“That one.” The Astronomer pointed to the girl in the University of Houston sweatshirt and closed the door.
Imp pulled off the woman’s sweatshirt and dragged her to the altar. He quickly manacled her hands and then unzipped her jeans and began working them down her legs. He tossed them on the floor and tore off her red cotton panties, then fastened her feet down.
Spector felt the dark-haired woman tense and he gripped her arms tighter.
“Get her ready.” The Astronomer opened a drawer in the altar’s side and pulled out a syringe. He made a fist and tied his arm off, then sank the needle in and slowly injected what Spector knew had to be heroin. The old man took a deep breath and pulled out the needle, leaving a tiny red dot. His arm was lined with them. The Astronomer unsashed his robe and let it drop. Imp kneeled between her legs and began moistening her with his tongue.
The Astronomer walked unsteadily over to the altar, stroking his erect penis. “What’s your name, my dear?”
“Caroline.” She struggled ineffectually against the chains. “You have any idea whose girls we are? You’re going to be in deep shit if anything happens to us.”
The old man laughed and pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Fortunato the pimp. He’s been a nuisance to me for years, but not much more than that. What could be more appropriate than using his own women to insure his destruction.” He turned to Imp, who still had his head buried between her legs. “That’s enough.”
Imp stood and walked silently over to where Spector and Insulin held the other two women. He tugged at the end of his tongue trying to pull away a stray pubic hair. “We taking him with us?” Imp indicated Spector.
“I think so.” The old man ran his finger down the naked woman’s body as he walked around the altar.
“You leave her the fuck alone.” The woman in the electric-blue dress strained to get away from Insulin, then went limp in her arms.
“No more interruptions.” The Astronomer stood in the altar’s notch, between Caroline’s legs. He pushed into her and closed his eyes. The only sounds in the room were the Astronomer’s labored breathing and the soft rattle of the manacles.
The Astronomer put his hands under her armpits and drew his fingers slowly down her rib cage, leaving deep red furrows in her flesh. Caroline screamed. The old man brought his hands to his mouth and nibbled at the skin he’d torn from her. Blood began to pool on the polished wood. The Astronomer carved a symbol into the skin around her navel.
The dark-haired girl looked away and began to shake. Spector pulled her close. “What’s your name?”
“Cordelia.”
“He’s going to do this to all of you, unless somebody stops him. Only an idiot would try, though.” Spector wondered about Imp’s comment. Where the hell were they going? The Astronomer had said something about other worlds that morning, but it hadn’t sunk in until now.
The Astronomer straightened his back. His body was covered in a sweaty sheen; he was gaining vitality with every stroke. Caroline rotated her pelvis down as far as she could, trying to push the old man out of her. She clenched her teeth in pain, but was no longer screaming.
“Stupid bitch.” The Astronomer pulled out and climbed on top of her. “Imp, take care of her.” He pointed to Corelia. “Demise, get over here.”
Spector waited until he was sure Imp had a good grip on the girl, then walked to the head of the altar.
“You don’t mind if I fuck you in the mouth, do you, my little bitch?” The Astronomer slid up her body.
“You just try it, asshole.” She opened her mouth wide, baring her teeth.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve got my own special way of doing it.” He reached for her throat and sliced it open with a finger.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” Spector said, bracing himself. He grabbed her head and twisted hard. There was a pop as her neck gave way. Caroline convulsed and was still.
“Idiot.” The Astronomer grabbed Spector and threw him across the room. “You killed her, wasted her energy.” He grabbed Caroline’s head and bounced it hard against the altar. “I’ll kill you for this. As soon as I’m done with them. Pain like you’ve never imagined, Demise. Imp, bring me the next one.” He undid the manacles and dumped the corpse on the floor.
Spector stood up and looked for something he could use as a weapon. There were knives in the altar’s open drawer if he could get that far. He felt his knees getting weak. Insulin again.
Imp tore at Cordelia’s dress and dragged her forward. Her face was white. “No.” She screamed and pulled away from Imp. The little ace gritted his teeth and clutched at his chest.
