Police officers pushed through the crowds of people starting to encircle them. Now there were more sirens coming—fire engines and ambulances. Two policemen wrestled momentarily with the TV cameramen, who also wanted to push through the crowd to get close-ups. “Move it or lose it!” snapped one of the cops, and the cameramen got the hell out of his way.
Arthur lay in the center of the circle, moaning softly, but sitting up. The children’s mother was sobbing, clutching them to her, a bag of groceries lying forgotten on the ground nearby. Everyone was shouting questions at once, and Arthur simply sat there for a moment, dazed, trying to take it all in. Then he fought his way to a standing position.
“Whoa, fella,” one of the cops said, “steady ...”
“Gwen ...” Arthur said through parched, broken lips. “Have to get ... to Gwen ...” But there was a sharp pain in his chest, and he started to cough violently. “Gods, I’m centuries too old for this sort of thing.”
From all around him, people who had been guests at the dinner were murmuring in amazement at what they’d seen. It was as if all wanted to reach out, to touch him, to say something to him in low, reverent tones.
As the fire trucks rounded the corner, there were shrieks as the roof of the building collapsed in on itself with a heartrending crash. The firemen were already leaping off, looking at the shattered hydrant in confusion, and seeking out alternate sources of water.
“Arthur!”
He turned and saw Gwen shoving her way through the crowd. But she was having trouble doing so; fortunately enough, Percival was right behind her. Moments later he was in front of her, strong-arming people out of the way so that she could get to Arthur.
Arthur let out a long, unsteady sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the Lord, Gwen. It’s good to see you.” He winced as he touched his leg. “Help me get back to the hall. People paid good money to hear me babble about some nonsense or other.”
An ambulance had pulled up, and paramedics were already leaping out of the back. “Arthur, don’t be crazy!” Gwen was saying. She shouted to the paramedics, “Over here!”
“Attend to others! I’m fine!” Arthur snapped.
“Now!” Gwen insisted, and he realized she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Moments later they were seated inside an ambulance. It was not, however, moving, as the paramedics were busy offering aid to others, assessing the situation and seeing who—if anyone—needed immediate conveyance to the hospital. The firemen were busy battling the blaze and, apparently, winning. Gwen sat next to Arthur, as the king drew in oxygen from a tank, while Percival stood just outside the ambulance, ensuring privacy and keeping everyone at bay.
“What happened, Arthur? How did—?”
“That can wait,” he said, speaking through the oxygen mask on his face. “Where’s Merlin?”
No reply.
Arthur looked up into Gwen’s eyes. “Gwen?”
She turned away. With forced calm, Arthur said, “Gwen! Where the hell is Merlin?”
“One of those waiters,” she said tonelessly. “Knocked him out. Percival tried to stop him; so did I. He made off with him.”
“What?!” Arthur was trembling with rage. “Why didn’t Percival himself tell me this?”
“Because this is the first moment alone we’ve had, and we wanted to wait until we knew you were out of immediate danger. You inhaled smoke, you were bleeding, you—”
“Damnit, Gwen, they’ve got Merlin! I cannot believe Percival allowed them to—”
She tried to restrain him. “Arthur, come on! Percival was caught off-guard by a demon! He tried! It’s not right to blame him’”
“Yes ... yes, of course,” Arthur managed to calm himself, albeit just barely. And then, suddenly, a thought lanced through him, like a spear. His hand had been resting on Gwen’s shoulder, but now it flexed so hard that Gwen yelped.
“Arthur! What’s—?”
His voice was a sick whisper. “How did you know?”
“W-what? What do you—”
He turned to confront her, and Gwen’s body shook with fear from the look in his eyes. “How did you know Percival fought a creature from hell, a demonspawn, and not a human being?”
“You told me.”
“No.”
“Yes. Just now. You—”
“Don’t make it worse!” he shouted at her. “Don’t lie to me!”
Tears streamed down her face as she tried to shrink from him, but there wasn’t room in the ambulance to get away from him. “Arthur, please don’t—”
“How did you know?”
