Mind the Gap

chapter Seventeen

served cold

Jazz hated feeling excluded. She knew it was for the best — the copper would have contacted the

mayor's men, and a new description of her would be circulating across London even now—but with one of

the most audacious thefts in London's history in the offing, the last place she wanted to be was in the dusty,

grubby confines of the Palace.



Terence had gone back up to collect some equipment from one of his houses. He didn't tell them

which one and neglected to mention how many houses he owned, but Jazz guessed it must be several all

across the capital. A man of mystery such as Terence could not exist in one place alone.

Harry and Stevie had gone up with him. Stevie was going to a long-term parking place he knew to

purloin a car for the nick, while Harry would take a stroll past the mayor's manor to see whether his weird

sixth sense tingled. He'd given Jazz a strange look as he left —part suspicion, part complicity—and she

wondered how much of what she had seen in the Underground played across his internal vision as well.

Tell that magician I said hello, she wanted to say. Whatever he is to Terence, tell him I see him,

I know him. But she said nothing of the sort. Such talk would feel so intimate and se-cretive, and Harry

held icy anger for her in his manner. She honestly thought things would never be the same again be-tween

them. And the more she thought about that, the more she honestly did not care.

There was more to life than the Underground. Terence had shown her that. Though he was a man

out for re-venge —and however he tried to prettify his motives, that was the basis of his aims—he was at

least pursuing it in style.

"Just promise not to leave me out of this," she had said as the three men left the Palace.

"Lovey," Harry had replied, "you're a bigger part of this than any of us."

She'd smiled and wished them safe journeys when they left; then she had the Palace to herself for an

hour or more. She wandered around the place, searching the rooms with a new eye, but there was little

down here she had not seen be-fore. One room held a small door at floor level, a fresh scrape across the

concrete floor showing where it had been levered open recently. She guessed this was where Harry and

Stevie were hiding the box of money. Lot of good it would do them stuck down here.

You're a bigger part of this than any of us, he had said. That troubled her and she didn't know

why.

Be anonymous, her mother had told her. Don't be seen. Part of the crowd is as faceless as the

crowd itself.

"I don't want to spend my life being faceless," Jazz said. And there it was: the stark truth. Harry

might be able to find himself most at peace down here, and maybe some of the others had grown, or would

grow, into such a way of life. But yesterday, topside with Terence, walking the streets and feeling the sun

on her wanted face, Jazz had realized that she was destined for greater things. It was ironic that her

mother's attempts to keep her hidden away had perhaps contributed to Jazz's burgeoning desire to do so

much more. Hattie was first back to the Palace. She brought a hand-bag with her, expertly chosen to match

the hat she had worn out that morning.

"You're back!" Hattie said, her pleasure at seeing Jazz untainted by suspicion. "I love your hair!"

"Hi, Hattie," Jazz said, genuinely pleased to see the girl. "Like your new handbag."

The girl smiled wickedly. "Wait'll you see." She up-ended the bag, spilling purse, mobile phone, and

electronic organizer, as well as a slew of expensive makeup and a beau-tiful silk head scarf. "Silly cow left

it on the back of her chair while she sat in Covent Garden drinking a ten-quid coffee with her snobby

mate."

"It's nice," Jazz said. "Hattie?"

The girl raised her eyebrows, hearing something strange in Jazz's tone. "Jazz?"

"I need your help. Just for today —hopefully for the last time—I need to not be me."

Hattie grinned, delighted. "You've come to the right place," she said. "I'm an expert at being someone

else. Come on." She led Jazz out of the main chamber and into the bed-room the two girls shared. "I missed

you last night. Kind of scary sleeping in here by myself. Sit yourself down and let me fetch my box of

delights."

Hattie went to a built-in metal cabinet in the corner of the room, and beneath the clothes hanging

there was a big basket that everyone knew was Hattie's private property. There was a strong moral code

among the United Kingdom, and no one would have ever considered invading another member's privacy.

Jazz felt honored.

"Now, then," Hattie said. "Young or old?"

"What?"

The girl laughed. "Come on, Jazz. You're a beauty, and I'm sure you know you can play on that if

you want. Or you can be an innocent teen. Up to you. Depends on the score."

"Big score," Jazz said. "The mayor's house."

