“It’s her again! She’s got the books!”
She looked down and was assaulted by a sudden wave of dizziness. She had to get solid fast. Instinct took over and she stepped off the wing of the plane.
She floated as gently as a feather to earth, barely conscious, and when she touched ground her body took over and became solid. The transformation ate up all her energy reserves, and she blacked out.
“But what about Cordelia?” Bagabond said, as they carried the packages down through the City Hall station toward the passageways leading to Jack’s home. The cats had joined them, the calico and the black rubbing contentedly against Bagabond’s legs.
“The Cajuns have a saying,” said Jack, opening the metal access door.
“What saying?”
The calico and black purred like Rip Van Winkle’s snoring.
“I don’t remember any more,” said Jack. His voice seemed to Bagabond to possess a manic edge. “Something to the effect that if you do the best you can, then the breaks’ll come. Or they won’t.”
“Right,” said Bagabond.
“I’ll find Cordelia. She’ll be okay.”
“You’re tired,” said the woman. “You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“I’m fine.”
Racing ahead, the cats beat them to Jack’s door. As he unlocked it and they all started in, Bagabond suddenly stiffened. “Jack,” she said, staggering a little. “I’ve got—something.”
Jack halted in midmotion, keys halfway into his pocket.
“It’s a rat,” she continued. “It’s in the shadows, on top of a cabinet. It sees . . .” Bagabond hesitated. “Damn it, Jack, it’s her!”
He hustled the cats and her inside the Victorian living room and shut the door. “Where?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. There are other rats in the building. I’m switching from one to the other . . . There!” She grinned. “I’ve got one outside, peeking out of the alley. It’s a bar, a club of some sort. There’s a big neon sign that moves.” She shook her head. “It’s in the form of a woman, a stripper with six breasts. You, uh . . .” Bagabond hesitated. “You have to walk between the legs to get in.”
“I’ve heard of it,” said Jack. “Freakers. Never been there.” He picked up an East Village Other, scanned the ads. “Nothing.” He grabbed the Fetish Times. “When all else fails . . .” Leafing through the pages, he said, “Okay! Here it is. Chatham Square.”
“Not too far,” said Bagabond. She was already up and heading for the door, the cats on her heels.
“No,” said Jack.
She turned to look at him. “No?” Tails switching, the cats stared at him too.
“You’ve got things to do. I can handle this.”
“Jack—”
“I mean it.” Jack set down the parcels he was still holding. “You get ready.” He unwrapped a smaller package and took out some cosmetics. “I took the liberty of buying these.”
“What are you doing?” she said as he set her down in front of the antique silvered mirror.
“It won’t take long,” he promised. “Then I’ll drop in at Freakers.”
“You’re crazy,” she said.
“Absolutely.”
Jack juggled the lip gloss and the blush. He tilted her head so that she was staring at herself in the mirror.
“It’s show time,” he said.
“Jack . . .” Bagabond shook her head stubbornly. “This talk we’re supposed to have . . .”
“Tomorrow.” He glanced up at the railway clock. “Later today. When there’s time.”
Bagabond uncharacteristically persisted. “Why, Jack?”
He bent down and looked levelly into her eyes. “You might as well ask why the wild card virus, Suzanne. It happens. You deal with it.”
She was silent for a bit. “It’ll take getting used to.”
“It did for me too.”
“I . . . still . . .” Her words dwindled to silence.
“Me too, love.” Jack kissed her. “Me too.”
Spector knew Fortunato had won. If it had been the other way around, the Astronomer would have cut Fortunato into fishbait before dropping him into the drink. Spector had watched the fight, same as everybody else. The difference was he knew what was going on. He couldn’t believe that stupid simp Fortunato had let the old man go. Now the Astronomer could hide out, lick his wounds, and wait until he could build his power up again. Spector figured the old man would try to make shore on the Manhattan side of the river. If Spector could find him, he’d take care of the Astronomer once and for all.
“It’s Judgment Day,” he said, rubbing his bad arm.