“Morgan told me!” she screamed. “She told me they would be there. She arranged for everything.” She was speaking desperately, words tumbling one over the other. “But she told me she just wanted the sword. That’s all. She swore no one would be hurt. I thought—”
“And you provided the distraction.” His words were cold, burning with an icy flame that also blazed in his eyes.
“Yes. Bu—”
He shoved her away roughly, fists clenched as he trembled with repressed fury. “Damn you! How could you betray me again?”
Her body racked with sobs, as she said, “Arthur, please. I had no choice. Lance—”
“Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me.” His voice was pure venom. “You’re not fit for human company!”
He shoved open the door of the ambulance, tossing aside the oxygen mask, and immediately there were cameras going off, mikes in his face, reporters shouting things like, “Mr. Penn, what does it feel like being the man of the hour?” “What were you thinking when you were hanging from the side of that burning building?” “Did you think you were going to die?” “How did you feel about—”
Arthur grabbed the first newsman who came within arm’s length and shoved him roughly out of the way. He spun and shouted, “Get away from me! Just ... leave me ...” His voice caught as he looked at Gwen’s tear-stained face. “Leave me alone.”
He limped away into the darkness, illuminated briefly in the flickering of the rapidly dying fire.
IT WAS LATE at night in Central Park. Clouds obscured the moon, and there were no sounds other than a young woman pounding on the uncaring stones of Belvedere Castle.
The sides of her hands were abraded from the stone as she continued to smash her hands against the wall in supplication. “Arthur, please let me in,” sobbed Gwen. “You’ve got to let me explain!”
There was a tap on her shoulder and she whirled around. “Oh, Arthur, I—”
“No, my sweet,” said Morgan quietly. “It’s not Arthur.” When the moonlight hit her, she seemed to drain the brightness from it.
“You! You ... bitch!” She leaped at Morgan, fingernails bared like claws. Morgan caught her flailing wrists and tossed her roughly to the ground. She stood over Gwen and laughed harshly. “What a pathetic little fool you are.” She nodded toward the castle. “Arthur’s not in there.”
“How do you—”
“I know a great deal about a great deal. Arthur’s wandering the streets right now,” said Morgan easily. “Angry. Confused. Hurt. I could attack him now and probably defeat him utterly. But I think we’ll let him stew. You, on the other hand, little queen,” she said, smiling menacingly, “you have served your purpose.”
In a pure, white-hot fury, Gwen hiked up the hem of her evening dress and swept out with her legs. She knocked Morgan’s legs out from under her, sending the sorceress toppling to the ground. Within moments she was upon Morgan, tearing at her hair, her eyes, her face. Morgan shrieked in anger and indignation.
Gwen felt herself abruptly being hauled off of Morgan’s writhing body. She flailed at the men who stood on either side of them.
“Whoa! Hey! C’mon, slugger,” said Buddy, struggling to hold on to the infuriated Gwen. “This is, whattaya call, undignified.”
Gwen stopped, looking from Buddy to Elvis and back again. “What are you guys doing here?” she demanded.
“We live here,” said Bu
ddy simply. “Here in the park. That’s how we first met the king. And now we see you and this nice lady who you were tryin’ to kill. I tell ya, y’meet the best people around here.”
Morgan staggered to her feet. “You’ll regret that,” she said, gingerly touching the scratches where Gwen had raked her face. “You’ll regret that most dearly.”
“What are you going to do?” demanded Gwen. “Kill me? I feel dead already. You couldn’t hurt me any more than I’ve already hurt myself. Damn you! I should have gone straight to Arthur—”
“Yes. You should have,” said Morgan with a twisted smile. “Are you wondering where your precious Lance is? I still have him. And you know why? Because he doesn’t want to leave. It seems he’s developed a fondness for bondage. Isn’t that interesting?”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s certainly got my interest.”
“You’re lying,” snarled Gwen. “You lie about everything.”
