Vincent was up on level four, drilling holes in a concrete lift shaft wall. The holes were supposed to be formed during casting, but for whatever reason they weren’t, and for whatever reason, it fell to Vincent to remediate the error. The drill weighed fifteen pounds, and the holes were specified as six inches deep at five-inch centres, two inches off the steel tray he was standing on, and there were fifty-two lineal feet of wall to cover. Each goddamned hole had to be drilled and then vacuumed—the dust could undermine a competent epoxy bond on the rebar or something—and thirty minutes in he wasn’t sure if it was the actual labour he’d performed or the mental burden of the work that still awaited him, but his back was killing him. He was only five months out of the hospital following the helicopter crash, and six weeks out of the physical rehab program, and he was pretty sure his current activity wasn’t obeying the VA doctor’s admonishment to take it easy.

He stood up and stretched against the safety rail, trying to fix the ache, and when he looked down he saw the DeVille turn in off the street into the yard. That was different: before now, the car had always stayed at the fence. Vincent had a funny feeling that maybe four floors up was a good place to be right now. And already the brain department responsible for self-preservation was telling him This Is Not Your Problem. He had to think about that, though, because why would that instinct engage, were it not for the fact that Billy Ellis needed a hand?

He grabbed his coat and trotted down the temporary stairs, heard a shout from behind him that the holes wouldn’t get done unless he actually picked up the drill. Some other insult drowned out by the banshee scream of a saw, and he leaned out past the level-three safety rail and saw the DeVille with its rear door open, Billy Ellis standing there talking to someone on the back seat. At this height he looked more vulnerable—the tight, downward angle shrinking him from grown man to child. Like a street kid beckoned by some candy-toting weirdo.

The freight elevator was occupied. Vincent took the stairs down to level two and crossed the slab to the corner nearest the DeVille, put one leg and then the other across the safety rail. The corner column was a steel I-section, and he gripped the outside flange with his gloved hands and clamped his boots either side and slid down two floors to the ground. The jolt made his bad knee dip, and he stumbled briefly walking toward the DeVille.

‘Billy!’

Billy Ellis glanced over, but it didn’t stop him getting in the car. The door closed, and the DeVille reversed out onto the street and pulled away.