might have left the fixings for a cup of coffee. He dropped the coins in the slot and ambled across the windy street without looking back.

  As soon as he fit the key in the lock, he sensed that someone else—not Amanda—had been there recently, though he couldn’t have said how he knew. The apartment was even colder than the laundromat had been, and switching the light on only made everything a more dismal shade of gray. The place was tidy, mainly because it was so empty; the only thing that seemed remotely worth stealing—an old portable black-and-white TV—still stared cycloptically at a slightly threadbare sofa and matching chairs, a standard floor lamp now visibly substandard, a recently re-re-re-painted dining-room suite, and a small, empty bookshelf. No pictures on the wall, no hints of personality. How could anyone, even a student, bear to live like this?

  Cautiously he closed the door behind him, removed his gloves and placed his camera case on the bookshelf. A glass, a cup and saucer stood in the kitchen sink. He opened the small fridge and peered in at a half-empty container of blueberry yogurt (a cautious sniff suggested that it was only a few days old), a tub of margarine, a small wedge of Camembert cheese, two eggs, and three slightly limp carrots. The freezer compartment was empty except for a tray of ice cubes and a thick layer of frost. The motor muttered when he closed the door. The pantry contained a box of tea bags, three-quarters full.

  There were two other doors leading out of the room; the first he opened led to the bathroom. There was a cake of Ivory soap in the shower, only slightly worn, and the rings from shampoo and conditioner bottles, no longer there. The cabinet was bare and the laundry hamper empty.

  The bedroom contained a slightly sagging double bed, an empty bureau, and a closet that hid only a dozen wire coat hangers. There was a large box of tissues on the bureau, but nothing that was identifiably hers, no books or photographs, nothing beautiful or meaningful, nothing to return to. As though she’d come here with nothing but that handbag and left with the same, without time to impress her personality on the room at all. As though it were a cheap motel, or a set in a bad TV series. As though she didn’t have anything of her own.

  He shuddered and walked into the bathroom again, looking in the sink and the shower drain. Not a single hair.

  He sat on the toilet and pondered. Even if someone had raided the place last night—and he realized suddenly where that impression had come from: small objects that had been put back slightly out of true with their dust shadows—nothing had been taken. If there had been anything to take, Amanda had taken it herself. Wondering what “it” might be, he returned to the living room, donned his gloves, shouldered his camera case and walked out. He was still musing as he crossed the road without looking, and he didn’t notice Packer staring at him from inside the phone booth outside 41 North Street.

  Mage dumped his damp clothes into the spin-dryer and was fumbling in his pocket for some change when he heard the door open and close behind him. He turned around to see a thick-featured, middle-aged man reaching into his war-surplus greatcoat.

  “Hi.”

  Packer smiled slightly and drew his MAC-11. Mage stared at it and swallowed, then stared down at his own left hand as though it belonged to someone else. He swallowed again and this time found some of his voice. “Uh … it’s okay,” he croaked quietly. “I don’t have a … what do you want? If it’s money, I’m sorry, but you’ve got the wrong person. I’ve just got enough for the—”

  “Where is she?”

  “—dryer and—Who?” He’d seen photos of Carol’s ex; this definitely wasn’t him.

  “The blonde. The one whose apartment you just left.”

  “The …” He inhaled raggedly, nervously, and began again. “Who’re you? Her father?” There was no discernible family resemblance, but he looked to be the right age, and Mage had known several pretty girls with uglier parents.

  “Never mind that. Where is she?”

  The washing machine clunked suddenly, changing its cycle, and Mage jumped, nearly losing control of his bladder. “I don’t know.”

  “What were you doing in the apartment?”

  “Nothing. She gave me the key. I wanted to see if she’d come back.”

  “So she’s coming back, is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Packer grunted. “You her boyfriend?”

  “Me? No! I just lent her some money …”

  “When?”

  “Yes … no, day before yesterday. What was that?”

  “Tuesday.”

  He nodded. “Whatever you say.”

  Packer scratched his chin with his left hand; the gun, in his right, barely wavered. “So if she’s coming back, she must’ve gone somewhere first, right? So where?”

  “She caught a Greyhound, said she was going to Calgary.”

  “You’re lying,” said Packer flatly. “I already checked that.”

  “Well, that’s what she told me. I saw her get on the bus and it was headed for Calgary, but I don’t know where she went from there. For real, I don’t know.”

  Mage stared at the gun, at the long magazine and the thick suppressor, vaguely recognizing it as an Ingram. What was that riddle? “How do you hit something with an Ingram at more than ten feet? You throw the damn thing overarm.” Unfortunately, the muzzle was barely a yard away, no one could miss at that range. He realized that he’d answered all the questions and that now the guy would shoot him. What if it jammed? he fantasized. Machine-pistols were notorious for jamming, weren’t they? His left hand, in his jacket pocket, clenched until he felt his nails bite into his palm, felt the jagged edge of the apartment key between his middle and ring fingers. If it jammed, he might—

  Packer pulled the trigger. There was a cl- as the gun jammed on the first round.

