12.
Yesterday Early Morning

I tried to book a 5 AM slot at my local rink yesterday but it was already taken by some
hotshot Ukrainian pairs coach. Finally I begged for the 4:30 – 5:00 slot, told the guy I
knew where the lights were and he could leave the key under a mat outside the back
entrance.

Cold ice, cold boards, old skates I hadn’t put on in years. Lacing them up with a skate
key, tight as tourniquets around my ankles.

Steel hissing on the ice.

The trouble with paranoia is, once you start, there’s nowhere to go but down.

Here’s the thing: no further outbreaks of Red Horse.

Meaning, everybody who contracted the disease stayed in the building. Everyone who
got away, got out before they were breathed on or bled on or what have you. Thank god.

Sometimes miracles happen.

But recreate the situation. A jihadist (or his victim) is strung out on Red Horse. He plunges
into a crowded nightclub. A fight breaks out. A few people are cut. Maybe a couple of
people die. Maybe the bouncers step in. Maybe somebody calls the cops or the ambulance.
There’s a crowd, because there is always a crowd. And there are runners, because there
are always runners.

Nobody exposed to the virus tries to get out of there before the cops and EMT’s arrive? Of
course they do. Of course they do.

Only the doors are locked.

The only way the equation makes sense is if the doors were locked before I ordered them
locked.

If they were locked the minute the vector went downstairs.

I still take responsibility for ordering them all to die. That happened.

But somebody else was there before me.

*

The thing about competitive figure skating is, there are no secrets. Not in competition. You
go out into the circle of blazing light in front of a panel of judges and ten thousand people in
the stands and there is no place to hide. For four minutes, it is the most exposed place on
the planet.

And for that reason, in a strange way, the cleanest.

*

It was good to feel the ice under me again. At first I stayed close to the boards, getting my
legs back. I ramped it up, skating fast, crossover turns, my elbows brushing the fiberglass.
A half-turn, skating backwards now, still faster than most hockey players can skate going
forwards. Madame Olga used to make money teaching hockey players how to skate. Raced
them at the beginning of every camp, dumpy in her furs and chain smoking. Every year another
generation of guys drop-jawed to learn that on the best day of their lives they can’t skate with
a fat middle-aged figure skater.

For some reason, it was very difficult to get away from the boards and skate into the middle
of the ice.

*

If you accept that the nightclub doors were locked as soon as the vector went into the building,
everything gets simple. Black, but simple.

A terrorist wants a plague to spread, doesn’t he? He doesn’t want it contained.

Or say he does. Say this is a warning shot across our bow. Wouldn’t our terrorist try … a
government office? An army base? A school gymnasium? Doesn’t it seem odd that an IA
operative would target a pack of college kids full of dissident ideals?

*

The worst thing about paranoia is that you don’t know when to stop. Because if we set up the
business in the Star Chamber, what else might we set up?

Chopper Park was part of the gang that pulled off 2/22. I know that because it said so in his
dossier. The dossier that gave the greenlight to go Munich on him. Written by the people who
picked me to take the lead, take the shot.

*

Around and around the edge of the rink. Lights dim because I couldn’t stand them bright. The
horrible naked feeling in my shoulder blades, like someone had a scope on me.

The click and hiss and scrape of steel on ice. The sound of my breathing, getting louder. Head
down. Heart pounding.

Around and around. Around and around.

*

What were Gus’s orders? What would he have done if I had decided to take Park back to the
mainland for interrogation?

*

Only the hiss of skate blades in the darkness. And I never could force myself to fly out into the
middle of the ice, and jump.

Just circled the baseboards in the dark, leaving little orange teardrops on the ice.

Around and around.

*

Who killed my sister? Really?

13 -> all the vowels

12.
Yesterday Early Morning

I tried to book a 5 AM slot at my local rink yesterday but it was already taken by some
hotshot Ukrainian pairs coach. Finally I begged for the 4:30 – 5:00 slot, told the guy I
knew where the lights were and he could leave the key under a mat outside the back
entrance.

Cold ice, cold boards, old skates I hadn’t put on in years. Lacing them up with a skate
key, tight as tourniquets around my ankles.

Steel hissing on the ice.

The trouble with paranoia is, once you start, there’s nowhere to go but down.

Here’s the thing: no further outbreaks of Red Horse.

Meaning, everybody who contracted the disease stayed in the building. Everyone who
got away, got out before they were breathed on or bled on or what have you. Thank god.

Sometimes miracles happen.

But recreate the situation. A jihadist (or his victim) is strung out on Red Horse. He plunges
into a crowded nightclub. A fight breaks out. A few people are cut. Maybe a couple of
people die. Maybe the bouncers step in. Maybe somebody calls the cops or the ambulance.
There’s a crowd, because there is always a crowd. And there are runners, because there
are always runners.

Nobody exposed to the virus tries to get out of there before the cops and EMT’s arrive? Of
course they do. Of course they do.

Only the doors are locked.

The only way the equation makes sense is if the doors were locked before I ordered them
locked.

If they were locked the minute the vector went downstairs.

I still take responsibility for ordering them all to die. That happened.

But somebody else was there before me.

*

The thing about competitive figure skating is, there are no secrets. Not in competition. You
go out into the circle of blazing light in front of a panel of judges and ten thousand people in
the stands and there is no place to hide. For four minutes, it is the most exposed place on
the planet.

And for that reason, in a strange way, the cleanest.

*

It was good to feel the ice under me again. At first I stayed close to the boards, getting my
legs back. I ramped it up, skating fast, crossover turns, my elbows brushing the fiberglass.
A half-turn, skating backwards now, still faster than most hockey players can skate going
forwards. Madame Olga used to make money teaching hockey players how to skate. Raced
them at the beginning of every camp, dumpy in her furs and chain smoking. Every year another
generation of guys drop-jawed to learn that on the best day of their lives they can’t skate with
a fat middle-aged figure skater.

For some reason, it was very difficult to get away from the boards and skate into the middle
of the ice.

*

If you accept that the nightclub doors were locked as soon as the vector went into the building,
everything gets simple. Black, but simple.

A terrorist wants a plague to spread, doesn’t he? He doesn’t want it contained.

Or say he does. Say this is a warning shot across our bow. Wouldn’t our terrorist try … a
government office? An army base? A school gymnasium? Doesn’t it seem odd that an IA
operative would target a pack of college kids full of dissident ideals?

*

The worst thing about paranoia is that you don’t know when to stop. Because if we set up the
business in the Star Chamber, what else might we set up?

Chopper Park was part of the gang that pulled off 2/22. I know that because it said so in his
dossier. The dossier that gave the greenlight to go Munich on him. Written by the people who
picked me to take the lead, take the shot.

*

Around and around the edge of the rink. Lights dim because I couldn’t stand them bright. The
horrible naked feeling in my shoulder blades, like someone had a scope on me.

The click and hiss and scrape of steel on ice. The sound of my breathing, getting louder. Head
down. Heart pounding.

Around and around. Around and around.

*

What were Gus’s orders? What would he have done if I had decided to take Park back to the
mainland for interrogation?

*

Only the hiss of skate blades in the darkness. And I never could force myself to fly out into the
middle of the ice, and jump.

Just circled the baseboards in the dark, leaving little orange teardrops on the ice.

Around and around.

*

Who killed my sister? Really?

13 -> all the vowels