Hattie's face went slack. "F*cking hell." It was the first time Jazz ever heard her swear.

"So, I think old," Jazz said. "But nothing too constrict-ing. I may need to move fast."

Hattie recovered from her shock quickly, put on her usual cheerful smile, and started pulling things



from her stash.



****

By early afternoon, everyone was back. They sat around the main room of the Palace, the United

Kingdom familiar and relaxed with one another, Terence the outsider, and Jazz feeling apart from everyone.

Harry did most of the talking. From what he said and the way things were going, Jazz didn't feel the need to

ask what he had sensed while walking past the mayor's home.

As ever when planning a big score, Harry invited ques-tions at the end of his pitch. There were none.

A seriousness had descended over the group, one tinged with the still-raw death of Cadge and this prospect

of getting back directly at the mayor, in however small a way. No one asked who Terence was or what he

was doing there, though many of them eyed him suspiciously. Jazz was pleased to see a hint of discomfort

in his forced smile.

After his address, when the kids were scurrying around the Palace in preparation, Harry and Stevie

disappeared into a side room. Jazz glanced at Terence, who merely raised an eyebrow, then she followed.

She found them huddled to-gether in Harry's bedroom. They both looked at her, not surprised to see her but

not very welcoming either.

"Jazz girl," Harry said. "Like your hat."

"You taking that gun?" she asked Stevie. He looked at her and blinked slowly but did not reply.

"That's his business and his alone," Harry said.

"No," she said. "It's my business if we're breaking into the same house together. We all know the

mayor's thugs might be armed."

"It's my gun," Stevie said. "Not Harry's. My choice."

"And it's my choice whether I'm a part of this or not," Jazz said.

She stared at Harry and Stevie, who both stared back. She left the implied threat hanging in the air.

Neither of them bit. I should walk away, she thought. There's very little holding me here now other

than revenge. And though they say it's sweet, more often than not it'll come out sour.

"Shit," she whispered. Neither Harry nor Stevie changed their expression. She turned and walked

away, sud-denly feeling part of something over which she no longer had any control.

As she entered the main room once again, catching "Terence's eye and deciding whether to say

anything to him about Stevie's gun, she sensed something closing in. A scream in the distance at first, heard

more in her mind than through her ears, and a sudden heartbreaking sadness swept over her. She uttered a

wretched sigh and fell to her knees. Leela and Gob both turned to look at her, both about to ask what was

wrong.

Jazz and Terence stared at each other, a moment of star-tling understanding passing between them.

This is about so much more than revenge, Jazz thought then. It's about saving worlds other than this.

And then Terence offered her a tired smile before closing his eyes.

"Everyone sing a song," Jazz said, and as a few groans of dismay rose up, the Hour of Screams

rushed in.

It sounded like a train coming from the distance, but the noise of its wheels on the track were

screams of pain, and the sound of its metal parts clanking together made desolate words out of nothing.

Jazz's song came to her without thinking, and it was her mother who sang it.

Wish me luck, as you wave me good-bye.

Cheerio, here I go, on my way.

Her mum had always joked that she'd like it sung at her fu-neral. Jazz cried, an outpouring of grief

that racked her body and caught in her throat every breath she took, because here and now was when she

laid her mother to rest. There would be no funeral. However the Blackwood Club had disposed of her body,

it was long gone to rot and dust. Here, during this Hour of Screams, was when Jazz sang her mother's soul

down into peace.

So she sang.

The air felt heavy, and every breath hurt. It was strange to bear witness to such violence upon the

senses, and yet the solid walls and ceiling around them gave no sign, the floor did not shake, and the only

dust in the air was kicked up by the United Kingdom falling to their knees in the old shelter.

At last it faded away, and Jazz felt something flit by be-side her and stroke her cheek as it passed.

Sweet dreams, her mother would say, touching her daughter's cheek when she thought Jazz was

asleep. But Jazz would always lie there awaiting this loving touch.

"Sweet dreams, Mum," Jazz said.



The Palace fell silent, and Jazz closed her eyes.



****

By the time they were in position, it was almost five in the afternoon. Terence and Harry had agreed

that this would be the best time to strike. The stream of visitors to the mayor's home would peter off around

then, and those on guard would start to relax. The streets in this exclusive neighbor-hood were quite busy as

well, mumbling with Bentleys and Mercedes, Porsches and BMWs, as those who lived here started arriving

home from work. Less-flashy cars flitted here and there too —other people leaving the area now that their

job as hired help was over for another day. Nannies and gardeners, cooks and cleaners, common cars

dodged the elite as class began to find its own level once again.

