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“I can’t do that!”
“Yes you can!” Starkey insists. “Think about the Graveyard. Think about how I stole that plane. And I killed Trace Neuhauser—did you know that? I could have saved him, but I let him drown.”
Connor grits his teeth. “Stop it, Starkey.”
“Kill me for the things I’ve done, Connor! I know you think I deserve it, and I’d rather die by your hand than go into that machine!”
“What good will it do? You’ll still go into that machine!”
“No, I won’t. My body will go in, but I’ll be gone. I’ll be harvested, but I won’t be unwound!”
Connor can’t look at Starkey’s pleading eyes anymore. He looks away and finds his gaze landing on the shark. The brutal, angry, predatory shark. Connor drops his gaze down to the habitual fist at the end of that same arm. He loosens the fingers, and clasps them again. He feels the strength in them.
“That’s right, Connor. Make it fast—I won’t resist.”
Connor glances to the intake door of the machine. It could open at any moment. “Let me think!”
“No time! Do this for me. Please!”
Can cold-blooded murder be just? Could it be an act of compassion instead of cruelty? If he does this, will Connor ever be the same? If Starkey’s alive, he’ll be unwound. If he’s dead, it will just be a harvest. Starkey’s right—Connor has the power to prevent this from being an unwinding. It’s a horrible power. But perhaps a necessary one.
“What if it were you?” Starkey asks. “What would you want?”
And when Connor thinks of it that way, his choice is clear. He’d never want to know what lies in store within that awful black box. He’d want to die first.
Before he can change his mind, Connor clamps Roland’s hand on Starkey’s throat. Starkey gasps slightly, but as he promised, he doesn’t resist. Connor squeezes tighter . . . tighter . . . then, the instant he feels Starkey’s windpipe close off, something entirely unexpected happens.
Roland’s hand unclamps.
“Don’t stop,” hisses Starkey. “Don’t stop now!”
Connor squeezes his fingers closed again around Starkey’s neck. He holds it, feeling Starkey’s pulse in the tips of his fingers—and again, his hand inexplicably releases. Connor starts gasping for air himself, not even realizing he was holding his breath along with Starkey.
“You’re a coward!” Starkey wails. “You’ve always been a coward!”
“No,” says Connor, “that’s not it.”
And finally it occurs to him what’s wrong.
Roland tried to choke Connor with this same arm the day before he was unwound, but he couldn’t do it.
Because Roland’s not a killer.
Connor slowly looks from his right hand . . . to his left. His own hand. The one he was born with. That’s the hand he brings to Starkey’s throat. That’s the hand that digs in until he feels Starkey’s windpipe collapse beneath his fingers. That’s the hand that is tenacious and determined enough to do what must be done.
Roland never had it in him to kill, thinks Connor. But I do . . .
It’s harder than Connor could ever imagine. Tears cloud his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” He doesn’t even know who he’s apologizing to. He holds eye contact with Starkey, whose eyes begin to bulge and dart in physiological panic. His limbs quiver, his face deepens into bruise shades—yet even so, Starkey forces the corners of his mouth up in a faint grin of triumph.
Just a few moments more . . . just a few moments more . . .
Connor knows the exact moment Starkey dies. Not because he sees it in his eyes but because a vital signs transmitter on Starkey’s ankle lets loose a piercing alarm. He pulls his hand from Starkey’s throat and, hearing the outer door being unlocked, Connor leaps to the wall of Unwinds, climbs up to his niche, and vaults himself in just as the inner door opens.
First in is a medic, then the man who must be Divan. Connor watches the drama unfold from his perch, trying to slow his breathing so they can’t hear him.
“How could this happen?” says Divan. “HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?”
“I don’t know,” says the nervous medic. “A heart attack maybe? A congenital condition we didn’t know about?”
