“I’m the only one left,” said Kerry.
Lyle’s eyes widened. “So that car bomb—that actually got them? Sunny and Cynthia and everyone?”
“What? No, of course not. They’re in São Tomé, just like we planned.”
“Not me, though,” said Lyle, and a hint of bitterness crept into his voice. “Was saving me ever part of the plan, or was I car bomb fodder from the beginning?”
Kerry put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the apartment building; the doorman frowned at Lyle’s filthy clothes and patchy beard, but Kerry waved him away. “Of course we were planning to save you, Lyle. You thought that we thought that the Lyle we killed was you? Of course we knew he was a fake, but he was just so eager to please us we kept him around until the big day. And he did a bang-up job on that launch presentation.” They stepped into an elevator and Kerry punched the top button—the suites. Lyle could only imagine how much a suite in this location must be costing him. The doors closed, and Kerry turned to face him directly. “So: no free lotion, even for a former shareholder, but what else can I give you? You need money? You look like you could use it—though I guess that’s understandable, since you’re a wanted criminal.”
“So are you.”
“Kerry White is a wanted criminal,” said Kerry slyly. “My name is Armando del Castillo, and Armando’s not wanted for anything but his gorgeous body.”
“I don’t want your money,” said Lyle, feeling angrier than he’d expected at the suggestion. “You’re a drug dealer, Kerry, I can’t support that.”
“And you’re the greatest drug designer who ever lived,” said Kerry. “At least take some credit for it—let me give you, what, a hundred thousand?”
The elevator stopped on the top floor, opening into a small but luxurious lobby. Instead of a hall leading to myriad small apartments, there were two ornate doors, each leading to its own private penthouse. Lyle whistled at the obvious wealth. “Nice place.”
Kerry shrugged. “It’ll be a lot nicer once I buy the other unit. Rock-star neighbors are just as noisy as the stereotype suggests.” He opened the door, revealing a giant penthouse that seemed to ooze money. The main room was dominated by a massive wall of windows looking out over Central Park. Lyle walked to the windows and stood in awe. “How much are they charging you for this place?”
“A lot less than that view makes it worth,” said Kerry. “Wait ’til tonight, when the city lights up and this room just overflows with more barely legal tennis players than you’ve ever seen in one place at a time. It’s heaven.”
“You throw parties?”
“Why on earth would I have a place like this and not throw parties in it?”
Lyle turned back to him, confused. “What about Carrie?”
“I told you, I’m Armando now.”
“No, I mean your wife, Carrie.”
“Oh.” Kerry frowned, scrunching his forehead in thought. “She might show up. You interested?”
“Are you serious?” asked Lyle. “Saving her was the thing that started this whole stupid product in the first place, and now you don’t even know where she is?”
“Things change…,” said Kerry weakly, but he was cut off when the front door opened again and Cynthia walked in, deep in conversation with a Bluetooth headset.
“… the deposits have all been made, and Kerry’s back so we probably have the new payments. I’ll—” She stopped short, staring at Lyle. “He has a Lyle with him.”
“Not just a Lyle,” said Kerry, pouring himself a drink from a glass decanter by the wall. “The Lyle.”
“The Lyle?” asked Cynthia. She paused a moment, listening to her headset. “That’s what I thought, too,” she said. “Looks like we blew up the wrong one.”
Kerry rolled his eyes.
Two thoughts flashed through Lyle’s mind in a single instant: first, that Cynthia was supposed to be in São Tomé. Kerry had told him she was there, and if he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about? Lyle was too trusting—practically conditioned, he thought, to going along with whatever the other NewYew executives told him. Even months away from them hadn’t dulled their power, or his own naïve gullibility. He mentally kicked himself, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
The second thought followed quickly on the first, a fierce reminder that he knew exactly what he’d gotten himself into, and that getting back out of it was going to be absolute hell: Cynthia said that she’d thought they’d blown him up. Kerry had lied about knowingly killing the impostor. They’d been trying to kill the real Lyle all along.
And now he was alone with two of them, thirty floors from escape, with who knew how many Larries waiting in the back rooms of the house.
Kerry was already moving, his taut model’s body charging toward Lyle, head down, arms pumping. The room was wide, but Kerry would be on him in seconds. Lyle stumbled backward, bumping into a designer couch, nearly slipping on the polished floor, scrabbling in his jacket pocket, Kerry barely two yards away, and then Lyle found his gun and pulled it out and fired, and Kerry dropped to the floor with a strangled cry.
“Now he’s shot Kerry,” said Cynthia to her earpiece. “I’m going to have to call you back.”
Lyle looked up, wide-eyed, but Cynthia slipped back out the door and into the lobby, closing the door behind her. Kerry swore on the floor, clutching his shoulder. “You shot me!”
“You were attacking me!”
“Not with a gun! Where the hell did you get a gun anyway?”
“All the homeless Pillsbury Doughboys have them,” Lyle growled, and shoved the gun back into his jacket pocket. He grabbed a small blanket off the back of a couch—more of a shawl, really, once he had it in his hands—and wrapped it around the flailing man’s shoulder. “If you’re moving that much I didn’t hit anything important. Stick it out and the ReBirth will heal you in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s,” Kerry grunted, his teeth clenched in pain, “a four-thousand-dollar throw.”
“Then stop bleeding on it,” said Lyle. He pulled the knot tighter, eliciting another string of painful curses from Kerry, and stood up. “Is there any other way out of here?”
“The window,” Kerry snarled.
“Wonderful,” said Lyle, jogging to the kitchen, “you’re very helpful.” He made a quick circuit of the house—gun back out and ready, in case there was anyone else lurking in a back corner—but the apartment was empty, and there were no other exits. He ran through again, looking for a stash of ReBirth, but found nothing.
“We don’t keep the lotion here,” shouted Kerry. “Do you think we’re idiots?”
Lyle went back to the living room, looked around again, and saw the briefcase from the park handoff. Maybe there was something in there? He pulled it up onto the back of a couch and tried to open it, but it was locked.
“I thought you didn’t want our dirty money,” said Kerry. He had barely moved from his spot on the floor, and Lyle could just see him through the gap between a sofa and a chair.