Stevie had nicked a Vauxhall Astra. It was quite new, so not shabby enough to be noticeable, but a

basic model, so nowhere near flashy enough for anyone to pay them any undue attention. It was as

nondescript as the three people in-side could wish for, and for the last ten minutes they had sat at the side

of the road without attracting one single glance.

Jazz sat in the front next to Stevie, while Terence lounged comfortably in the back. There didn't seem

to be an ounce of anxiety about him. He even closed his eyes for a time, breathing smoothly and evenly,

though Jazz knew that he was not asleep.

This is the culmination of years of hunting, she thought. She turned and glanced over her shoulder

at Terence, and in his calm face she could see the evidence of strain; muscles twitched, and his eyes were

not quite closed.

"Almost time," Stevie said. He had not looked at her since they'd pulled up a street away from the

mayor's house. He had not even commented on her new look —a beret from Hattie, hair a mass of curls,

frameless sunglasses. He tapped one finger on the steering wheel and whistled something under his breath,

and it felt like they had never even met.

"I wasn't born down there," she said.

"Doesn't matter," Stevie said casually, and she was not quite sure what he meant.

"Stevie, I don't think I —"

"Doesn't matter," he said again, looking at her for the first time. His expression was like ice. "Time to

go." Before Jazz or Terence could say anything, Stevie had opened his door and climbed out.

Jazz did the same and heard Terence following suit. It would look strange if the three of them did not

get out to-gether.

All thought of discussions flitted away. They were on the job now, it had begun, and Jazz knew she

had to concentrate fully to make sure she didn't screw this up. So much hinged on this.

She linked arms with Terence. She felt his brief resist-ance, but then he looked at her and smiled.

Jazz smiled back. "Shall we walk?" she asked.

Terence nodded. "Let's."

Stevie led the way along the street to the small road that connected with the adjacent road. The

houses here were all grand and expensive, some of them almost hidden from sight behind high hedges or

past wooded driveways. Brass nameplates beside gateways were often accompanied by speaker grilles and

buttons, the gates electronically locked, cameras hidden away in trees or atop thin poles so that the owners

could see who had come to pay a visit.

"My mum would have loved this place," Jazz said, speaking without thinking.

"I have somewhere not too far away," Terence said. Jazz looked at him, surprised.

"Oh, nowhere near as grand as any of this. A modest five-bed. But it has its own grounds, and a

wall, and there's a secret tunnel to the house next door."

"You have a house with a secret tunnel," Stevie said, barely trying to mask his sarcasm.

"Well... no longer that secret, of course," Terence said. He smiled smugly, and Stevie turned away

and carried on walking.

Jazz laughed softly. But she was not foolish enough to believe that the antagonism between these

two had anything to do with her.

"Here," Stevie said a few minutes later. "Follow me."

They approached the mayor's residence. It was a huge house, quite modern in London brick but built

in an at-tempt to give it the gravitas of age. The architect had mostly succeeded, but even from the street

they could see the shiny reflections and sharp edges of technology. There were cam-eras fixed on the

house itself and also to several poles placed strategically around its grounds. Its six-foot-high boundary wall

was topped with a wicked-looking metallic structure, too short to be a fence but spiked and sharp enough to

deter any but the most determined invaders. It also had an entry system at its gate, though Jazz tried not to

stare too hard. As they passed by the wrought-iron gates, she saw movement from the corner of her eye,



and she risked one glance.

There were two black cars parked in front of the house. Several people milled about the stepped

entrance, though they were too far away to make out properly. They all wore dark suits.

"Might be them, might not," Terence said cheerily. He was smiling, and Jazz copied the act.

"Whoever it is, let's hope they leave soon," Stevie said. He was already past the gate and striding

along beside the wall.

"They will," Terence said. "Your friend Harry will see to that."

Harry's idea of a distraction was as simple as it was auda-cious. Underground, the mayor's men

were shielded from the world, their action witnessed only by rats and the human rats they believed the

United Kingdom to be. But up here...

