Philip Kerr - Gridiron

Helen picked the blouse off her breasts, pumped some air against her chest and then, noticing that the silk was badly stained under her arms and deciding that she would probably be cooler without it, she took it off all together and stuffed it into her handbag. If the men stared she would just put up with it. Anything was better than being so hot and humid. She closed the door firmly behind her. She was about to return to the kitchen to wash her hands when she heard the bell of the elevator. Her heart leaped in her chest. For a moment she thought they had all been rescued, and that any second now she would see a couple of firemen and some uniformed cops striding down the corridor. She almost skipped to greet them.

'Thank goodness,' she cried, but even as she spoke she realized that she was going to be disappointed. Nobody had come out of the car. She slowed to a walk again as a sound, like some enormous egg breaking, crackled down the corridor and clouds of cold air began to escape from between the slowly opening doors. Nobody would ever come out of this car. Nobody alive, anyway.

Helen stopped, her heart thumping in her chest. It would, she knew, be better not to look, only she wanted to make quite sure before she told the others. She faced the open car, her breath clouding in front of her face like someone entering a cold-storage room. But the chill she felt was more than just her fear and the extreme cold. It was as if she felt death reach out and touch her.

She did not scream. She was not the type. It had always irritated her how women in movies screamed when they found a dead body. Of course the point of the scream was to scare the hell out of the audience — she knew that, but still it annoyed her. By rights she ought to have screamed three times, since there were three bodies in the car, or maybe three times as loud as normal. Instead Helen swallowed back her horror, gathered her breath and went to tell Curtis.

Since his electrocution, Willis Ellery was confused and a little deaf in one ear. Worse, his left arm did not seem to work properly. He felt like someone who had suffered a stroke.

'That's probably the anoxia,' explained Curtis, helping the injured man to drink some water. 'It might take you a while to get back to normal. Believe me, Willis, you're damned lucky to be alive. You must have a heart like a fuckin' hippopotamus.'

Curtis inspected the wrench-shaped burns on the palms of Ellery's hands and the charred cutis and raised white blistering on his thumb from where the electricity had exploded out of his body. Jenny Bao had wrapped his hands in clingfilm to try and prevent infection, and had given him a couple of painkillers: Beech had found a small bottle of Ibuprofen in his hunter's vest pocket.

'Looks like she's done a pretty good job on you here,' said Curtis. 'Take it easy, huh? We'll get you to a hospital as soon as we can.'

Ellery smiled weakly.

Curtis stood up, rubbing the shoulder that was now aching badly from where he had thrown himself against the washroom door.

'How is he?' said David Arnon.

Curtis turned around, moving them away from the man on the floor.

'Not good. There might be some brain damage. I don't know. After what he's been through he should be in an intensive-care unit.' Curtis nodded at the walkie-talkie in Arnon's hands. 'How are they doing?'

'About halfway up.'

'Keep me posted. They're going to need help getting from the branches on to the balcony.'

He caught sight of Helen Hussey standing in the doorway. At first it was the fact that she was not wearing her blouse that drew his eye, but then he noticed her pale face and the tears on her cheeks. He went over and took her by the arm.

'What is it?' he asked. 'Are you OK?'

'I'm all right,' she said. 'It's the people in the elevator. From the atrium floor. They're outside, in the car.' She touched her forehead. 'I think I'd better sit down.'

Jenny helped Helen to a chair.

'I'll take a look,' said Curtis.

'I'll come with you,' said Mitch.

David Arnon followed them.

The three dead men, frosted white as Christmas, lay huddled in a corner of the frozen elevator like some disastrous expedition to reach the South Pole. Wearing expressions of calm and with open eyes, it was as if they had seen death coming from a long way off.

'I can't believe this is happening,' said Arnon. 'Men freezing to death in LA. It's surreal.'

'Do we leave them there?' asked Mitch.

'I can't think of anything to do with them,' said Curtis. 'Besides, they're frozen solid. Even in this heat it'll be a while before we could prise them apart. No, for the moment we'd best leave them where they are.' He glanced at Mitch. 'Does that bother you?'

Mitch shrugged.

'I was just thinking. Abraham must have some purpose in sending the elevator back up here now.'

'You mean he's trying to demoralize us?' said Arnon.

'Exactly. It shows a pretty good understanding of human psychology, doesn't it?'

'He's sure got me demoralized,' said Curtis.

'In which case, maybe Abraham's not such a mystery. What I mean is, this is a message. Not a very pleasant one. But a communication none the less.' Mitch paused. 'Don't you see? If Abraham communicates with us, maybe we can communicate with Abraham. If we can do that then maybe we can get Abraham to explain itself. Who knows? We might even be able to persuade it to stop this whole thing.'

Arnon shrugged. 'Why not?'

'I'm sure of it,' said Mitch. 'A computer acts on logic. We just have to find the right logical argument. Persuade it to scrutinize a few essences and meanings, the objective logical elements in thought that are common to different minds.'

'In my considerable forensic experience,' said Curtis, 'it's usually a waste of time to try and understand the criminal mind. We'd be better off putting our heads together again and thinking of a way to get out of here before we end up like the three in the car.'

'I don't see that one excludes the other,' said Mitch.

'Nor do I,' agreed Arnon. 'I vote for a bit of diplomacy.'

'But first things first,' said Mitch. 'We have to see if Beech can establish some kind of a dialogue.'

Two hundred feet above the atrium, Irving Dukes kicked the thick, leathery leaves of the dicotyledon aside and clambered on to another branch. When he was seated safely he looked down the length of the trunk to check on the progress being made by the others.

Joan Richardson was thirty or forty feet below him, and making slow work of the climb. Her husband, the asshole, was a few feet behind her, talking her up like some relentless football coach. Below them the grand piano on the atrium floor looked like a keyhole.

'In your own time,' he heard Richardson say. 'Remember, it's not a competition.'

'But I'm holding you up, Ray,' she said. 'Why don't you go on ahead with Mr Dukes?'

'Because I'm not leaving you.'

'You know something, Ray? I think I'd almost prefer it if you did. Your nagging doesn't exactly help me, you know.'

Dukes grinned. That was telling him. The asshole.

'Who's nagging? I'm just trying to encourage you, that's all. And to be here in case you run into any difficulties.'

'Just let me do it in my own way, that's all.'

'All right, all right. Do it your own way. I won't say another word if you don't want me to.'

'I don't,' Joan said firmly.

Dukes raised his fist and grinned. She was telling him where to get off. Joan hauled herself up on to the next branch. She rubbed both of her aching shoulders and then glanced up, looking for Dukes. He waved down to her.

'How's it coming there?' he called.

'She's doing fine.'

Asshole.

'OK, I suppose. How about you?'