Lizardskin by Carsten Stroud Read Free Book Online

that weighed ten pounds, and he had six pounds of calf liver taped to his chest, over three explosive squibs and the radio detonator. Under the liver and the black-powder squibs he had a Kevlar and asbestos vest. Under that there was only him. He drew a long breath and felt the wind at his cheek. Holding a palm up into it, hestood awhile, lost in that sensation. Then he pushed the jump-marker a few inches to the left. It would be like throwing a Hail Mary pass the length of the field, with a bad side wind. He would have to allow for that.
    Gabriel was six feet even, and the last time he’d weighed himself, he had been a reasonable one sixty-five. He was good at his work. There wasn’t much that worried him. Dying like a putz in a fucked-up gag was one thing that did.
    They had rigged a transmitter under his flak vest. He keyed it on again. Mike’s voice buzzed in his left ear.
    “Mr. Picketwire—you reading?”
    “I’m reading you, Mike. What’s the story down there? This wind isn’t getting any better up here.”
    He saw one of the crewmen around the dumpster step back and look up at him.
    “We’re okay now. The compressor was fucked. Jody hadn’t changed the filter, so we were pushing crap into the nozzle. This bag’ll be up in about a minute. You still gonna do this thing?”
    “Is Nigel ready?”
    “Yeah.… He’s got Silverman here with him, so he’s gotta show her pages, and we been stuck on this gag for two days.”
    “I told him to second-unit the gags. The rest of these people could be doing interiors in Vancouver. He could shoot around this scene.”
    “Yeah. Well, you know Hampton. He’s an
auteur
, right?”
    “Yeah. Well, buzz me when it’s up. I stand around here any longer, I’m gonna talk myself out of it.”
    “Mr. Picketwire—Gabriel—why don’t we rig the harness instead? Drop on a line. Use the drum.”
    “Don’t trust the line. Someday somebody’ll die on one.”
    “Okay. One minute, then I’ll cue you.”
    Gabriel stepped back away from the edge. The tiles grated under his combat boots. The wind was a steady force up here, dry and dirty as truck exhaust. Under the soldier’s gear—so familiar and so strange—he could feel sweat running into the small of his back. Far into the east he could see the low black line of the San Bernardino Mountains. Beyond that there wasdesert, and then the big range. Home was back beyond that, as much as any of his people had homes anywhere now.
    He let his mind go that way for a while, wondering about Eddie and Earl Black Elk and old Jubal and his emphysema and whether that blue truck had made the climb through the passes. Well, if they had trouble, they’d call him. They’d promised him that.
    Something was moving against the smog and the haze. He strained to focus on it. Something flying out there. A small plane, maybe. Or a large bird. It rose up on a thermal and banked in a huge arc and dipped down again. Then it disappeared.
    Be good if that were an eagle or a hawk, thought Gabriel. How good it would be to believe in that kind of sign now. If that were really a hawk, it would mean something. It would be good to be able to believe in any kind of sign.
    That was the thing about working with these people out here. They knew about everything and believed in nothing. It was contagious. Now he had to turn around and walk over to the edge of the roof and step off without believing in anything but physics and gravity.
    He felt the need to urinate. He ignored the radio and walked over to an elevator cage. Better to leave this here, he thought. He’d seen men with belly wounds, seen how a full bladder of urine could kill you with a wound like that. If he drifted on the way down, he’d miss that bag. Maybe miss the whole dumpster. Maybe not. That would be worse. He might live.
    “Gabriel. Hey, you there?”
    He finished and walked back to the jump-marker, waved down at the crew. A hundred white faces looked up at him. Birds in a box.
    “You