I dropped the phone, ran back to the window. "Hold on, Bale," I said. "Help's on the way." He must have tried to leap to the next roof, thinking that I was at his heels; and with that hole in his leg he hadn't quite made it.
I thought of Bale, sending me off on a suicide mission, knowing that my imposture was hopeless as long as I stood on my own legs; I thought of the killer shuttle that had lain in wait to smash us as we went in; of the operating room at the hideout, where Bale had planned to carve me into a shape more suitable for his purpose. I remembered Bale shooting down my new-found brother, and the night I had lain in the cold cell, waiting for the butcher; and still I didn't want to see him die this way.
He started to scream suddenly, kicking desperately. He got one foot up on the eave beside his white straining hands; it slipped off. Then he was quiet again. I had been standing here now for five minutes. I wondered how long I had been unconscious. Bale had been there longer now than I would have thought possible. He couldn't last much longer.
"Hold on, Bale," I called. "Only a little while. Don't struggle."
He hung, silent. Blood dripped from his shoe. I looked down at the alley below and shuddered.
I heard a distant sound, a siren, howling. I dashed to the door, opened it, listened. Heavy footsteps sounded below.
"Here," I shouted, "all the way up."
I turned and ran back to the window. Bale was as I had left him. Then one hand slipped off, and he hung by one arm, swinging slightly.
"They're here, Bale," I said. "A few seconds...."
He didn't try to get a new hold. He made no sound. Feet pounded on the stairs outside and I yelled again.