Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

That he had the Anspack woman along didn't change that; he might take her home with him, he might drop her off at her own home first, he might stay at her place awhile, maybe even until morning, but sooner or later, unless he had somehow been alerted, he would go back to his own apartment.

If he had been alerted… well, even with the Spartacus File, Beech was a beginner. The file wouldn't be running properly yet. He would make mistakes. Even if he had somehow realized that people were pursuing him, Beech might go home.

Or he might go to Anspack's place; Smith would want to cover that possibility, too.

He picked up the phone.

Ten minutes later he hung up, reasonably satisfied. There wasn't time to set up anything fancy, or even to get to the apartment before Beech did, so it wouldn't be as neat and tidy as he might have liked. Still, the job would get done.

When they emerged from the subway the sky had clouded over, threatening thunder and rain, and the two of them hurried up the block, against wind that was suddenly cold. Casper almost reached out a sheltering arm for Mirim, then thought better of it.

“Here we are,” he said a moment later, pointing.

“You live here? ” Mirim asked, looking up at the building's gloomy facade.

“Sure,” Casper said. He shrugged. “It's not so bad.”

Mirim shuddered.

“You didn't have to come,” Casper said. That sounded more hostile than he had meant it to, though; to soften it, he added, “But I'm glad you did. Would you like to come up for a bite to eat?”

Mirim shrugged. “Sure, why not?” She followed Casper past an overflowing trash dumpster up to the door.

“Careful on the steps,” Casper said. He unlocked the door and ushered Mirim through ahead of him; when they were both inside the dim hallway, behind thick panes of dirty glass, he flicked the light switch a couple of times, but the only illumination came from outside.

“Oh, hell,” he said. “The damned lights are out again. You'd better take my hand-the stairs can be tricky.” He offered his hand, and she took it, neither delicately nor grabbing, but just holding. They started up the steps.

“What do you mean, the lights are out again? ” Mirim demanded. “Can't you do anything about it?”

“Afraid not. Look out, that one's broken. No, I can't do anything about the lights or the stairs, because my lease-everyone's lease who lives here-has a no-liability clause. We can't sue, all we can do is withhold rent, and at what we pay, the owners don't much care.”

“Hmph. That's a hell of a thing. Have you got a tenant's union?”

Casper laughed. “Not in this building. The people who live here tend to keep to themselves. There's no clause in our leases to keep us from suing each other, after all. We have to pay for our low rent somehow. Here's my floor.”

They left the stairway, and Casper unlocked his apartment door while Mirim waited uneasily in the hall.

Once they were inside he carefully located Mirim next to the door, where she would be safer, before locking it.

He tried to keep his own windows reasonably clean, so the apartment wasn't as dim as the halls, but since his only view was of the building next door to the north the place had a certain gloom about it. He flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.

“Power's out for the whole building, same as usual,” he said. “Sorry if the place is a little untidy,” he added apologetically.

“I can't see well enough to notice.”

Casper smiled. “Wait right there, and I'll get some light.”

He stumbled into the kitchen, and returned a moment later with a candle in each hand. He set them both on the dinner table, saying over his shoulder, “I've got wine, milk, and diet cola.”

“Wine would be nice.”

“It's just cheap California white,” he warned.

“That's fine.”

“I'll be right back. The stereo is over there. It's on the UPS, and the backup battery should be good for a couple of hours if we don't use the computer for anything else, so feel free to put on some music. Your choice.”

When Casper returned with the glasses of wine, he found Mirim sitting on the couch, the stereo playing softly. The music was Beethoven. He handed Mirim her glass and sat down beside her.

There was an embarrassed silence as they sipped their wine. Casper put his glass on the end table.

“I'm not entirely sure why you came back here with me,” Casper said at last. “I mean, I'm very glad you did, and it was good of you to warn me about Quinones, but you didn't have to come with me. You've probably just thrown away your job, and it's not like it's easy to find work these days.”

“Well, you'd thrown away yours,” Mirim pointed out, “and you gave some very convincing reasons why the rest of us should, too.”

“I did?” Casper asked. Mirim thought she heard a concatenation of unhappiness, confusion, and pride in those two simple words.

“Yes, you did,” she said. “I was impressed.”

“But why?”

Mirim started to speak, and Casper cut her off. “I don't mean why were you impressed, I mean why did I do that? It's… it's not like me.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Mirim said. “I always thought you had it in you somewhere.”

He stared at her, his hand on his wine glass, not moving. “You did?”

Mirim nodded.

“But…”

Casper was interrupted by a knock on the door. Startled, he turned.

“Who could it be at this time of day?” he asked. “I'd be at work, ordinarily.”

“Maybe whoever it is tried there and they told him you'd gone home,” Mirim suggested.

“But who…” Casper got to his feet, puzzled. Then he looked at Mirim, understanding dawning. “A process server,” he said. “Who else could it be?”

“Data Tracers couldn't have one here that fast,” Mirim objected.

The knock sounded again.

“You're right,” Casper said. “I don't know who it is.” He stepped toward the door, then froze.

Part of him, the part he thought of as himself, the normal old Casper Beech, wanted to go ahead and open the door, put an end to the mystery, get it over with-but something else, something unfamiliar, something strange, held him back.

He rationalized; this was not a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't ordinarily be home now. It might be a burglar looking for vacant apartments.

It was probably a salesman or a Jehovah's Witness or something, but just in case…?

“Who's there?” he called, and without knowing why, or even that he was doing it, Casper stepped to one side, behind the door, out of the line of fire.

And the door burst in, the doorframe shattering as the latch and lock were kicked in; splinters flew, and then the stuttering roar of automatic gunfire began-only to be cut off short as Casper kicked the door back, hard.

Mirim yelped and dove for cover under the coffee table.

The gun roared again. Bullets tore through the thin wood of the door, stitching toward Casper-but Casper had already dropped below them, and as the window shattered noisily, as plaster puffed from the walls, he rolled away from the corner, reaching for a weapon.

The letter opener was too far away, the knives in the kitchen drawer out of the question; he snatched up an eight-inch splinter torn from the broken doorframe, and lay still.

The gunfire stopped; Mirim lay motionless beneath the table, hands clasped protectively over her head. Casper lay on the floor, on his belly, muscles tensed, splinter in his hand.

The ruined door opened, and Casper sprang; his empty fist took the stranger in the belly, and as the man started to double over the splinter rammed through his left eye and into the brain.

He dropped instantly, and Casper fell on top of him, grabbing for the weapon the downed man had held and scanning the corridor.