Chapter Twenty-four
5:00 a.m.
The streets were finally emptying. Only the hardiest revelers were left to cry up the dawn, or the least hardiest who had passed out-or worse-and were lying like abandoned rag dolls in the street.
The Crystal Palace was about a mile from Jetboy’s Tomb. Jennifer knew that there was no way she was going to beat them to the mausoleum. It was difficult to run in the thonged sandals Brennan had lent her, but it was better than going barefoot down the refuse-littered streets.
Brennan. What in the world had happened to him? The little guy had pointed a finger at him and, whoosh, he was gone. Just like that. Well, she thought, her breath coming a little faster as she ate up the blocks between the Palace and the Tomb with an easy, long-legged stride, she had started this caper by herself, and she would finish it.
Big talk, she thought. Already she was missing Brennan’s gruff presence. She hoped he was all right.
The great edifice that was Jetboy’s Tomb was a looming black silhouette before the quiet waters of the Hudson River. It looked deserted, but there was a long limousine, brother to the one Jennifer and Brennan had borrowed, parked next to the twenty-foot-tall statue of jetboy that stood in front of the Tomb’s main entrance.
There was no one in or around the limo. Wyrm and the others, Jennifer realized, must already be inside the vast building.
She went quietly up the marble steps, as silent as the namesake she had chosen for herself, stripped off the cloak Brennan had lent her, and kicked away the sandals. A surge of adrenaline pushed back the weariness that threatened to overwhelm her.
It’s been a long day, she told herself. But soon it’s going to be over. One way or another.
The tomb was vast. A full-sized replica of Jetboy’s plane, the JB-I, hung from the ceiling, bathed in muted light shining from hidden lamps also hanging from the inside of the dome.
The light filtered to the floor of the tomb where it vaguely illuminated three men staring up at the plane hanging from the ceiling. She recognized Wyrm, of course, and the man called Loophole. The third was a stranger, of average size and build, his features unrecognizable in the gloom.
Jennifer smiled to herself. Unless one of them could fly, there was no way they could reach the cockpit of the mock plane. It was a different matter, of course, for her.
She worked her way around to the far side of the tomb, keeping to the dark shadows along the walls. The acoustics inside the place were excellent and she could hear the men discussing what to do.
“That fat ssson of a bitch mussst have fffloated up to the ceiling and put the bookssss there.”
“It doesn’t matter how they got there,” the unidentified man said in a hard, angry voice. “I want them down. Immediately.”
They argued the problem as Jennifer reached the rear of the building. Still in shadows, she ghosted, fighting off a brief wave of vertigo, and pulled herself up through the wall to the ceiling. That was the easy part. Now it got a little tricky. She kept the body of the plane between her and the men below as she slipped into the cockpit and saw a small plastic bag, the bag she’d put the books in-was it only this morning? It seemed like a year ago.
She couldn’t risk solidifying herself and checking them. She touched them, ghosted them, then, instead of feeling the triumph she anticipated, an uneasy tremor passed through her insubstantial form.
She was reaching the end of her endurance. She had pushed herself hard, ghosting more in the last twenty-two hours than she’d ever done in her life, and she hadn’t had much food or rest between her periods of insubstantiality. She had only a little time left to get solid, or else she’d be in trouble.
She slipped out of the cockpit, but was careless in her haste. Loophole had walked around the plane to get another viewing angle, and he saw Jennifer’s insubstantial form, shim mering like a Halloween specter as she was silhouetted against the wing.
“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. “Its 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 showtime,” 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. “Its 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 Taki sian 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, Tachy? 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 upbring ing. 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.”