He walked down the deserted alleyway. It was cold enough to frost his breath. He was tired and numb. The alley dead-ended in a wall.
“Fuck.” He turned to leave, then stopped. There were voices on the other side. Familiar voices. He walked to the base of the wall and jumped, his aching muscles slowly pulling him up.
The Astronomer paused, breath wheezing and rattling in his chest. A cracked litany of hate dribbled from his mouth, the words hanging like beads on the long threads of saliva that were expectorated with each gasping breath. Roulette too stopped, waiting for him to find the strength to continue. Wondering with irritation why Tachyon was so slow. He should have been here by now. All of them joined in a final deadly union.
The Astronomer vanished into the dark mouth of an alley, and Roulette waited again for Tachyon. Who didn’t appear. She fled after the Astronomer. And almost blundered into the Takisian who stepped from a connecting alley. Shrank back among a jumble of packing crates. Watched as the alien covered his eyes, cast about like a fox on a trail, froze, followed unerringly the path taken only moments before by the Astronomer. Roulette fell in behind, Magnum clutched in both hands, barrel leading like a dousing wand.
A sharp right into another alleyway, which dead-ended a hundred feet further on in a brick wall. Tachyon, hands clenched at his sides, stared down at the Astronomer, fury etched in his delicate face.
“God damn you, Fortunato!” He threw back his head, and howled into the overcast sky. “You gutless wonder, you honorless piece of shit, you motherless procurer! I thought you were going to finish this. Instead you leave it to me! And I don’t want it,” he ended in a soft, sad voice.
The Astronomer continued his dogged crawl, not seeming to realize that he had entered a trap. Tachyon inspected his hands, drew a fighting knife from his boot, dithered. And Roulette cursed.
The scrape of a shoe on brick as a figure hauled itself onto the top of the wall. Squatted there like a man-sized gargoyle. Dropped into the alley, a curse exploding from him as his mangled, half-grown foot struck the pavement. Demise.
Roulette wept with vexation, licking away the salty tears as they streamed down the corners of her mouth. Lifted the gun. Demise would not be allowed to cheat her.
“James!”
He strolled forward, the half-formed foot throwing him into a lurching, rolling gait. “So you remember me, Doc.”
“Yes,” Tachyon replied, edging cautiously away from the menace in Demise’s acne-scarred face. “We’ve been worried about you.” They revolved about the prone body of the Astronomer, until Demise’s skinny back came up square in front of Roulette, blocking her aim.
“I’ll just bet, you fucker.” He turned his awful gaze from the Takisian to the pitiful figure at his feet. “Well, well, look what you’ve found.” He nudged the Astronomer with his partly regenerated foot. “Hey, Master, I’m still here. And you’re dead.”
Tachyon started forward, and Roulette danced from side to side, trying to get a clear shot past Demise. “What are you going to do?”
“Kill him. You gonna try to stop me, you little puke?”
“No.”
Demise stared hard at the alien’s knife, threw back his head, and laughed, the sound echoing wildly off the walls. “Gonna deal a little death yourself tonight, eh, Tach
y? Gonna play God again? Give a little life today, take it away tomorrow.”
“Stop, please.” A broken whisper.
The words crashed through Roulette touching—something. Violent shudderings ripped through her body, the gun fell from nerveless fingers, hit, detonated, the chambered round ricocheting off the brick wall over Demise’s head.
“Shit!”
Tachyon and Demise whirled to face her, and the Astronomer, with a burst of hoarded strength, came to his feet.
The Astronomer’s voice was a dry rasp. “Help me, James. Kill them. I’ll reward you. Help me. Anything you want. Just help me now. So weak. No power left.”
Spector grabbed the Astronomer, blackened bits of flesh coming off in his hands. “I don’t think so, old man.”
The Astronomer lunged for the wall. Spector spun him around, but the Astronomer became insubstantial in his hands, stepped back, began to melt into the brick wall. Well, one power left.
