Chapter 7

           Thereareruins,steepedinshadow,andablood-redsungoingdowninturmoilbehinddistanthills.Overheadsoft-belliedcloudspanictowardsthehorizonlikewhalesbeforetheharpoon,andthewindrunsaddict’sfingersthroughthetreesthatlinethestreet.

           Innenininennininennin…

           Iknowthisplace.

           Ipickmywaybetweenthedevastatedwallsofruins,tryingnottobrushagainstthembecause,wheneverIdo,theygiveoutmutedgunshotsandscreams,asifwhateverconflictmurderedthiscityhassoakedintotheremainingstonework.Atthesametime,I’mmovingquitefast,becausethereissomethingfollowingme,somethingthathasnosuchqualmsabouttouchingtheruins.Icanchartitsprogressquiteaccuratelybythetideofgunfireandanguishswellingbehindme.Itisclosing.Itrytospeedupbutthereisatightnessinmythroatandchestthatisn’thelpingmatters.

           JimmydeSotostepsoutfrombehindtheshatteredstubofatower.I’mnotreallysurprisedtoseehimhere,buthisruinedfacestillgivesmeajolt.Hegrinswithwhat’sleftofhisfeaturesandputsahandonmyshoulder.Itrynottoflinch.

           "LeilaBegin,"hesays,andnodsbacktowhereIhavecomefrom."RunthatbyBancroft’sfancylawyer."

           "Iwill,"Isay,movingpasthim.Buthishandstaysonmyshoulder,whichmustmeanhisarmisstretchingoutbehindmelikehotwax.