Dan Simmons - Hard as Nails

"I used to think it was because you were from Denmark, but I don't think that's right," said Kurtz. "Now I think it's because every time you're around, it looks like the last act of Hamlet ."

"Very droll," said the Dane. "Tell me, what is Dr. No's mistake? I saw the film many years ago, but I do not really recall it."

"Dr. No's mistake?" said Kurtz. "In all the Bond films—in all those stupid movies—the bad guy gets Bond or whoever in his clutches and then just keeps talking at him. Yadda, yadda, yadda."

"As opposed to…" said the Dane with his small smile.

"As opposed to putting two in his head and getting it over with," said Kurtz. He led the way up the final stairs.

The Dane used the keys to lock both padlocks. Up in the basilica proper, the Dane stopped to look at the central nave under the huge dome. Only a few old women were in the huge space, kneeling and praying, one lighting a votive candle to the right of the altar. Someone was still practicing the organ. The air smelled of incense.

The Dane handed Kurtz Kennedy's keys, including the keys to the Laforza SUV. "Be careful of fingerprints… no, I do not have to tell you that."

"Can I drop you somewhere?" said Kurtz.

The Dane shook his head. He'd removed his natty hat and Kurtz noticed that his blond hair was very thin on top. "I believe I'll step in here and pray for a minute or two."

Kurtz nodded and watched him step away, but then called softly, "Wait, please."

"Yes?"

"Do you ever take assignments in the Mideast? Say, Iran?"

The Dane smiled. "I've not been to Iran since the Shah's downfall. It would be interesting to see how it has changed. You can reach me through the Countess if you need to. Good luck, Mr. Kurtz."

Kurtz waited until the Dane had found a pew, genuflected, and knelt to pray. Then Kurtz went outside into the surprisingly bright morning light.

Kurtz took the afternoon off. He cleaned up his apartment area as best he could, stopped by Gail's place later to tell Arlene that she could go home and take Aysha with her if she wanted. He picked up his Browning and cell phone while he was there. He stopped by Blues Franklin and returned the Ray Charles sunglasses to Daddy Bruce. He turned in early that night.

The headache did not return. Kurtz wondered idly if he should have taken the taser off the bodyguard in the catacombs in case he needed more shock therapy to get rid of the headache if it ever did come back. Maybe he could write some sort of paper about it for the AMA Journal or something.

The next morning, be was driving the repaired Pinto to the hospital when he saw that he was being tailed by a Lincoln Town Car. Kurtz pulled to the curb on north Main, reached under the seat to get the Browning, and racked the slide. It had taken him an hour to find the bug in the Pinto the previous evening, and he was tired of all this surveillance crap.

Gonzaga's man, Bobby, got out of the Lincoln and walked up to the Pinto. Kurtz thought that the bodyguard didn't look his best in a dark suit—actually, he looked like a fireplug that had been poured into a suit. The black ninja outfit had been more becoming on him.

Bobby handed Kurtz a sealed envelope, said, "From Mr. Gonzaga," and walked back to his Town Car and drove off.

Kurtz waited until the black car was out of sight before tucking away the Browning and ripping open the envelope. Inside was a cashier's check for one hundred thousand dollars. Kurtz set the check and envelope under the seat next to the gun and drove the rest of the way to Erie County Medical Center.

Rigby King was alone and conscious when Kurtz came in. They'd moved her overnight from the ICU to a private room. There was a uniformed officer on guard, but Kurtz had waited for him to step down the hall to the men's room.

"Joe," said Rigby. There was an untouched breakfast on the swing tray near her. "Want some coffee? I don't want it."

"Sure," said Kurtz. He took the cup off the tray and sipped. It was almost as bad as the stuff he made for himself.

"I just got a call from Paul Kemper," said Rigby. "With some very surprising news that you might be interested in."

Kurtz waited.

"Someone wasted your mafia girlfriend's brother in a maximum security federal prison yesterday afternoon," said Rigby.

"Little Skag." said Kurtz.

Rigby raised an eyebrow. "How many mafia girlfriends with brothers in maximum security prisons do you have, Joe?"

Kurtz let that go and tried the coffee again. It was as bad as the first sip, only colder. "Some sort of yard shank job?" he said, knowing it hadn't been.

Rigby shook her head. "I told you—Little Skag's been kept on ice at a maximum security federal hidey-hole. Up in the Adirondacks. No general population. He didn't see anyone except the guards and feebies, and even they got searched. But someone managed to get in there and put a bullet between his beady little eyes. Incredible."

"Wonders never cease," said Kurtz.

"Why do I think you're not totally surprised?" She struggled for a minute with the gizmo on a cable that raised the angle of her bed. Kurtz watched her struggle. When she had it the way she wanted it, she looked exhausted to Kurtz.

"Do I know who shot me yet, Joe?"

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "It was Brian Kennedy and some of his guys."

"Kennedy? The security snot? O'Toole's fiancé?"

"Right. You got suspicious on Sunday—realizing that Kennedy's alibi didn't really hold up…"

"It didn't?" said Rigby. Someone had brushed her short, dark hair and it looked nice against the pillow. "I thought Kennedy was on his private Lear when you and O'Toole were shot."

"Gulfstream," said Kurtz. "He had two planes."

"Ahh," said Rigby. And then, " Had?"

"I think Kennedy took off after shooting you. He may be found. Maybe not."

"Where did he shoot me?"

"In the leg?" suggested Kurtz. The coffee was not only bad, it was now totally cold.

"You know what the fuck I mean."

"Oh. Your call. I think they're going to find his fancy SUV in Delaware Park."

"Or what's left of it if he was stupid enough to leave it there," said Rigby.

"Or what's left of it," agreed Kurtz. He set the coffee cup back on her tray. "I've got to go. Your guard cop is probably finished pissing by now."

"Joe?" said Rigby.

He turned back.

"Why did I suspect Kennedy of shooting his own fiancée? And if he shot me in Delaware Park, how'd I get to the hospital in the middle of the night? Inquiring minds will want to know."

"Jesus," said Kurtz. "Do I have to do all your thinking for you? Show some initiative. You're the goddamned detective here."

"Joe?" she called again just as he was about to shut her door.

He stuck his head back in.

"Thank you," said Rigby.

Kurtz went down the hall, around a corridor, and down another hall. No one was guarding Peg O'Toole's room and the nurse had just stepped out.

Kurtz went in and pulled the only visitor's chair closer to her bed.

Machines were keeping her alive. One breathed up and down for her. At least four visible tubes ran in and out of her body, which already looked pale and emaciated. The parole officer's auburn hair was stiff and pulled back off her face where it hadn't been shaved off near the bandage over her forehead and temples. She was unconscious, with a snorkel-like ventilator tube taped in her mouth. Her posture in coma, wrists cocked at a painful angle, knees drawn up, reminded Kurtz of a broken baby bird he'd found in his backyard one summer day when he was a kid.

"Ah, goddamn it," breathed Kurtz.

He walked over to the machines that were breathing for her and acting as her kidneys. There were various switches and dials and plugs and sensors. None of the readouts made any sense to him.