Pale, almost-blind mole eyes locked with Spector’s. The perfect sharing of the perfect moment. This time there was nothing to block him. The death flowed quick and hard into the Astronomer. The old man gasped and began to solidify.
The bricks around him split and glowed red with heat. Blood poured hissing into the cracks and down the wall. Bricks closed lovingly on flesh.
Spector let out a sigh of relief. He’d done it. Nobody in the world would have given him a chance in hell of killing the old bastard, but he was dead. The Astronomer, Lord Amun, the Master, Setekh the destroyer.
And he was still around to talk about it.
The sound of pursuing footsteps echoing loudly in the empty street. Closing in! Hands seizing her. Roulette, sobbing, choking with fear, whirled, attacking her captor with teeth and nails. A steel-like grasp closed about her wrists, pulling her into a tight embrace. The fresh and now familiar scent that was Tachyon washed across her. She slumped in his arms, and a slim, small hand stroked her cheeks, wiping away the tears.
Tachyon’s mind flowed through hers like a clean, icy-cold stream, soothing the wounds left by the collapse of the shields. Washing away the memories, drowning deep the Astronomer’s touch. What remained was a vast, aching emptiness.
She could feel the Magnum forming a cold wedge between them. He stepped back, hands dropping limply to his sides, and the pistol dropped from her hand. They regarded each other across a space of air that seemed impossibly wide. The gun lay on the ground between them.
“You’re not healed. It’s not my gift. But I have done what I can.”
“I wanted to kill you.”
“You should avoid undue emotional and mental stress.”
“I did kill Howler.”
“You should perhaps enter therapy.”
“And there’ve been others.”
He stooped, swept up the gun, and extended it to her butt first. “Then finish it. If that is what you must have in order to find peace.”
“Oh, God damn you!” A garbage can rang like a sour bell as the heavy pistol slammed into it. “I killed Howler!”
“I know. There is very little about you that I don’t know.” His thin lips twisted in a sad, sick, little smile. “I have an amazingly elastic and creative conscience. Part of my upbringing. I can raise three excellent reasons to justify your vendetta. To be avenged is—”
Her hand lashed out and took him across the face. “That is crap! Stop worming out of it, and give me a decision. What are you going to do?”
The tip of his tongue touched the newly opened cut on his lip. “Are you planning to turn yourself in to the authorities?”
“No.”
“Then I am going to do nothing. A telepathic reading is not admissible evidence in a court of law.” Again that sad smile. “I also would not relish describing the situation in which I made that reading. It would do little for my dignity.” A hand slid in an unconscious protective gesture to his crotch.
Turned, walked away. Aware now of the filth beneath her bare feet, the mud caking the silk gown. A fitting envelope for her soul.
“Roulette.” She paused, but did not look back. “Earlier I said I loved you. I think I still do.”
“Don’t burden me this way.”
“Call it my punishment for you.”
“I’ve lived on hate. Now there’s nothing. Let me see if I’m capable of anything beyond those two states.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She smiled despite herself. “Damn you, I think you will.”
Spector sat in the alley, his back to the cold brick wall. The others were gone; he was alone with the old man.
“Didn’t quite turn out the way you planned, eh, Astro?” He patted the Astronomer’s cheek. “Or maybe it did. Might be just what you had in mind all along.”
Spector felt empty and tired. He’d thought with the Astronomer dead there would be some kind of relief. Ever since the fight at the Cloisters earlier in the year he’d had a look-behind-you fear of the old man. There was no focus for him now.
He looked into the Astronomer’s dead eyes. “Now you know what I went through. Not that you’d care, even if you could say anything. Probably just scream at me for fucking up.”
Spector heard someone throwing up at the mouth of the alley. He backed up the wall into a standing position, took a last look at the Astronomer, and headed toward the street.
The man was on his knees, wiping his mouth. He stood and stepped back from the pool of vomit. He was about the same height as Spector, young, and not smart enough to stay out of alleyways in Jokertown. The suit he wore was gray, Spector’s color.