“Not about this,” said Morgan. “I don’t need to lie about this. It’s too delicious to be otherwise. It was all for nothing, little queen. That’s all it ever was. That’s all it ever will be.”
Elvis took a step forward. There was a switchblade in his hand and a distracted tone in his voice. “You know, I don’t like you.”
Morgan stared at him for a time, stared at the switchblade, and then she turned in an abrupt swirl of her long black cape. She strode off into the darkness and merged with the shadows.
Buddy shook his head. “She must be zero fun at parties.” He turned to Gwen and shook his shaggy head. “You look so sad.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Gwen said slowly. “About Lance. I can feel it. I know it. And I ... I had it,” said Gwen. “I had it all. And I lost it. And I can try to blame Morgan, or Lance, or anybody I want.”
Elvis stepped forward. “You can blame me if you’d like.”
She smiled unevenly and patted his thick beard, then unconsciously wiped her hand on her dress as she said, “That’s sweet. But what I’m trying to say is that there’s really nobody to blame but myself. That’s the part that’s tough to take.”
Buddy nodded, not understanding in the least, but determined to be helpful. “Gwen, if you’d like, you can stay with us tonight.”
“What, under a tree? Gee, that’s nice, but”—she wiped her nose—“I don’t think that would be, well, right.”
“Oh. You wanna, y’know, get married first?”
Gwen stared at him, and then she frowned. “She walked away. From the knife. And you. That’s ... that’s interesting.” She was speaking in a distant voice, as if she was in shock. Or as if there was something going through her mind. “Thank you,” she said to Elvis abruptly, and then she rose and walked away, leaving the two of them looking extremely puzzled. Then again, since that was the way they usually looked, had anyone else been there, no one would have been inclined to notice.
YE OEDE SOUND BITE
“Caller, you’re on with Marv in the morning.”
“Marv, hi, this is Tricia, first time caller from Long Island. And I just want to say that, with the primaries over, we should be happier than ever that someone like Arthur Penn’s come along. I mean, the primaries were so predictable. Keating was predictable, Taylor was predictable. Democrats and GOPs with money behind them, and their attack ads and everything. And here’s Arthur Penn, and he’s not out there trying to beat up on other candidates. It’s like he doesn’t even notice them, y’know? He’s just out there, laying everything on the line, and saving people and (bleep). Oh, jeez, I’m sorry, I can’t say (bleep) on radio—aw, (bleep!)”
CHAPTRE
THE SEVENTEENTH
BERNIE KEATING SHOULD have been happy. He was, in fact, anything but.
It was past midnight as he huddled with his staff in a classic smoke-filled room. Bernie sat forward, rubbing his eyes, his vest open to allow for his considerable girth. Moe Dreskin sat to his immediate right. The various officials who ran his campaign were also there, in varying degrees of wakefulness.
Bernie looked around and slammed his open hand on the table, effectively rousing everyone. “What the hell are we going to do about this Arthur Penn character?” he demanded.
Effecting a gangland tone, his treasurer said, “You want we should have him whacked, boss? I’ll go round up Rico and the boys and—”
“Shut up, Charlie,” said Bernie tiredly. “Now damnit, I’m serious. You know my philosophy about political opponents.” He paused expectantly.
Moe filled the void, reluctantly. “Stick it to ’em.”
“Stick it to ’em. That’s right. Except what the hell are we supposed to do about this Perm guy?” He got up and started to circle the room. Moving through the smoke as he was, he looked like a steamship penetrating the fog. “He’s got no political record to speak of. For most people that would be a detriment, but he makes it work to his advantage. The voters see him as a fresh face in a jaded political arena, and it gives us absolutely zilch to work with. His business practices? Squeaky-clean. Hell, the man’s never been investigated. All of his investments are sound and aboveboard. He’s hardly been involved in running anything day-to-day, so although there’s virtually no one to vouch for him, there’s no one to say anything bad against him either. And if that’s not enough for you,” said Bernie with genuine indignation, “the guy has to go and save kids from a flaming building. Kids! Isn’t that just friggin’ fabulous! With TV news crews there to tape him.” A sudden thought struck him. “Hey, maybe he started it. Stan, you’re the press liaison. You have the contacts. Anyone checking out that possibility?”
