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self, drinking deeper and deeper until he had drained every last drop of blood from Dessotti's body. |
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Naked, cold, his clothing in tatters and covered with the blood of three different men, Cyrus crouched trembling in the corner of the bedroom until his body returned to normal. Even the shoulder holster Kyna had given him and his faithful pair of old sneakers looked like a bomb had gone off inside them. As soon as the pain of reversion stopped, he went into the living room, lifted Kyna off the floorcradling her in his arms as if she were made of cobwebsand eased her down on the couch. He listened to make sure she was breathing normally; then he went into Dessotti's bathroom and took a quick shower, using the remains of his favorite shirt to scrub the blood from his face and chest. After toweling off, he searched through Dessotti's closet. The man had had more clothes than the Prince of Wales. |
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Cyrus selected a pair of designer jeans that he had to roll up to keep from tripping over, and a short-sleeve crewneck shirt with purple-and-gold stripes. He found underwear and socks in the chest of drawers, but the shoes under the bed were two sizes too large. He tiptoed back into the living room and borrowed the dead gunman's black sneakers. They were a half-size too large, but under the circumstances that was good enough. He had just finished tying the shoes when the far-off wail of a police siren came through the window. Quickly gathering up the remains of his clothing, he stuffed them into a paper sack and then scooped some water from the ice bucket and went to see if he could rouse Kyna. |
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"What!" she sputtered, coming slowly back to her senses. |
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"Are you all right?" he asked. |
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Her eyes looked like Wily Coyote's after one of his Acme gizmos backfired, and she had a nasty-looking purple lump behind her ear, but she nodded that yes, she was okay. |
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"Right," he said. "We gotta get out of here." |
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She glanced around the apartment. "Where's Dessotti?" |
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