"When does he start?" Jazz asked. She and Terence passed before the gates, and she risked one

final glance as they did so. People were already climbing into the cars to leave. Election time, she thought.

They could be anyone sucking up to the mayor's ass.

Stevie stopped so sharply that Jazz and Terence almost walked into him. The long-haired boy turned

around and grinned, and Jazz saw just how dangerous he could be. His eyes were dark but glinting with the

excitement to come. Keep your cool, she wanted to say. But she was afraid how he would react.

Stevie looked past them and the grin grew wider. "Right about now."

Jazz turned around just in time to see Harry and the rest of the United Kingdom emerging from a

side street a couple of hundred yards away. Harry led the way, and behind him the kids carried furled

banners and flags, along with bags of eggs, flour, and rotten fruit.

"Let's go," Terence said. "We've got three minutes at best."

Jazz, Terence, and Stevie hurried away from the main entrance, and if anyone saw them they were

simply three people trying to get away from potential trouble.

"Bromwell out!" Harry's voice called, and Jazz smiled at the venom there. "Bromwell out!" The kids

took up the call as well. They reached the front gates, unfurling the banners and waving them, lobbing eggs

over and through the iron railings, throwing torn bags of flour and overripe fruit to ex-plode across the

drive.

"Here," Stevie said. He'd reached the corner of the mayor's property and turned without sparing a

single glance back the way they'd come. Jazz paused, forcing Terence to wait as well, and watched Harry

and her friends.

The police would have been called already. They'd be here in minutes, though not as quickly as for a

midday dis-turbance. Rush hour would slow them down. Harry and the others shouted their slogans, threw

their soft missiles, and not one of them glanced along the street at Jazz and Terence. True professionals.

"Come on!" Stevie hissed.

There was a British Telecom junction box against the wall here, giving them a vital three-foot start.

Stevie took one quick glance around, then hoisted himself up. He took off his heavy leather jacket and,

holding one sleeve, threw it up and over the vicious metal blades atop the wall. He gave one experimental

tug, then used the snagged jacket to haul himself up.

Jazz held her breath as Stevie carefully stepped on, then over, the low, dangerous metal fence. He

looked down at her and smiled quickly, then jumped out of sight.

They heard him land, and Terence looked at her for a loaded moment. This was when they would

find out whether the nick was on or not. If they heard the noise of barking dogs, running men, or Stevie

involved in a struggle, they would know to run. If there was no sound at all, they would climb.

"Bromwell out!" they heard from around the corner, the chants intermingled with some colorfully

obscene language. From over the wall, nothing.

"Go," Terence said.

Jazz leaped nimbly onto the BT box, grabbed the trail-ing sleeve of Stevie's jacket, and hauled herself

up. She stepped over the low fence atop the wall and jumped, land-ing with knees bent, rolling to the right

and coming up in a crouch. She scanned the area quickly. They'd landed among some trees, just as planned,

and she saw Stevie's shadow be-neath the canopy a dozen feet away. He was staring through the

undergrowth and across a wide well-maintained lawn at the house.

Terence landed lightly beside her. He'd held on to the jacket sleeve as he jumped, bringing it over to

this side of the wall. This was just one of their potential escape routes.

There was a plastic box fitted to the wall here, a thick black cable duct protruding from its base and

sinking into the ground. Terence gave it one good kick and the cover broke and fell away. There was a

spaghetti of colored wires inside, junction points and circuit boards, and a knot of wires almost as thick as

Jazz's wrist snaked through a hole in the wall to the Telecom unit outside.



Terence took a pair of heavy pliers from the small bag over his shoulder.

"How do you know which ones to cut?" Jazz asked.

"Only one." He snipped a white wire, then took out a small device from his pocket. He checked its

batteries, turned it on, and nodded in satisfaction when it emitted a short beep. There was a forest of wires

protruding from the device, each ending in a small crocodile clip. Terence stripped the cut wire, connected

both ends into the unit, and began stripping plastic and attaching clips to other wires in the bundle. He

worked quickly, almost randomly, but Jazz knew there was nothing random about this. She could see the

concentration on his face as he worked.

"There," he said after a minute. "Should give us a bit of time."

