Security(64)

The Thinker makes a last left from a long straightaway. He finds a dead end.

Tessa hangs a strategic right and left, and then runs full out. Her arm flaps like a dishrag. She appears directly in front of the Thinker for a second in the dead end’s narrow entrance. The Thinker doesn’t follow her—as Brian and Tessa’s imbecilic plan demanded—but raises the .45, as I would, leading her progress past him.

I select a sprinkler so violently, I feel the pencil tip break off against my molar.

I fire as he fires. Tessa slides. She’s freakishly graceful, except for that arm. My aim this time was to the Thinker’s genitals, and between my contribution to his botched first shot and Tessa’s momentary resemblance to a star pinch hitter, I’m ninety--five percent sure he didn’t hit her. But she stops and lies so still and so flat on the grass, she seems to become part of it. The Thinker fires and fires, and I let him: he’s leading too far. Mute bullets smack leaves over and around and past her; one travels through nine layers of hedges and puts a perfect “O” of surprise in the gravel beside a policeman, a foot and a half from his shoe. He doesn’t notice. He’s telling his partner about a drug raid this reminds him of.

The Thinker checks his clip. It must be his last, or he wouldn’t be checking it; he’d simply load a new one. He has four rounds left. I’ve been counting. He approaches the blind corner in front of him with impeccable poise. He’ll round it and see Tessa lying to his left, playing dead. But first he’ll turn right, because he’s not stupid. Brian’s waiting with the scissors from Franklin’s desk. He’s got the blades cocked back like the Thinker is Janet Leigh showering in Psycho. The Thinker takes aim through the greenery, at Brian’s heart.

Wouldn’t it be awful if I hesitated?





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There is a luminescence setting on the arc lights that’s so bright, it eliminates all shadows, on the off chance a small child decides to hide in the maze.

There are nine sprinklers within range of where the Thinker stands, but I have maybe a second and a half, so I can’t individually select them. There are four hundred fifteen in total.

There is a speaker in each of the maze cameras, to give a panicked guest verbal directions to the exit.

There are occasions when the only route to order is through unmitigated chaos, and no verbal direction can lead the way. So the only direction I shout to Brian is “Go!” when I activate all three systems at once.

The wall of monitors suddenly blinds me, flooding the twentieth floor with white light. In the maze, every sprinkler fires at maximum pressure, every arc light blazes like an acetylene torch, and my voice explodes at top volume from twenty--seven cameras. The cameras’ waterproof lenses mostly show swirls of water, like I’m looking out the portholes in a submerged submarine. My aerial view is of bright, white, frothy mayhem, lined with interlocking geometric green, the sole motion being these three figures at the bottom left.

“Brian, now now now now!” My pencil is rolling toward me. I spat it at the counter so I could shout. I have to catch it. It’s moving too fast. I’m moving much too fast, my tongue reaching manically as if I’m Gene Simmons, live, in concert. I surge my face forward and clap my mouth shut. Got it.

The Thinker splutters and coughs and endeavors to shield his eyes, but Brian does, too. They’re drenched; they’re blinded; they’re drowning standing up. Brian tries to grope forward. The Thinker tries to see enough to aim the .45. Tessa launches up from the grass, her hair a dense black drape from crown to waist; it shields her eyes so she can see. A she--beast, a swamp Wendigo, she plows into the Thinker. He dumps into the hedges, and the pair of them flops onto the saturated grass. Tessa has his wrist. She tackles it away from Brian and gets her finger on the trigger. The gun goes off twice; I can’t hear it through the water’s roar, but two teaspoons of mud hop from the ground. The gun muzzle swerves abruptly to stare Tessa in the face. She’s soaked, choking, not strong enough, and I scream a stripped, cored, fundamental negative that seems to call Brian forth. He materializes in the air above Tessa and the Thinker. He lands on them like a bag of dog food. A puff from the gun takes a Tic Tac – sized piece off Brian’s ear. He grabs the Thinker’s wrist and twists it, fighting for a complete reversal of trajectory, a perfect point--blank into his enemy’s heart. I angle a camera downward so the water sprinkles off the rim, so I can watch Brian spraining the joint patiently, his eyes crazed. The blank offense of an assassin stares back.

The gun goes off before Brian’s ready. Lack of sound makes the moment somewhat anti--climactic. I can only tell it happens because Brian and the Thinker both jump. The Thinker’s hands fall to the ground.

Brian pulls the trigger again. Again, again. He looks viciously into the Thinker’s mask and keeps trying to empty the emptied gun.

The police lieutenant who earlier seemed capable has been having a claustrophobic’s lively and convenient debate with his superiors, via radio, about how regulations dictate a Day--Glo, waterlogged hedge maze that’s hissing with max--pressure sprinklers and alive with four kinds of screams, should be stormed. His superiors agree to send a SWAT team.

The Thinker shudders. Then he’s still. I’d like his death to take longer. I’d like him to be a sushi platter like his partner in the pool. At the very, very least, I’d like someone to check the bastard’s pulse.