Spector could use some new clothes, again. His baseball uniform was almost no help against the early morning chill. He tapped the man on the shoulder. “I’ll give you this authentic Yankee uniform for that suit of yours.”
The man jumped, then recovered and gave Spector a tough look. “Don’t give me no static, man. I’ll cave your head in.”
Spector was dead tired. He didn’t want to use up his remaining energy undressing another corpse. “If you don’t do what I say, you’re going to die. That suit worth dying for? I don’t think so.”
The man raised his fists.
“Stupid,” Spector said wearily. “You’ve got something in your eye.”
“What?”
“Me.” He locked eyes and put the man down. “Dumbass.” Spector pulled off the man’s coat and threw it over his shoulders. The pants would be more trouble than they were worth to him.
It was time to attend to a little unfinished business. Time to head back to the garbage barge and visit Ralph.
“So long, suckers,” he said to dead men in the alley. No sound. He thought about some poor city worker trying to chip the old man’s body out of the wall, and smiled.
Jennifer regained consciousness with pain stinging her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open to see the palm of an open hand approaching her face, and she felt rough, strong hands holding her up. The palm connected with her cheek again, bringing her consciousness to full resolution.
They were outside the Tomb, clustered by the limo parked before the statue of Jetboy. Wyrm was holding her upright and Loophole was slapping her silly while the third man—middle-aged, Oriental, running a little to fat—was watching. He idly swung the bag containing the books as Loophole slapped her. He was, she realized, Kien.
They finally saw she was conscious again. Wyrm released her and stepped aside. She slumped against the side of the limo, unable to stand by herself, and glared at them. Another figure, vague in the darkness, stood beyond Kien and Loophole. Hope flared, then died, when Jennifer realized that it was just another of Kien’s omnipresent goons.
“You’ve been quite an inconvenience,” Kien said in a mild voice. “A great inconvenience indeed. I wanted you to be awake for this.” He nodded at Wyrm and the joker drew a small, ugly-looking snub-nosed pistol from a holster clipped at his waist. “It shall be a pleasure to watch you die.”
Wyrm raised the pistol and Jennifer c
losed her eyes. She tried to ghost, but couldn’t. The energy she needed to power the transformation just wasn’t there. She’d never pictured herself dying this way, never really pictured herself dying at all.
“Not there, you fool,” Kien said with a trace of exasperation, “you’ll ruin the finish on the limousine.” He turned to the man standing in the background. “Take her away from the car.”
The collar of his jacket was turned up against the chill of the early morning, his hat was pulled down low over his face. Jennifer glanced at him dully, and her eyes stayed on his face and stared.
Her lips formed the name, Brennan, and in a single motion he grabbed her by the arm, whirled her out of the way, and ripped the gun from Wyrm’s hand with a sidekick that sent it clattering into the night.
Wyrm hissed in surprise, his tongue twisting like a blind snake. Jennifer glanced at Kien and saw shock and anger and finally fear chase themselves across his face.
“It’s him!” Kien said in a low voice, half to himself. Then he screamed. “Kill him! Kill him!”
Brennan faced Wyrm empty-handed, one hand open, the other clenched into a fist. He stood and smiled at the joker, seeming, to Jennifer, to invite an attack. Wyrm leaped at him and they grappled. Brennan was borne back against the side of the limo by the superior strength of the joker, and Wyrm, triumphant, drew back to strike.
But Brennan moved faster than the joker. He opened his clenched fist for the first time and reached out and grabbed the joker’s tongue with it, close to the root. He slid his hand down Wyrm’s tongue, smearing it with a sticky brownish substance, then released it.
Wyrm’s eyes tried to jump from their sockets and he screamed, fell to the ground, and thrashed about like a man on fire while pawing at his tongue.
Loophole grabbed Jennifer as Wyrm howled in agony, and she heard the approaching footsteps of running men. Kien dropped the bag with the precious books in it, drew the pistol holstered at his waist, and pointed it at Brennan.