He and Jazz knelt beside Stevie. From beneath the trees they had a good view of the side of the

large house. To the left were the two black cars, but the people who'd been milling around were now down

closer to the front gate, still out of range of the eggs and fruit but forming a protective semicircle in case

one of the protesters climbed in. To their right, at the rear of the house, stood a large conservatory with

timber decking built all around. The double glass doors were open and there was no movement inside.

Between them and the house, the garden was spotted with several large flower beds, mostly planted

with mature roses growing on frames. Plenty of cover.

"No dogs," Terence said.

"Not that we can see," Stevie replied.

"They'd have let them out by now," Jazz said.

"Conservatory?" Stevie looked from Jazz to Terence, then back at the house.

"There'll be other entrances around the back," Terence said. "Let's see when we get there."

"Harry should be knocking off now," Jazz said, looking at her watch. It had been over three minutes

since he and the United Kingdom started their distraction, and if they were not careful they'd still be there

when the police arrived. Last thing anyone wanted was for them to be caught. But this was a dangerous job

—the most dangerous they'd ever pulled— and that called for extreme risks.

"I can just see them from here," Stevie said. "Harry's right at the gate. Think he's smiling. Maybe he

sees the punks that beat him up."

"And killed Cadge," Jazz said.

"Yeah, Cadge." Stevie did not turn around, but Jazz heard the break in his voice

"So let's get our own back," Terence said. He was the first to move, breaking cover and running

crouched over to the first planting bed. He glanced back quickly, looked around the shrubs, and ran on.

Stevie followed, and Jazz brought up the rear.

They had considered breaking in at night, but then all the security measures this house employed

would be in place. Floodlights in the garden, maybe patrolling security guards and dogs, contact alarms on

all the windows and doors, motion and heat detectors inside, panic alarms, trip-wire alarms perhaps, and

every one of them would be linked directly to the local police station. And, perhaps, to the homes of the

BMW men. Weighing those risks against breaking in when the mayor was up and about, there had been

little choice.

Terence reached the timber decking, vaulted the low fence, and lay along the conservatory's dwarf

wall. He stretched to look in through the open doors, signaling back that the coast was clear.

Harry and the kids let out a final roar, then their voices died out quickly as they left. Be safe, Jazz

thought. There were sirens wailing in the distance, but she knew that the United Kingdom was expert at

avoiding capture.

She broke cover first, dashing across the lawn and step-ping lightly through the open doors. No alarm

sounded, no shouts erupted, and no dogs barked.

Stevie was beside her then, crouched down low, and through the glass walls of the large

conservatory they saw Terence skirt around toward another door farther along the rear of the house.

"Take care," Stevie said. He gave her a quick smile that reminded her of how it used to be, and for a

second she wanted to reach out and touch him. But then he was gone, so light on his feet that she heard

nothing, just saw him dis-appear quickly into the house.

This was the most dangerous part of the operation. They hoped that the people around the cars

would be leav-ing now, instead of coming back inside. They suspected that the mayor's staff would be

relaxed, many of them preparing to go home for the day. Maybe the mayor himself was even having a

snooze after a hard day's campaign planning. But they could rely on nothing other than their own stealth and

talent to get them through the next half hour.

Jazz took a quick look around the conservatory and thought, We don't even know what the hell

we're looking for!



The battery, Terence had said. Something strange and out of place. Something unusual that

doesn't belong. You'll know it when you see it.

There were several huge pots in the conservatory, home to various exotic cacti, thorns long and

cruel. A bit of furni-ture, a table with a few empty cups and a spread of paper-work, nothing unusual.

Room by room, Jazz thought. So here we go.

She slipped into the huge kitchen. There were three doors in here, and she knew that Stevie must

have taken the one on the right. Jazz headed left, crouched low and listen-ing all the time for approaching

footsteps. The air smelled of old food. As she passed one work surface, she saw the detritus of a meal:

bread crumbs, meat scraps, shreds of browning salad. There were a few plates piled up beside the double

sink, and on an island unit in the center of the kitchen sat several full shopping bags.

She opened the first door she reached, still crouched down low. She winced as the hinges creaked,

stared through the narrow gap, squinted against the bad light. It was a walk-in larder, at least eight feet per

side. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with all manner of canned and bagged goods. The entire

rear wall was taken up by a wine rack, at least two-thirds of it filled with bottles. There were built-in

cupboards at floor level, all of them shut with padlocks.

