“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 pizzasausage, 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 wont 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, well 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 visionit’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 indecision 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.