The last of Gravenholtz's air dribbled out his nostrils. Weakened now, blinded, a sac of skin filling rapidly with water, he still managed to flail around, found Rakkim and wrapped his arms around him.

The two of them tumbled underwater, yellow viscous fluid from Gravenholtz's ruined eyes trailing behind them as they sank toward the bottom. Gravenholtz clung to Rakkim in a cruel embrace, their faces inches apart, slowly crushing him. Rakkim tightened his chest, but felt his ribs cracking, giving way. Light-headed, Rakkim watched a school of tiny orange fish zigzag around them, curious, nibbling at the bubbles of blood that floated past. A fish scooted in, nibbled at Gravenholtz's cavernous eye sockets.

Rakkim slammed the knuckle of his thumb again and again into Gravenholtz's temple, a killing strike that didn't kill him, but scared the fish away…and Rakkim would have laughed, but it hurt too much, and his vision was narrowing…narrowing…Terrible to die looking into Gravenholtz's face.

Then…then Gravenholtz released him, the redhead's arms drifting free, riding the watery currents. Rakkim coughed, a smoke ring of blood…but he didn't smoke. He feebly kicked toward the surface.

Rakkim broke through the waves, gasping, made his way to shore, crawled up onto the sand, exhausted. Breathing hurt, but not breathing hurt even more. He lay back in the morning light. Going to be…a great day in Rio.

Baby bent over him, kissed him. She had her party dress back on. Too bad. Rakkim rolled over, got onto his hands and knees. Baby helped him up.

"You…you knew he…" Rakkim coughed up pink water. "You knew he was too heavy to swim."

"I saw him about piss himself in a glass-bottom boat this one time," said Baby.

"Move away from him, Baby," said the Old One, pointing the fountain pen at Rakkim.

"You…you going to draw my picture?" Rakkim bent over again, coughing.

"That's not necessary, Daddy," said Baby.

"Move away from him now," said the Old One.

Baby moved away.

"Very impressive, Rakkim," said the Old One. "Killing Lester with your bare hands…that's quite a feat."

"Save the applause until…after I…kill you," said Rakkim.

"Your friend Jenkins told ibn-Azziz this ridiculous story about you killing Darwin," said the Old One. "Doing it by yourself. I didn't believe it, of course, but seeing what you just did…well, it makes me wonder."

"Jenkins…would have said anything to buy a little…little more time," said Rakkim.

"Did you do it, Rikki?" said the Old One. "Did you kill Darwin?"

"Come closer, I'll whisper in your ear," said Rakkim.

The Old One smiled. "I'm going to miss you, Rakkim."

"Daddy, no!"

The Old One aimed the fountain pen. "I offered you the world and you turned it down." Thin white strings streamed out of the pen. "Remember that as you die."

Rakkim tried to push aside the white strings but they were so sticky, wrapping around him, squeezing him even tighter than Gravenholtz. He felt his ribs splintering…tried to scream but there was no breath left in him.

The Old One kept spraying those silky white strings…until the moment that his chest exploded. He staggered…gingerly touched the sharp tines of the titanium spear protruding from his breastbone. Looked behind him.

Baby rested the speargun against her shoulder. "I asked you nice, Daddy."

CHAPTER 52

The world stopped. The Old One could see Rakkim staring up at him, the white polymer strings encasing him, and Rakkim's face was frozen in surprise, a single drop of water dripping off his earlobe, hanging suspended in space.

The surf froze, the waves immobile, about to crash on the virtual beach. The world as a snapshot. No such thing as snapshots anymore, they were as much an illusion as this stretch of sand, but the Old One remembered snapshots, photographs taken by tourists and lovers on holiday, snapshots taken with cheap cameras. Lovers would wait days to see what shining instants had been immortalized, precious moments to be tucked away in memory albums. Here we are at Cannes, darling, here we are at Miami, at Honolulu, at Bali, at Sydney, at Capetown. Here we are, here we are, here we are. The photographs were no more permanent than the newlyweds, yellowing and cracking over time, eventually fading to dust…like the lovers themselves.

The Old One bent over Rakkim, but he didn't react, just kept staring past him, and the Old One turned to see what had captured this new assassin's attention…and saw himself, arms flung to the sides, eyes wide, saw himself with the tip of a spear bursting through his chest in a spray of blood, each individual droplet shimmering like a ruby in the sunlight.

He moved closer, standing an inch from his own face, but got no reaction…this other self, this impaled self as immobile as the world. Behind him he could see Baby holding a speargun, her hair caught by the breeze, another frozen moment. She looked out of breath. No…not out of breath, exhilarated. Pleased. Proud.

The Old One walked toward her, moving quickly, his footsteps not even stirring the sand. He smacked her across the face, wanting to slap the joy out of her, but his hand…his hand passed through her as though she were just another illusion on the beach. He looked at his fingers, flexed them.

He looked closer at her, examined the speargun. It was one of the guns they had used yesterday when they went diving off the old airliner that had crashed into the bay. Baby's idea, the expedition booked through the hotel. The dive had been interesting, the submerged fuselage crusted with barnacles, sea anemones waving in the current, fish darting through the broken windows. The dive captain had been smitten with her, of course, eager to show her everything, and she had come back to the boat with a salmon wriggling on her spear. He wondered if she knew yesterday that she was going to use the speargun today, wondered if today had been an accident or an impulse.

No, no, of course it had not been an impulse. What was he thinking? This was no time to go soft-headed, no time…no time at all. It had taken foresight and planning to smuggle the speargun past hotel security. The dive captain had probably helped her do it, not even knowing what he was doing, accepting whatever explanation she gave him.

The Old One looked into Baby's eyes but he couldn't see his reflection, no matter how he twisted and turned.

He walked back to his other self, his doomed self. Put a finger on one of the droplets of blood bursting from his chest. His finger went right through it. He moved closer, looked into his own eyes. He couldn't see himself either, but he could see pain in the other's eyes. And surprise. The surprise was worse than the pain. The Old One couldn't afford to be surprised. Not like this. It showed a lack of awareness. A man could get hurt that way, and though the Old One was chosen by Allah, he was still a man. He would have to be more careful in the future. This was a lesson. He would not make this same mistake again. Yes, never again.

The sun…the sun seemed dimmer. Twilight at the beach, not at all what he expected. Have to…have to lodge a complaint with the management. He strolled along the tideline in the growing darkness, comforted by the feel of the sand on his feet and the warmth of the water. He wished he could see Gravenholtz bobbing along the bottom but the light…was almost gone. Maybe tomorrow. He wanted to see Gravenholtz's expression in death. That would be a look of surprise, and unlike the Old One, Gravenholtz would not get the opportunity to learn from his mistake.

Rakkim had killed Gravenholtz with his bare hands. Amazing. Too bad the boy had let his ego carry him away. Refusing the Old One's offer of a place at the table? Absurd. A fatal lack of imagination. Might even…might…even be characterized as blasphemy.