“What the fuck?” Spector righted himself. Whatever was happening had distracted Insulin enough to make her forget about him. He ran toward the Astronomer, ignoring the pain from his crippled foot.
Imp dropped to the floor, gasping and tearing at his shirt. “She’s doing it.” The Astronomer pointed at Cordelia, who took a step backward. “Stop the little bitch. Insulin, look out.”
The warning came too late. Veronica was awake and clawing at Insulin’s face, dragging her to the floor. Spector slammed into the old man, knocking him over the altar, then turned to Insulin. Veronica was out again. Insulin didn’t notice Spector moving in from behind. He spun her around and hit her hard on the chin, twice. Her eyes rolled up into her head.
A final gasp came from Imp’s now bluish lips, then he was still. “Very impressive, my dear. You somehow stopped his cardiac and respiratory functions simultaneously. A painful death.” The Astronomer wiped his bloody hands on the altar as he pulled himself into a standing position. “Yours will be even more painful.”
Spector knew the Astronomer could negate Cordelia’s power with his own. It was what happened every time he tried to kill the old man. He decided to try something. They were dead anyway if he just stood around. He moved in closer.
“Whatever you did to Imp, lady, try to do it to him.” Spector pointed to the Astronomer, who turned to look at him. Spector locked eyes and tried to force his death into the old man’s mind. He felt the Astronomer block him off. “Do it now,” he yelled at Cordelia. Pain flickered in the old man’s eyes and he reached for his heart. It was like Spector figured. The Astronomer couldn’t block two ace powers at once, and Cordelia’s was getting through.
Spector kept pushing hard mentally. The Astronomer couldn’t look away now that their eyes were locked.
The Astronomer dropped to his knees. “Kill you all,” he said, just loud enough for them to hear.
“Not this time, you old fuck.” Spector’s breathing was getting ragged from the strain.
“What are you doing?” Veronica was awake and looking at Cordelia.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done it before.”
The Astronomer slid his right hand underneath the skin and into his own chest. He screamed.
“Jesus, let’s get the hell out of here.” Veronica grabbed Cordelia by the wrist and dragged her toward the door.
Spector broke contact and stared for a moment at the muscles in the Astronomer’s forearm. The old man was massaging his heart to keep it going. The Astronomer stared hatefully at Spector. “Dead. All of you.”
Spector ran after the women. “Hey, come back. We have to finish him now.” He heard a hiss as the Astronomer started breathing again. “Fuck it. Somebody else will have to do it.”
Spector ran through the apartment toward the elevator. Veronica had her dress caught on the elevator door and was tearing at it to get free. Spector dived inside the elevator, knocking Veronica down and putting another tear in her already-ruined dress. Cordelia punched the button for the groundfloor. The cables creaked and the car began to go down.
“I don’t get it,” Jay said. “I just don’t get it. Not milk. Not lemon juice. Heat doesn’t do a thing. The impressions are too faint to be worth a bucket of warm spit. I just don’t get it.” He slammed the notebook shut with a sound of disgust, and stared down
morosely at the bamboo pattern on the blue cloth cover.
Hiram stood by the window, peering out around the corner of a torn shade. Jay’s tiny two-room office was on the fourth floor of a dilapidated brick building on 42nd Street, half a block off Broadway. From the window he could see the marquee of the Wet Pussycat Theater. Alternating messages flashed in blue and red on the neon sign to his left. GIRLS GIRLS NAKED GIRLS was blue, while ALL-DAY ALL-NIGHT ALL-TOPLESS was red. Popinjay said he met a nice class of people in the building.
Hiram dropped the shade and turned away from the lights. Jay’s desk was covered with the remains of the pizza—sausage, mushrooms, extra cheese, anchovies on Ackroyd’s half—that they’d finished an hour ago. Hiram had been giving his power a workout, and it had left him drained and famished. The pie had helped. He wished they had another. Instead, they had three rather troublesome books.
