“Clover will see about making the da G shou whole,” Richard said, “at competitive rates. Good luck getting the money into China.” As he spoke, it was possible to hear a doorbell ringing in the background. The sound radiated incongruously over downtown Carthinias.
RICHARD STRIPPED OFF his headset and threw the keyboard off his lap, leaving Egdod mute and motionless for the time being. He reached down between his knees and found the pee bucket with his hand, then moved it well out of the way so he wouldn’t kick it over. He stood up slowly, partly because his body had stiffened up and partly because he didn’t want all the blood to rush out of his brain at once. He checked the time: 4:42 A.M. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell? In addition to which they had been pounding the hell out of every door and window they could find for the last couple of minutes. All the signs pointed to some sort of minor emergency: drunken teenaged mountain bikers who had flipped over their handlebars, or campers chased out of their tents by bears, or an RV gone off the road. It happened a few times a year, though rarely so early in the season.
He shambled out of the tavern and into the lobby, moving awkwardly, trying to make out if all of that had been worth it. From Zula’s paper towel note he had already known the first part of the story, and from British Spy Chick he’d learned some of the last bit. So all that he’d gained from nearly twenty-four hours’ solid game playing was a picture of some asshole stealing Peter’s rifle, more detail about what had happened in that apartment building in Xiamen, and a very large quantity of Indigold.
Overall, he decided that it had been worth it. He knew a great deal more now of how Zula had comported herself during the apartment building showdown and in the hours afterward, and all of it made him proud and would make the rest of the family proud when it went up on the Facebook page and when, in future years, they retold the story at the re-u. And that was all true whether Zula was alive or, as seemed likely, dead.
“All right already,” he shouted. He approached the main entrance and hit a switch that turned on the lights in the driveway.
Two men were standing there, sort of wrapped around each other. They looked like backpackers. One of them, a burly middle-aged man, was supporting a taller fellow who was all bundled up in warm clothes with a hood pulled up over his head. The latter’s leg was encased, from the knee down, in a splint that had been improvised from tree branches, duct tape, and climbing rope. His head was bowed as if he were only semiconscious or perhaps doubled over in pain.
Nothing Richard hadn’t seen before. He unlocked the front door and pulled it open.
“Thank God you’re here, Mr. Forthrast!” the man exclaimed, very loudly, as if he wished to be heard by someone else—someone who was not standing directly in front of him.
The lights went out.
The injured man, who until this moment had been draped over his comrade’s shoulders, stood up straight and took his full weight evenly on both feet.
Richard by now knew that something funny was going on but was too fuzzy-headed from sleep deprivation and T’Rain playing to do anything other than watch it play out before him like a cut scene in a video game. The tall man reached up and stripped the hood away from his face. But Richard could not see much of him because of the darkness.
“Good morning, Richard,” he said. His voice sounded like that of a black man, but his accent told that he was not from around here. His companion had unzipped his jacket and pulled something out. Richard heard the sound of a round being chambered into a semiautomatic pistol. This man backed up a pace and aimed it at Richard’s face. Richard flinched. In all the time he had spent messing around with guns, he’d never had one aimed at him before.
“You’d be Jones?” Richard said.
“That I would. May we come inside? I’ve been tracking your website—the one that keeps asking whether anyone has seen Zula—and I’ve come to give you news and claim the reward.”
“Is she alive?”
“Not only is she alive, Richard, but you have the power to keep her that way.”
“WELL, THAT HAPPENED,” Seamus announced. He crossed his arms over his chest and used his legs to shove his chair back from the computer.
Csongor had already logged out. Never again, he suspected, would Lottery Discountz walk the streets of Carthinias. Marlon was still engaged, typing chat messages—apparently aimed at the character called Clover, who seemed to be Egdod’s bagman. On his screen it was possible to see Clover and Reamde standing so close that their heads were almost touching. Thorakks loitered a few meters away and Egdod—suddenly poignant in his smallness and aloneness—just stood there.
Yuxia was perched on a counter near Seamus. “What’s next for you guys?” the latter asked. Grammatically, the question was aimed at all of them, but he was looking at Yuxia when he asked it.
Which was just as well since Csongor hadn’t the faintest idea how to answer it. Apparently they were going to get some money now. At least enough to buy an airplane ticket. But to where? And could Csongor even get out of this country legally? The last stamp in his passport was from Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow. Since then he’d entered and left China illegally and sneaked into the Philippines. He might be wanted for God only knew what sorts of crimes in China. Did the Philippines have an extradition treaty with China? Did Hungary?
He could only brood and worry and listen to Yuxia giving Seamus the third degree. “Who the heck are you?”
“I already told you,” he said innocently.
“A cop? A spy?”
“I’m a sex tourist.”
Yuxia laughed in his face. “You would have to travel much farther,” she said, “to find someone willing to do it with you.”
This seemed to Csongor shockingly rude, and his head swiveled around just to be sure that such words had actually come from Qian Yuxia’s mouth. They had.
And Seamus was eating it with a spoon. “Okay. Not a sex tourist.”