The Man With No Time Read Online Free PDF Page A

some control over something. So I closed the door, listening to desperate new commands from behind me, and as I tried to lock it, the knob turned in my hand and the door flew open and smacked me in the center of the forehead.
    The blow wasn't that strong, but it was unexpected. It propelled me backward into the hallway. My hip hit the little table that held the telephone, and my legs tangled around each other, and as I fell I saw two children come in.
    Well, they looked like children. They were tiny and delicate and black-haired and Asian, and they both had big, oily-looking, black semiautomatics.
    “Up,” the one in front said, gesturing skyward with a repeater that looked like it could uproot a live oak at half a mile. The other one eased past him, plenty of room in the hall for two people their size, and followed the barrel of his gun into the living room. I heard a sharp yelp in yet another language I didn't speak, and Pansy's commands ceased.
    “Up,” Number One said again. He was no more than five feet and a few inches tall, handsome in a diminutive way, and he was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt. A cascade of expensively curly black hair tumbled over his forehead. Tony Curtis, 1953. Watching his trigger finger as I climbed to my feet, I saw the initials FF tattooed blue on his right hand.
    “I'm up,” I said. “Where do you want my hands?”
    “On your head.” I complied, and he grinned. It wasn't an encouraging grin. “Carrying?” he asked.
    “No.” My stupid little gun was down in my stupid car.
    “Turn around. Forehead against the wall, legs wide, hands behind your neck, elbows back.” I saw him grin again as I turned.
    “Good,” he said behind me, patting me down. “Behave or I'm shooting you here"—he tapped a spot at the base of my spine. "No more marathon man,” he said. “No more knowing when you're going to go to the toilet.”
    His English wasn't actually accented; it was lilted, syllables tilted upward at the end of the words, so that “knowing" became "kno wing.” “And now,” he said, “turn around slowly, toward in there, and go say hi to everybody else.”
    “Okey-doke,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. I completed the distance to the living/dining room and followed directions. “Hi,” I said.
    Pansy, Horace, and Eleanor were huddled together on the exploded couch, staring at Number Two or, more likely, his gun. I hate guns, but most of all I hate guns and nervousness. Rattlers are calm before they kill you; after all, they're just doing what millions of years of natural selection have thoughtfully equipped them to do. But killing, for a person who's not a really advanced psychopath, is light-years from routine. Most of the people who kill other people are very nervous. This kid, whose ears looked wider than his shoulders, wider than Dumbo's, was ready to jump out of his skin.
    “This is all a mistake,” I said, trying to sound as calm, as dull, as a psychiatrist. “You guys are in the wrong place.”
    “No,” Handsome said behind me. “You in the wrong place.”
    Dumbo-Ears, also small, even thinner and shorter than the other, also dressed all in black, with a coil of rope hanging at his waist, eased the safety off with a tiny click that almost blew my eardrums out. His hands were shaking. He had a protruding Adam's apple that made him look like he'd swallowed a thumb, and it did a quick dive as he swallowed.
    “This is silly,” I said, hearing my voice crack. “These people just came home and found their children missing. Look at this place. Do you think we did this?”
    “Where's Lo?” Handsome said behind me, establishing himself as the dominant personality. He didn't slip his safety off because it was already off.
    “We don't know,” Eleanor said in a steady voice. “He was here when we left.”
    Dumbo-Ears looked quickly at Handsome. It wasn't a look my insurance agent would have appreciated. “What you think?” he snapped.
    “Slowly,”