“We can’t stay here,” Hiram said, lowering himself to sit on the radiator. He’d let his real weight return for the last few hours, to give himself a rest, and the ladderback chair Jay kept for clients hadn’t been equal to the task. Hiram wasn’t sure he was either; he felt exhausted. “They have to be looking for us,” he continued. “Sooner or later they’ll find your office.”
“I don’t know why,” Ackroyd said. “The clients never do.”
“Droll,” said Hiram. “I hope you retain your sense of your humor when people begin shooting at us.”
“No one’s shown yet,” Popinjay pointed out. “Hey, Yankee Stadium’s a long walk, especially on one foot.”
“A foot and a half,” Hiram said.
“For all we know, Demise is still up on top of the scoreboard, and Loophole is still sitting by the phone, wondering whatever became of him.”
Hiram stood, frowning. He was very tired. Lack of sleep was beginning to catch up to him, now that he was no longer in any immediate danger. He needed coffee. Better yet, he needed eight or ten hours in bed, preferably without having to worry about someone breaking into his house to kill him. “Enough is enough,” he declared. “I seem to recall vaguely that we had a good reason for getting involved in this, but I can’t recall just what it was.” He crossed the room, picked up the two notebooks with the black leather covers. “My interests run to numismatics rather than philately, but I know these stamps are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, at the very least. As for that other book, I don’t know what to make of it, and neither do you. It’s of no value to us.”
“Makes us the odd men out,” Ackroyd said. “Everybody else sure as hell wants it.”
“Precisely,” Hiram told him. “I’m going to call Latham. I want you on the other line.”
The detective lifted an eyebrow. Hiram fished the paper Chrysalis had given him out of his jacket pocket and went out to Ackroyd’s waiting room, a tiny cubicle filled to the point of claustrophobia with a dead orange sofa, a gray steel desk, and the receptionist, an extremely buxom blonde whose mouth was pursed in a perpetual O of surprise. Her name was Oral Amy; Jay had found her at a place called Boytoys somewhere in the East Village. Hiram lifted her by her hair, seated himself in her chair, picked up the phone, and dialed.
It rang twice. “Latham.”
“I won’t mince words with you,” Hiram said crisply. “This is Hiram Worchester. We have your books.” He heard Jay pick up the extension.
“I don’t know which books you’re referring to.”
“Of course you do,” Hiram said in aggrieved tones.
“Hiram,” Jay said, “he’s just covering his ass, in case we’re recording this. Isn’t that right, Latham?”
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. Finally Latham said, “It’s quite late. Let’s speed this along. What’s the purpose of this call?”
Hiram pulled at his beard and considered his words. “A legal matter,” he said. “Let us suppose a hypothetical case, purely for purposes of discussion. Say I had, very innocently, acquired some books. Two black leather books filled with valuable stamps, let’s say, and one blue cloth notebook whose contents are, ah, interesting. Are you with me?”
“Assuming these books had indeed been acquired innocently, I’m sure that you would want to see them returned to their rightful owner,” Latham said.
“Certainly,” Hiram said. “In fact, in our hypothetical case, I’m sure that very thought might have been on my mind when I liberated the books from the custody of a notorious wanted felon. I can’t help but speculate on how the felon acquired them. Theft, perhaps?”
“If so, the owner might be quite grateful for their safe return. A reward might even be in order.”
“The act is its own reward,” Hiram said.
“Hey!” Jay protested.
“Quiet,” Hiram said, “Now, Mr. Latham, since we’re discussing stolen property here, the correct procedure would be to turn over the books to the police.”
“Technically, yes, but if there was a question of charges, the property might be impounded as evidence. The rightful owner might conceivably find that inconvenient.”
“I see,” Hiram said. “Now I think we understand each other. Let’s be blunt. I don’t know who the owner is, and I’m not likely to, am I?”
“Perhaps not.”
