Free Countdown City: The Last Policeman Book II (Last Policeman Trilogy) by Ben H. Winters Page A

something. There was no one else who knew about this. ‘Sunshine, sunshine, mine all mine,’ I mean. This code phrase?”
    “Code phrase?” she says.
    Martha’s eyes focus on me and she’s giving me this pitying and perplexed expression, which I recognize from the old days, when I used to do things that surprised her—politely say “no, thank you” toa second glass of chocolate milk, or rise to turn off the TV immediately after our permitted half hour had elapsed.
    “It’s not a code phrase, Henry,” says Martha. “It was just a sweet little thing that we said to each other. A loving phrase we used. Because we loved each other.”
    “Right,” I say, slipping the piece of cardboard in my pocket. “Of course. Let’s go.”

3.
    Martha and I leave the bike chained to her cement birdbath and walk together from the Cavatones’ home toward Garvins Falls Road, skirting downtown, sticking to the quiet backstreets, the neighborhoods with active residents-association patrols. Marginally safer; nothing is safe.
    My mind is buzzing with questions. If Brett really came back, if it was really him, then why? Why leave and then return? Who abandons his wife and comes back to leave a forwarding address?
    Martha is untroubled by the specifics. Martha is borne forward by gusts of joyful anticipation. “I can’t believe it,” she says—sings, almost, like a schoolgirl. “We’re just going to walk in there, and Brett’s going to be waiting for me. I can’t believe it.”
    But she can believe it. She does. She’s walking so fast down Main Street on the way to the bridge that I have to hurry to keepup, even with my long stride. I loop my arm through hers, try to temper her pace. Walking quickly isn’t safe—too many loose stones and ruts in the sidewalk. She’s in a simple black cotton dress and I’m in my suit, and when I see our reflection in one of the remaining plates of the plate-glass window at what used to be Howager’s Discount Store on Loudon Road, we look like time travelers, like voyagers rocketed forward from another era; the roaring twenties, maybe, or postwar, a fella and his dame out for a noonday stroll, who accidentally took a wrong turn and came out on a rubbled path in a collapsing world.
    There’s no sign to identify the building on Garvins Falls Road, no indication of what businesses are here, or used to be, just the number “17” stenciled in rust-colored paint on the brick wall outside. Inside, the lobby is decrepit and bare, and there’s no passenger elevator—just a heavy fire door with the single word STAIRS , and the rusting gated doors of a freight elevator.
    “All right,” I say, looking slowly around. “Okay.”
    But Martha is already in motion, rushing across the empty room and tugging open the door to the stairs. Then she steps back, confused, and I whistle lightly in surprise. Behind the door is nothing: the stairs are gone, literally gone, it’s just an empty shaft with a railing running up the walls. Like the staircase has turned invisible, like it’s a staircase for ghosts.
    “Huh,” I say. I don’t like this. It’s purposeful, defensive, a fortification. Martha hugs herself as she stares up into the darkness of the stairwell.
    “We’ve got to get up there,” she says. “What do we do?”
    “Freight elevator. I’ll go first. You wait here.”
    “No,” says Martha. “I need to see him. I can’t wait anymore.”
    “We don’t know what’s up there, Martha.”
    “He is,” she says, jaw set, certain. “Brett is up there.”
    The doors of the elevator open immediately when I press the button, and Martha gets on, and I get on behind her, and my stomach tightens as the doors draw closed behind us. We lurch into motion. There’s a skylight in the ceiling of the elevator car and another one way up somewhere at the top of the shaft, sending down twice-distilled sunlight like a message from a distant star. As the car works its slow way upward, Martha, for all her