Dead Harvest

  Turns out, I didn't have to wait long. Maybe a half a cigarette after I'd assumed my post, I saw the kid's head duck around the corner of the alley. He was a cautious one, I'd give him that – he stuck to the shadows, his tattered, down jacket pressed tight to the dingy alley wall. He paused there a moment until he was sure there was no sign of me, and then he trotted over to the picnic table, circling it a time or two as though unsure what to make of it.

  "Come on, you son of a bitch," I muttered, "take the bait."

  After what seemed like forever, he did. I watched him scamper up the ladder, haul himself up onto the first landing, and continue on up the stairs toward the roof and out of sight.

  It occurred to me then that I could run – just head out the way I came, and be rid of this tail, maybe for good. But I needed answers, and running wasn't going to get them for me. So instead, I forced myself to sit and finish my cigarette, allowing him ample time to reach the roof, and then, stubbing out the butt on the heel of my SWAT-issue boot, I slipped out the door and followed.

The pebbled roof bit into my tender stocking feet as I slinked across it, ceramic shard in hand. My boots were tied together at the laces and draped across one shoulder; I'd taken them off so I could ascend the fire escape unheard. But six stories of rusting waffled iron had bit into my soles and left me raw and hobbling, and now the kid was nowhere to be seen.

  The rooftop was dotted with massive air conditioning units, and the odd pyramidal structure that housed the stairwell entrance jutted upward from the center of the building, blocking my view of the roof beyond. I clung tight to one of the air conditioners and crept toward the edge, painfully aware that, should I suddenly have to run, my chances were nil. The best laid plans and all that, I guess.

  I wheeled around the corner of the AC unit, shard at the ready, but there was no one there. I approached the next, and crouched behind it, wary of remaining too exposed. Slowly, I circled, the seconds stretching on for hours it seemed, but again I came up empty.

  Ahead lay the shed that allowed access to the stairwell. The roof behind me was hidden from sight by the hulking mass of the air conditioners. I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding, and approached the stairwell door.

  It was locked, as I'd expected, which meant he had to be beyond the shed. I crept around it, my thumb stroking the smooth surface of the ceramic shard for reassurance. My foot came down on something hard and sharp – a bottle cap, left over from some rooftop party, no doubt – and I stumbled forward. It was then that I saw him: leaning over the edge of the building, a hand on the handrail that curved upward over the low stone wall and provided access to the fire escape below. This fire escape was street-side, opposite the one we'd come up on – he must've assumed I fled down it, eager to be rid of my irksome little companion. But I had other plans. I stepped clear of my hiding place and strode toward him, the cat-shard brandished before me like a knife.

  "Lose something?" I said.

  The kid spun around, eyes wide with fright. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He tried to back away, but his thighs connected with the rooftop wall – had he not been holding the rail of the ladder in a vise-grip, he would have surely gone over.

  "Who are you?" I asked. "Why are you following me? Are you one of them?"

  Still, he said nothing.

  I stepped closer, shard held at ready. "One way or another, you will answer me."

  Again I stepped toward him. He flinched but held his ground. Then my head snapped back as someone behind me grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked. I staggered backward. The tender flesh of my neck dimpled as a knife blade pressed tight against my windpipe.

  "Easy, pal," said a voice into my ear, "the kid's with me."

15.

The hand yanked my head back. I struggled in vain against it. Knife parted flesh, and blood, warm and slick, dribbled down my neck.

  "Stop fighting," said the voice. "I'll kill you if I have to."

  I fought against the panic and stopped struggling. Instead I reached out with my mind toward my assailant's – probing, searching. If it was human, I could grab a hold, try to get it to release this body, and be back inside my policeman-suit before its owner got three steps. The only snag to that plan was this possession stuff is a little unpredictable – I had no way of knowing whether Stabby here was gonna clench up and dispatch my little cop-friend before I got a chance to play the hero. Between the real Wai-Sun, and the replacement I'd dispatched, I was pretty sure I'd already seen enough death for one day.

  Turns out, fate had other plans. As I grazed his mind with mine, my assailant flinched as if stung. The knife clattered to the rooftop, and he released his grip on my hair. I wheeled on him, my face a tug-of-war of confused and surprised.

  "Anders?"