The Woman Who Died a Lot

“No, I’m in a coma at present. That was just a standard Mark Vb ‘Alibi’ Model. By the time anyone got up here following your fatal fall, I would have zipped myself up in a body bag and hidden in the roof space just behind the water tank. I’d probably not be discovered for years. The point is that with the ‘through the window’ plan, you’d be dead and I’d be in the clear to try another method to get to the vaults. From my position it’s win half-win, and from yours it’s lose-lose. So think again.”

I did. In fact, I desperately tried to think up a plan of action. I would probably be able to get to my pistol, since he was on the other side of the room, but then I realized with a falling heart that he probably already had it. He guessed my thoughts and showed me the revolver he had lifted from me earlier.

“I took it from you when you entered. And don’t even think about going for the Beretta on your ankle. I can have you through the window before you get even halfway there.”

He was doubtless right, and the situation was looking increasingly desperate. But just at that moment, I suddenly felt different. My leg was no longer hurting me—in fact, I felt no pain at all, and a warm feeling of euphoria suddenly swept over me. I felt better, stronger and fitter, and I even had some of those feelings for Landen, too. I must have been replaced during one of the two visits out of the boardroom—probably when on the phone to Friday. Knowing that changed the game plan. I would be as fast as Jack and get off at least three shots before he’d even touched me—and all the shots would make the same entry hole, even if he was moving. I was that good.

I made a swift lunge for the Beretta in my ankle holster.

It didn’t quite work out the way I’d planned. The limited mobility in my back and leg stopped my hand four inches from the pistol, and I misjudged the position of the table on the way down and hit my forehead. Now momentarily off balance, I grabbed the chair behind me, which had casters and slid away from me, causing me to completely lose my balance and collapse in an undignified heap on the floor.

“Shit,” I said, glancing at the mindworm tattoo on the back of my hand for confirmation. “I’m still me.”

Jack had watched the pathetic spectacle and simply walked up, took the Beretta from my ankle and then dragged me to my feet by the scruff of the neck and pressed my face hard against the glass.

“Are you an idiot or something?” he demanded angrily, his sickly-sweet breath hot on my face. “Why are you taking such foolhardy risks in the face of such overwhelming odds?”

I didn’t know either, until everything started to change colors and I heard birds singing.

“Oops,” I said, “my PA gave me an illegal patch from some guy loitering near the bins.”

“You are a sad, pathetic little creature,” said Jack, “and I pity you. Now: We’re going to the vaults. If you don’t come, I’ll make sure that it’s not just you who suffers but your family, too—even the imaginary ones.”

“Hang on,” I said, trying to reach my smiley patch to pull it off but failing, since they’re buggers to get off when you’ve just stuck one on. “Would you mind?”

He ripped it off, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing did, in fact.

“My hands have gone numb,” I said with a giggle, and my tongue feels too big.”

“Come on,” he said as he handed me my stick and pushed me to the door. “And make it convincing if anyone talks to us.”

We met Duffy in the corridor outside, although I had to assume it was Duffy, as his head looked more like a jack-o’-lantern.

“I’ve got a list of things we could possibly sell,” he said, “and your husband is on the line to remind you not to miss Tuesday’s keynote address at MadCon2004 at two.”

“I’ll call him back,” I said. “Mr. Schitt is being shown the antiquarian section.”

I was going to add some semiambiguous statement that would alert Duffy to what was going on so he would in turn alert Colonel Wexler, but it was difficult to concentrate with a Haysi Fantayzee track going around in my head at full volume, and in a moment Duffy was gone.

“Which way?” said Jack.

“That way,” I said, pointing down the corridor. “First left after the lizards.”

31. Thursday: Finisterre