Weird, Jazz thought. So what's in there? Posh food? She closed the door gently behind her and

switched on the light.

The cupboards were solid, and when she tapped the first door it sounded heavy. Metal lined with

wood laminate, per-haps? She jiggled the padlock, but the hasp and eye were bolted firmly into the door. If

she had a crowbar, perhaps she could pull it off, given time. But she had neither.

Last place to look, she thought. If we don't find it anywhere else...

She turned off the light, opened the door slowly, peeked out, and exited back into the kitchen.

The final door from the kitchen led along a short corri-dor to a large dining room. This was a grand

place, with a table that seated at least twenty being the only item of furni-ture. The walls were paneled with

dark wood from floor to ceiling, and a portrait held pride of place in each separate bay. At first Jazz thought

they would be pictures of the Blackwood Club and that the accusing eyes of her father would soon bear

down upon her. But then she recognized one of the paintings as the previous mayor of London, and from

the end wall Mayor Bromwell stared at her. She smiled and gave him the finger.

Jazz hurried through the dining room. It didn't seem to be a place that was used very much; there

was a film of dust on the table, and the air was musty and old. They should air this place, she thought.

Get rid of the stink. There was a pair of doors at the far end, and she opened them just a crack.

Then froze.

The doors opened inward, and beyond was the man-sion's main hallway. To her left she could see

the spill of light where the main entrance doors still stood open. Directly across from her, another set of

doors stood closed, and just to her right was the stairway, eight feet wide and climbing to a balcony that

overlooked the hallway on three sides. On the first stair stood two men. One of them wore an eye patch.

Philip, Jazz thought. The BMW man she'd seen batter Cadge to death.

"F*ckin' tunnel rats!" Philip hissed.

"He's got guts, coming up here," the second man said.

"Yeah, well, I'll happily open his guts to the air." Philip's face seemed twisted into a permanent

grimace, and a twitch pulled at the corner of his lip as though someone had a hook in him.

"Don't like being reminded —" the second man said, but Philip cut him off.

"p-ssy! Those bastards did something to us down there." He twitched again, his head flipping to the

side. Jazz saw his good eye, and it was almost completely black. "Gassed us or poisoned us. Bastards! Get

my hands on 'em... Get my knife in 'em ..."

"Calm it, mate," the second man said, and from his tone he was obviously scared of Philip.

"Yeah," Philip said. "Calm." But he seemed anything but calm.

"Where's the mayor now?"

"Upstairs in that room of his. Fiddlin'."

"Weird," the second man whispered.

"He likes to be left alone," Philip said. "Needs to con-centrate."

"He really thinks it'll help him win?"

Philip shrugged, then grinned. "He'll win." The two men walked upstairs and passed from Jazz's line

of sight.

She closed the doors. Fiddlin', Philip had said. In any other place, Jazz might have suspected that

meant some-thing else. But not here, and not now, and not knowing what she knew.

"Upstairs," she whispered. Stevie was supposed to go di-rectly to the second floor, and Terence



would likely still be working his way through the first floor beyond the hallway. There were probably the

library and living rooms over there, much more likely places to hide the battery than in the kitchen and

dining room, and probably a second minor staircase buried in the bowels of the mansion. But the mayor was

upstairs —in "that room of his"—and suddenly Jazz re-alized she had an advantage.

I need to find that battery, she thought. Me. Not Terence, not Stevie. They've both got too much

going on, and my need for revenge is fresher.

Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but as Jazz opened the dining-room doors and crept to the

foot of the stairs, she was burning inside.

She glanced carefully up the stairs. The two men had disappeared, either around onto the balcony

above her or into one of the rooms up there. She listened for their voices but heard nothing. Behind her the

main doors still stood open, and she knew she had to get away from there as soon as possible. Visible

through the doors was the rear end of one of the black cars, which meant that there were likely more

people still outside. Maybe they'd come in, maybe they'd eventually get into the cars and go. She did not

want to wait to find out.

As she started climbing the stairs, keeping as far to the right as she could in case the two men were

standing silently above her, she heard the screech of tires. A police siren sang briefly before falling silent

again. Jazz paused and held her breath; if Philip and the other BMW man were on the bal-cony above her,

they'd probably pass some comment now. But all was silent.

