Commando girl? “Back in the trees,” I said.

“Ah.” His head didn’t move. I still couldn’t see his eyes. “I imagine she’s a pretty good shot.”

“I imagine so.” Jesus Christ, he had me talking like him.

He chuckled. “Well, I wasn’t going to stick around anyway. I have to ask, though. Is that there an actual printer of Numinous?”

It was a shock to hear the man say its name. After a moment I managed to say, “It’s a fake. We don’t have the printer, or the ingredients.”

He laughed again, louder. “Oh, you’re a tricky one,” he said. He touched the brim of his hat, just as he had in the bar, and began to back away. “Y’all have a nice night. And say hello to your friend Rovil for me. Tell him, no hard feelings.” In a few steps he had backed between two trees and disappeared.

Oh shit. What did he do to Rovil?

Dr. Gloria slid an arm under mine to steady me. “Don’t worry about that now.”

Bobby jumped up and hugged me. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry! I told him everything!”

“You were great,” I said. I pulled away from the boy. “You saved my life, okay? Now go. Drive home. Take care of Lamont.”

“All right already!” Ollie called from the woods. “Let’s go!”

Bobby said, “I’ll feed him every day.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I was a forty-two year old woman. I’d spent the last ten years abusing my body with every illicit drug I could get my hands on, as well as all the good licit ones. Additional pharmaceuticals had been provided over the years by the hospitals I’d attended. A car crash—which one, in which year, I could no longer remember—had left me with a grindingly painful deficit of cartilage in my left knee. I also ate like shit.

All this is by way of saying that I did not have another sprint in me. Ollie, however, forced one out of me. We plunged through the trees, Ollie leading again, now holding both the Mr. Squiggly lunchbox and the flashlight. She seemed to know where she was going. I was blind to everything except the dark in front of my face, my concentration taken up by my burning lungs and the pain spiking up my left leg.

Suddenly the ground turned soft beneath my boots and I stumbled. We were on a dirt path now, a line of dark snaking through the snowy woods. The river appeared on our right, surprisingly close.

“Here,” Ollie said. The path bent toward the water, sloping to a landing about six feet wide. We pulled up, and I gulped oxygen. Somewhere out on the dark water lay the invisible dashed line of the US–Canadian border, a ghost-stitch visible only to satellites.

“It’s coming,” she said. I heard it then: the whine of an outboard motor. I could see nothing on the river but shadows and an ill-defined mass in the distance. Was that New York? I’d gotten turned around.

The sound of the motor abruptly grew louder. Ollie yelled, “Watch out!” and shoved me aside. A black shape lunged at us up the rocky embankment. It slammed down with a bang, then suddenly the engine cut out. It was a shallow-bottomed bass boat, painted some dark color—and it was full of black garbage bags.

“Unload them,” Ollie said. “Quick! It’s part of the deal.”

“What the fuck happened to the driver?!” For a crazy moment I thought he’d been thrown clear.

“It’s a rowboat,” she said. She grabbed one of the bags and grunted. It was evidently heavy. She tossed the bag into the bushes. There were more than a dozen of them in the small boat. All the benches except the front one had been removed to make room for the cargo. The craft had been stripped down to a motor, a big gas can, and in the corner a black fishing rod poking up like an antenna.

Dr. Gloria walked across the top of the water toward the rear of the boat. “Get it now?” she said.

Of course. The fishing rod wasn’t poking up like an antenna; the antenna was poking up like a fishing rod. The craft was a remote controlled ro-boat.

I started hauling bags, lifting from the bottom because of the weight. I could feel cardboard boxes inside them and hoped that they only contained cigarettes. I wasn’t ready to do hard time for smuggling drugs. When the last bag had been tossed into the trees, Ollie threw her own backpack into the boat, where it landed with a clunk.

“Get in,” she said.

I climbed over the side and sat down on the bench. Ollie handed me the money box. “Show it to the camera.”

“What camera?”

She gestured toward the antenna. I twisted and straddled the bench, then waved the Mr. Squiggly box at the antenna, figuring the camera was somewhere inside it or near it. “We have the money,” I said, trying to enunciate clearly.

The boat lurched—Ollie shoving it a few scraping feet across the rocky bank toward the water. I grabbed the boat’s side—the gunwale? whatever they called it—and leaned forward, ready to pull Ollie in when she got us all the way in the water. Behind her, a shadow moved on the path. It was a bent figure, barely visible in the moonlight.

Dr. Gloria said, “Aaqila!” and I shouted something like, “Down!”

Ollie was already in motion. She pushed the boat again—a full-body shove with arms and legs straight—and then let go and dropped below my line of sight with a splash.

Aaqila stumbled forward, her leg dragging behind her. One arm clutched her chest, and the other was straightening to point at me. She screamed a collection of consonants and vowels.

I have two overlapping memories of the next moment. In both, I hear each bang of the pistol—five shots, shockingly loud. But in one memory I am watching the pistol in Aaqila’s hand, and see red-orange flames flashing at the mouth of the barrel. In the other memory, I see nothing but Dr. Gloria. The angel is standing on the water between the boat and Aaqila, her wings flaring and trembling as each bullet strikes those pure-white feathers and bursts into light.

The details of both memories are suspect. Did I really see the muzzle flash, or was that something sketched in from countless movies? Alternatively, how does a figment of my imagination stop bullets?

The boat slipped sideways in the river’s current. On shore, Aaqila nestled the gun in her bent arm, trying to do something to it with her good hand—reload? Unjam it? Then Ollie rose up off the ground, holding some glossy shape above her head with both hands—a river rock, big as bread loaf. She brought it down on Aaqila’s head and the girl collapsed. The sound of the two impacts—the rock hitting her skull, her body hitting the ground—were so faint that I may have filled them in on my own.

“Oh my,” Dr. Gloria said.

From behind me came an electrical hum; then the outboard motor belched and fell into a deep rumble. The front of the boat swung toward open water.

I threw up a hand, waving at the antenna, and yelled, “Wait!” The boat continued to turn. I twisted to face the shore. “Ollie! It’s going!”

She was bent over Aaqila’s unmoving body. I yelled again, and Ollie looked at me over her shoulder, only her nose and mouth visible beneath the cap. Was she grimacing? Saying good-bye? I thought, Don’t you dare abandon me now!

Ollie abruptly turned and ran, not toward the water, but along the bank to my left. The current was pushing my boat downstream, toward a spit of land, and Ollie was sprinting toward it. She popped open her coat on the run like Clark Kent and tossed it aside, then tore the cap from her head and sent it spinning across the water. She reached the end of the land and leaped, not diving because the water could not have been very deep, and landed with a splash. The water came up to her knees. She took three slogging steps and then launched into a shallow dive. She was eight or ten meters west of the boat, but I was moving away from the shore.

The motor roared and the boat spun hard to my left. I gripped the sides and yelled at the camera, “Goddamn it! Wait!” The bow was aimed at the dark hulk of land less than a kilometer across the water. That was too close for New York; it had to be Île-Saint-Régis, the island on the Quebec side of the border.