  They stared at each other for nearly half a second. Then Mage grabbed the strap of his camera case with his right hand and swung it like a flail. It hit the machine-pistol squarely, sending it flying from Packer’s hand and over his shoulder until the sling arrested its flight and brought it back, hitting the gunman in the ass. Mage swung the camera case in as tight a circle as possible, twisting
the strap around his wrist, and struck Packer in the temple with an audible crack. Packer fell heavily against the washing machines and slid to the floor.

  Mage stared at the body until he noticed—with relief, heavily tainted by sheer panic—that the gunman still seemed to be breathing. Acting without conscious choice, his left hand unclenched and reached behind him to open the dryer door and remove the damp clothes. He snapped back to reality when his hand encountered warm, soggy denim, but he didn’t take his eyes from Packer.

  His choices were few, and it didn’t take long to review them. He collected his clothes hastily, took out his camera and flash for a few photographs of Packer (if his murdered body was ever found anywhere, he reasoned, at least the cops would know who to look for), leaped over the unconscious gunman and ran down North Street.

  When he arrived at Carol’s, it was five past ten. He barely had time to stuff the bags of damp clothes into his pack, gather whatever else he had and shut the door on his way out. He had decided that his only hope was to catch the 10:20 Greyhound to Calgary to try to find Amanda. If he found her, he could warn her, or ask her what was happening; if she’d lied but the gunman had spoken the truth, then Calgary would probably be the last place the mysterious “they” would look for him.

  That a mysterious “they” was involved, and that the gunman was a mere employee, Mage had no doubt. Someone with a personal stake wouldn’t have called Amanda “the blonde.”

  He arrived at the Greyhound station three minutes before the bus was due to leave and waved his ticket at the driver. There was no sign of the gunman.

  5

  The Hunter

  The Greyhound was less than half full, and Mage curled himself into a double seat, hiding his face behind a copy of Zoom. He stared surreptitiously over the magazine at his fellow passengers, none of whom seemed to be carrying a concealed gun. Then, as soon as Totem Rock had dwindled to nothingness behind him, he closed his eyes, fighting to shut out the morning. At the first rest stop, he bought new batteries for his Walkman and phoned Carol.

  “Hi. It’s Mage. I …”

  “Where are you?” She sounded resigned, ready to disbelieve whatever she heard.

  “Ah … Swift Current, I think, wherever that is.”

  “I got back and saw your pack was gone. I thought we’d been robbed—”

  Mage noticed the “we” and shoved it to the back of his mind. “You may be yet. There’s some maniac in town with an Ingram, a machine gun—”

  “I know what an Ingram is,” she said dryly. “Who?”

  “No one I’ve ever met. Short brown hair, little reddish mustache, big face, small mouth. Sunglasses, gray trenchcoat, combat boots. Late thirties, I guess — I’m no good at men’s ages — height about five ten, and one-eighty pounds.”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar. What happened?”

  “He cornered me in the laundromat and grilled me. Would’ve shot me too, but his gun jammed. I … I knocked him out, believe it or not, and ran. Look, I know this sounds incredible—”

  “Uh-huh,” she agreed. “Did you call the sheriff or anyone … or are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “I didn’t think I was, but I sure as hell am now. No, I didn’t call the sheriff, I didn’t have time, and for all I knew, this guy was the sheriff.”

  “With a submachine gun? Where did you think you were, L.A.?”

  “Look, I was too scared to be logical.” The idea of voluntarily talking to a cop hadn’t occurred to him until the bus was well out of town and he’d had time to recover some semblance of calm, and after a moment’s rational thought, he’d rejected it. Even if the cops could protect Amanda, he’d decided, she might have her own reasons for not wanting them to find her.

  Carol sighed. “Sounds like a guilty conscience to me. Whose daughter did you knock up?”

  “Ha, ha. I …” He paused and thought. “I helped a fugitive, maybe. What d’they call that? ‘Aiding and abetting’?”

  “What?”

  “Look, it’s just a guess; that’s all I can do at present. I don’t know what’s happening, but maybe if I can find her, she can tell me—”

  “She? Oh, never mind. I’ll call the sheriff, but I don’t know where you are, right?”

  “You don’t know where I am! Jesus, I don’t know where I am! Look, everyone’s getting back on the bus; I’d better go. I’ll come back when I can. Promise. Ciao.”

