Flashback

“… and to escort you both to his quarters and make sure you’re comfortable,” finished the security man. Leonard noticed that this Gunny G. person’s face was a lunar-terrain map of subtle white scars under the permanent tan.

“When did my son-in-law talk to you about us?”

“This morning, sir. Before he left.”

“So he’s out right now?” Leonard said stupidly. If one of his students had responded this way, he would have put a tiny “n”—for “nullwit”—next to the student’s name in his attendance book, just to save time when the grading period came around.

Gunny G. nodded. “But Mr. Bottom said that he’d be back this afternoon or early evening and asked me personally to make sure you and your grandson were comfortable.”

“How did you recognize me?” asked Leonard, his voice not quite feeble but certainly sounding lost.

“Mr. Bottom showed me photos, sir,” said the security chief with a smile. “Do you have luggage? I’ll be happy to carry it as we head upstairs.”

Upstairs to the holding cell, thought Leonard. He was so frightened that it was almost funny.

“My grandson has our luggage,” he murmured, almost as if the real world still existed. “Perhaps we’ll come back later.”

Could they outrun the authorities? Leonard knew that he couldn’t. He couldn’t even outhobble them.

Gunny G.—what kind of name was that?—reached into his shirt pocket, removed a slip of paper, and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Fox. I forgot that Mr. Bottom asked me to give you this.”

The note read—Leonard and Val—I’m glad you’re safe. Please trust this man. He’ll let you into my cubie. I’ll be home later today—Saturday. It’s imperative that I see you. I’ve left cafeteria chits on the table in my room if you’re hungry or thirsty. See you soon.—Nick.”

There was a hastily scribbled postscript: “Gunny G. will phone to inform me that you’ve arrived.”

Leonard had no idea if it was his son-in-law’s handwriting since he’d never seen Nick’s handwriting. He put the note in his pocket, more confused than ever.

“I’ll go get my grandson and the luggage,” he said at last. His words echoed in the blastproof tomb of an entry box.

“Very good, Dr. Fox,” said the square-faced security chief. “I’ll wait here for you.”

Val wasn’t waiting for him across the street where he’d left him, but at the west end of the condo building. Leonard told him the situation.

The boy frowned at the huge structure. “It sounds fishy to me, Grandpa.”

“Yes,” agreed Leonard. “But they let me leave to get you.”

“They want me, Grandpa. Maybe there’s a reward for me. Omura might have offered one.”

“Yes, but…” Leonard showed him the note again. “Is this your father’s handwriting, Val?”

The boy frowned. “I think so. I’m not sure. It’s been so long since…” He squinted up at the afternoon sun, crumpled the note, and tossed it away. “They’ll want to take my gun away.”

“Yes, I’m sure building security will demand that,” said Leonard. “There was a notice next to the TV screen that…”

“They can’t have my gun,” said Val.

“I’m sure they will return it when we leave.”

Val smiled. “Come with me, Grandpa.”

To the west of the huge mall building and beyond the private drive that paralleled the parking garage, an old paved bicycle path ran down to the river, where a small bridge had once crossed Cherry Creek. The bike and pedestrian path resumed on the south side of the river, but someone had blown up the narrow span. Val led his grandfather to the west side of the ruined bridge where they were out of sight of the condo’s many cameras. The creek was too high under this bridge to allow for the homeless to huddle or camp there.

Leonard watched as Val took two rocks, using one as a hammer and one as a sort of chisel, and pounded at the rusted cap on an old pipe extruding from the riverbank. The cap popped off with a screech of rusted metal. Whatever had once flowed through the small pipe flowed no more. The inside was dirt and cobwebs. Val reached into his duffel, pulled out one of his T-shirts, removed the Beretta pistol from his belt, and wrapped it and several magazines of ammunition with it. After stuffing the bundle wrist deep into the pipe, he used the two stones to pound the pipe lid back into place.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Leonard was amazed at how tiny Nick Bottom’s cubie was and how loud the neighbors in the former storefront were. There was room only for the bed, a tiny desk and cheap chair, a small bathroom with toilet and shower, and an even smaller closet.

Leonard lay back on the bed, breathing shallowly, while Val paced like a predator in an undersized cage.