“I do know that you represent him, however. No, don’t deny it. I’m too tired for more of these games. Your client wants his notebooks back? Fine. I’m a businessman, Mr. Latham, not a stamp thief or a racketbuster. Let us do some business, and you can have the books back. Here are the terms. First, no charges or retaliation against me, my restaurant, or any of my friends, including Mr. Ackroyd. The lawsuit against him will be dropped.” Hiram cleared his throat and leaned forward. Oral Amy was staring up at him from the floor, mouth open wide as if even she were a little surprised at what he was doing. “Second,” he said firmly, “the protection racket at the Fulton Street Fish Market will be terminated immediately. Gills and the other fishmongers will be free to conduct their business without any further harassment or fear. Third, I want Bludgeon to go to prison.”
“I’m not a judge,” Latham said. “I can’t guarantee who will and won’t go to prison.”
“If your client promises that Gills will not be harmed, then his testimony will do the job. If it doesn’t, fine. I’ll take that chance.” He took a deep breath. “That’s it.”
“I’ll need to consult my client. Offhand, I think these terms might be the basis for an agreement. I’ll get back to you. What’s your number?”
“No way,” Popinjay put in. “How dumb do you think we are? No, we’ll do a meeting. The four of us, me and Hiram, you and your client.”
“Where and when?” the attorney asked.
“The Crystal Palace,” Ackroyd said. “After closing. Chrysalis will act as broker, for a fee. She’s got a telepathic bartender who’ll make sure no one is stacking the deck.”
“Agreed,” said Latham.
His hands played across her, caressing, almost worshiping. She was dimly aware that something had changed. Something had been added. His attention was almost obsessively focused upon her. It would have been disturbing had she been more aware. But he was competing with a Dantesque vision—it’s hidden away. Wish it would die. She keeps going to see it. It tries to nurse. And his murmured endearments could not be heard over the other voices. “You are obviously both latents. Unfortunately the virus chose to express in your child.”
“That Thing has nothing to do with me! It is apparent that my wife has been less than faithful.” Reproachful brown eyes, the face set in lines of heroic betrayal. “I could forgive almost anything else, Rou, but family is everything.”
“Josiah, why are you doing this to me? When I need you so?”
No pity.
Tachyon entered her, and she tensed, closing her moist softness close around him. Cobweb fingers brushing at the shields. Her body seemed to be shrinking in on itself as she gathered her will, summoning death from every cell. For an instant she hesitated, and the indeci
sion was a physical pain.
This man, so . . . good. They had shared music, love, and fear. No other path to freedom from . . . monsters.
A conscious, willful choice, the release of death, it flowed softly, a gentle implacable love.
And her shields fell. They were an artificial construct. And as she released, her mind broke under the stress, and, with it, the shields.
Roulette felt his ecstasy as for one brief flicker of time they were one. Then horror replaced joy. She felt him touch it all. The child, Howler, Josiah, the Astronomer, Baby, DEATH!
He recoiled, falling from the bed in a tangle of bedding, and crawled to the far wall. He huddled, retching for several minutes, then the spasms gave way to sobs, and he rocked back and forth hugging himself as tears ran down his bruised face.
Get out of here. For god’s sake, run! But she couldn’t force strength into her legs, so she curled against the pillows, and watched him cry. It was pointless anyway. They would run her down soon enough. And she wanted it to end. She couldn’t go on living with the memories. Perhaps it was because she had failed to kill Tachyon that the nightmare kept replaying. She considered for a moment then rejected the notion. No, it was because the Astronomer had lied. And she realized she wasn’t quite ready to die. First, there would have to be a reckoning.
CHAPTER 22
3:00 a.m.
Spector looked around before darting across the street. Cordelia and Veronica trotted after him.
“Slow down for god’s sake,” said Veronica. She was holding her lamé dress bunched up above her knees. “That old man isn’t going to bother us anymore. He looked pretty bad when we left. Might even be dead by now.”
Spector shook his head and guided Cordelia toward the darkness between streetlights. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, lady. He’s got power enough to waste all of us. All he has to do is pull someone off the street and finish what he started with your dead friend. What was her name? Caroline?”