She ran up a dozen more stairs and squatted at the top, looking around. Before her, a corridor led

toward the back of the house, a door halfway down on either side. To her left and right, the landing swung

around above the hallway, and there were more doors and corridors leading off. Several of the doors were

half open, others closed, and though she concentrated she could not hear voices from any of them.

Stevie could be anywhere.

There were several small tables set along the landing, most of them bearing vases with sprays of

dried flowers. A couple were empty. Some had small drawers, others larger cupboards beneath. Bloody

thing could be anywhere! she thought, realizing for the first time the immensity of their task. Terence did

not know how large the battery was or what it looked like; all he knew, based on Harry's walk-by, was that

it was here.

Jazz went left. The first door she came to was ajar, and she knelt low and pushed it open slightly until

she could see inside. A bathroom: toilet, bidet, shower stall, bath, basin, a couple of chairs. The shower was

steamed up and still drip-ping water, and the air carried the warm, heavy smell of re-cent use.

The next door was closed, and Jazz pressed her ear to the wood. She couldn't hear anything inside.

She touched the handle, paused, and withdrew her hand. Doesn't feel right, she thought. Trusting her

instincts, she moved on.

The silence of the house was intimidating. Such a big place, so little activity... She was glad, but it

also felt strange. It felt as if, even though she thought she was being careful and quiet, the whole house

was watching her. The tall ceilings pressed down, the walls closed in, and she was sure she could smell the

must of ages drifting up from the carpets beneath her feet. She looked around for cameras but saw none.

She listened for footsteps.

The front doors slammed shut. Jazz fell to her stomach and crawled quickly to the balcony, looking

down into the hallway. If someone had shut the doors and was heading for the stairs, she'd have maybe a

dozen seconds to find some-where to hide.

There was a tall bald man in the hall. He engaged the locks on the front door and turned, heading

right into one of the rooms Jazz had not seen.

She turned the corner of the balcony and headed toward the front of the house. There was one long

wall here with a single door, and she paused outside, listening. There was someone inside —she heard

murmuring, muttering, whis-pers interspersed with what could only be sobs.

Was this "that room" where the mayor always wanted to be alone?

There was the tang of something in the air, like the stench of hot electrics, only more animal, more

natural.

Jazz knelt and tried to see through the keyhole, but it was blocked with a key on the other side.

She grabbed the handle, placed her ear against the wood again, and turned. If the whispering

stopped, she'd have to run. If its tone or volume changed, the person talking could have turned their head to

look at the door, and she would have to flee.

Concentrating, listening for footsteps from behind as well as a change in the voice beyond the door,

she turned the old ivory handle some more. Felt the latch release. Pushed.

She blessed whoever maintained the house for keeping its hinges well oiled.



The wedge of room revealed did not seem to fit the di-mensions or shape made apparent by its

outside. The inside walls were curved, forming a perfectly circular space. There were no windows, and the

only other opening was a closed door directly opposite Jazz. The walls were painted a dull purple. The

ceiling was cream, the floor was covered with a pale, hard covering, and at the center of the room, the

mayor sat cross-legged, naked, and shivering.

Sweat dripped from his straggly hair and landed on his flabby stomach. He stared down at the floor

just before him, his right hand six inches above, index finger forming small, irregular circles in the air. He

mumbled a few words in a lan-guage Jazz did not know.

Fiddlin', Philip had said. In that room of his.

The mayor's strange words seemed to travel around the curved walls, repeating themselves again

and again until they were even more jumbled and unknowable than before.

A small weak light appeared on the floor before him, squirming like a slug sprayed with salt. It

quickly faded away to nothing, and the mayor cursed and shook his head.

Magic, Jazz thought. I'm seeing magic. But ...is that it?

And then the door across the room from her opened, just a crack, and Stevie peered in. He didn't see

her, of that she was sure. His attention was too fixed on the mayor and what he was doing, eyes wide,

fearful and excited at the same time.

Jazz opened her door another inch, willing Stevie to see her. He did not. Instead, he pointed at the

mayor, and at first Jazz thought he was going to laugh. But she realized too late that the laugh was actually

a grimace, and Stevie was not pointing with his hand.

The gun was black and ugly in the boy's pale hand.

"No!" Jazz screamed.

The mayor turned to look at her. And then his right eye and cheek erupted as Stevie shot him in the

back of the head.