Stan shook his head. “Police looked into it for weeks and still aren’t sure what caused it. It seems like some sort of spontaneous combustion. Either way, certainly no sign of any incendiary device.”
Marcia, the head of clerical, put in, “That whole thing gets bigger with every retelling. The children were telling reporters that our Mr. Penn, before the fire started, was fighting a man with a sword, and the man supposedly turned into some sort of creature and then crumbled away once Penn defeated him.”
Bernie moaned. “Just what we need. Urban legends about this clown. So where does this leave us?”
Moe shook his head. “In a couple of days there’s the televised debate. It’s going to be you, Kent Taylor, and Penn. Now—”
Bernie hauled his carcass to his feet. “Penn’s in the debate? Since when?”
“Since the local TV stations became interested in ratings,” said Moe sourly. “Since Perm won that citation from the Fire Department for gallantry. Since New York magazine put him on their Most Eligible Bachelor Politician List. Since he did ‘Letterman.’ Penn was getting himself a following before, but that whole fire business made him really hot, so to speak. They decided that a debate would not really reflect the voters’ interest in the candidates unless Penn was present. Frankly I can’t blame them.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful, Moe,” retorted Bernie. “Look, what it boils down to is this—I don’t want to lose this race. I really don’t. And the key to winning is, I suspect, bringing down Arthur Penn.”
“For what it’s worth,” said Marcia, “I think Penn’s worst enemy right now is himself.”
“Come again?”
“He was on a local morning show the other day. He was snappish, irritable. Short with the interviewer. It’s as if his mind is a million miles away.”
“You know,” said Stan, “come to think of it, he’s been like that ever since the whole fire thing. Maybe it shook him more than he lets on. He could hurt his image if he keeps it up. Because it’s starting to look as if he can’t stand pressure.”
“Yeah, well, it’s looking that way to us, but not to the general public. Not yet at any rate. So we’re going to have to bring it to their attention.” Bernie looked around the table. “We’re going to have to start playing hardball, ladies and gentlemen. I hope that we have a clear understanding of this. Because if we don’t win ...” his
voice rose dramatically, and then he paused.
“Then we lose?” suggested Marcia helpfully.
Bernie covered his face and said quietly, “Meeting adjourned. Go home. Get some sleep. See you all tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “Sorry, make that later this morning. Hey, Moe,” he said far more half heartedly than he usually did. “Stay a minute. Rest of you, just remember one thing: We’re going to kick Penn’s ass.”
Moe sat down again opposite Bernie and waited until the room cleared. He looked worn out.
“Penn’s going to kick my ass,” he said quietly.
Moe leaned back and sighed. “Bernie, you’re being too hard on yourself—”
“No, I’m being realistic. I’m going to suck in a televised debate.”
“Bernie,” laughed Moe, “don’t be absurd! You’re a lawyer, for Pete’s sake.”
“Yeah, so was Nixon. Whatever else I may be, Moe, telegenic, I’m not. I’m telling you, under those studio lights, in that face-to-face situation, I’m gonna come across like the guy in grade school who always stole your milk money. And TV cameras love Penn’s face. It’ll be like JFK and Nixon. Nixon had more substance, but he looked like a criminal.”
“He was a criminal,” Moe reminded him.
“Yeah, but not until years after that.”
“You’re going to win, Bernie,” Moe said with confidence. “If you hadn’t asked me to stay, I would have hung back to talk with you anyway.”
There was something in Moe’s voice that lent momentary wings to Bernard Keating’s heart. “What is it?” His voice dropped to a confidential level. “You got something on Penn? Please, say you’ve got something on him.”
“Oh, I’ve got something on him, all right,” said Moe slowly. “But you’re not going to like it.”