  He walked back to the bus, folded himself into his seat and listened to his Walkman, trying hard to relax. He traded cassettes with the twins in the seats behind him, then talked with one while the other dozed. They lived with their mother in Regina and were going to Calgary to visit their father. They were freshly sixteen and still innocence and baby fat, flirting like kittens playing with a ball. No makeup, no bras, no visible scars. The sleeper was Susan; the talker, Georgia. Mage would never see them again, and he forgot their names within a week—but he remembered their faces, and thousands of others, for the rest of his life.

  I’m sorry, but Miss Sharmon checked out yesterday morning.”

  Mage refrained from swearing, with difficulty. He’d had to catch a bus and a train from the Greyhound station to the youth hostel, then walk nine blocks from the hostel to the hospital. He was tired and hungry, his legs and shoulders ached, and the adrenaline surge that comes with being shot at had dissipated hours before.

  “Yesterday,” he guessed, meant an overnight stay, presumably tests of some sort, but he knew that nurses didn’t give medical information away, and this one didn’t seem readily susceptible to charm. She was a fortyish, muscular, square-featured redhead who looked as though she should’ve had an Irish brogue but spoke instead with a hint of Quebecois accent and arrogance. He tried his best smile nonetheless and asked, “Did she say where she was going?”

  “Are you a relative?”

  So much for his best smile. He looked at the nurse’s face carefully and saw the answer she had ready, saw the trap. “No. She doesn’t have any relatives.”

  The nurse’s face fell, very slightly: bull’s-eye. “I’m sorry …” she lied. “We only give that sort of information to next of kin. If you were married—”

  “How about engaged?”

  “Are you?” she asked flatly.

  “No, not really. I just thought she might have mentioned me.”

  “Well …” She glanced at the computer screen and shook her head. “There’s no next of kin listed. If she’d put your name down … what is your name, please?”

  “Magistrale. Michelangelo Magistrale. Middle initial G. Has anyone else come looking for her?”

  “Not while I’ve been here, and there’s nothing in her file.”

  “Can you tell me when she’s coming back, then? Please?”

  “No.” But she glanced at the VDU, inadvertently telling Mage that Amanda was scheduled to come back sometime. But that wasn’t enough to work with. “Sometime” could be up to a year away, and Mage rarely knew where he was sleeping more than a month in advance.

  “Thanks.” He was thinking furiously as he left the hospital and so didn’t notice the tobacco-brown Toyota parked outside the entrance, or see the Japanese-looking man in the back seat with a Fujica camera.

  “Was that him?” asked the driver, watching his passenger carefully in the rearview mirror. Yukitaka Hideo nodded. “Do we follow him, then?”

  “No need, I think.” The city catered well enough to pedestrians, but its malls and one-way streets made it a nightmare for drivers. “Go to Seventh Avenue and we’ll see if he turns up at the youth hostel.”

  The driver was about to ask, “And what if he doesn’t?” but decided against it. Yukitaka was rumored to be more than Tamenaga’s bodyguard: there were many who called him Tamenaga’s left hand. Tamenaga was the only human who knew just how true that was.

  Mage was sitting in the hostel’s laundry, listening to his Walkman and watching his slightly musty clothes tumble around in the drier, when the door opened. He jumpe
d, reaching for his camera case, then relaxed. “Hi.”

  The girl—he recognized her as the warden’s assistant, probably her daughter—was giggling too much to speak, so he continued. “Sorry, I was miles away. Is the place always this quiet?”

  “Well, our busy season’s in July, around stampede.”

  “July isn’t much of a season.”

  “It’s that or wait for another Winter Olympics. I mean, I like it here but you’re right, it is sort of quiet. Where’re you from?”

  “New York,” he replied, “once upon a time.”

  She shook her head disbelievingly. “So what’re you doing here?”

  “Looking for a friend.”

  “Anybody in particular?”

  He grinned. “Yeah. Maybe she’s been here. She didn’t have much money last time I saw her. Her name’s Amanda Sharmon. Blond, good-looking, about five-seven …”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells, an’ it’s a strange name. I think I’d remember’t.”

  “Could you look it up? Please?”

  She looked at him warily, then nodded. “Okay. You booked for dinner, didn’t you?”

  “Yes … oh, damn, is—”

  “It’s ready. That’s why I came looking for you; don’t flatter yourself. Come on.”

  Why’s it so important you find this girl?”

  “What?” Mage glanced up from the register and blinked.

  “Why’re you looking for her?”

  He thought quickly. “She’s sick.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’ve you got, AIDS or something?”

  “Me? Hell, no.”

  The girl nodded suspiciously. “This is all so much bullshit, isn’t it?”

  “Well …” He held his hand up to the bottom of his sternum. “Maybe so much.”

  She snorted. “I knew it. If she’s sick, why aren’t you looking at the hospital?”