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 closed 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 her self 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.
Brennan looked at him calmly.
“My joy is doubled,” Kien said between clenched teeth. “After all these years you’ve come back to devil me. And now you’ll die by my hand.”
Jennifer saw Brennan tense to leap and she knew that he’d never, make it across the impossible distance that separated him from Kien. She lunged away from Loophole, unable to break free of him, but pulling within reach of Kien’s pistol. She grabbed it.
He snarled, tried to yank away, but Jennifer held on, frowned in fierce concentration, and ghosted most of the gun and most of Kien’s hand. Loophole yanked on her arm hard, hard enough to pull her away from Kien, and he screamed.
He fell to his knees, what was left of his hand dropping what was left of the gun. The ghosted molecules of both, since they were no longer in direct contact with Jennifer, drifted away on the breeze. A stunned Loophole released Jennifer and bent down to help Kien staunch the river of blood fountaining from his mangled hand.
Jennifer snatched up the bag, turned, and grabbed Brennan by the arm.
“Come on,” she shouted. He resisted for a moment, staring remorselessly at his longtime foe, then he followed her into the dark, running.
Fortunato rang the bell of the brownstone for a long time before Veronica’s voice came through the intercom. When he told her who it was, she ran downstairs to open the door.
She threw herself into his arms and started to cry. “It was so horrible. So horrible. This … man … took me and Caroline and Cordelia. He killed Caroline. He—”
“Shhh,” Fortunato said. “It’s over. He’s finished. His power is gone.”
“I thought we were all going to die.”
“Where’s Cordelia now?” he asked gently. “Is she okay?”
“She went out. She’s okay. She said she’d be back. Maybe. But Caroline…”
She started to cry again. Gradually she got herself under control and Fortunato took her inside. He had to put his suitcase down to shut the door, and Veronica saw it.
“What’s that?”
“I’m leaving town for a while.”
“Fortunato? Look, I can quit the smack. It’s not a big deal. We can work this out.”
“It’s not about you.”
She reached up and touched his forehead. It was smooth and flat. The bulge, where his reserve power built up, was gone. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded. He’d been back to the apartment to pack and clean up. He put some food out for the cat and sat for a couple of minutes with her on his lap. There didn’t seem to be any thing physically wrong with him, just this overwhelming detachment.
“I have to see Ichiko,” he said. “I’ll need some paper and a pen. And get your mother to bring her notary seal.”
He had it all worded in his head, and it took less than five minutes for him to get it on paper, witnessed and notarized. He handed it to Ichiko. “It’s yours now,” he said. “Everything. You can keep it going if you want, or stop it. It’s up to you.”
“What happened?” Ichiko said.
Fortunato shook his head. “I don’t want to change anybody any more. I don’t want to make them into geishas or hookers or heroin addicts. If someone else does it that’s fine, but it’s not going to be me anymore. I don’t want to change anybody but myself. I can’t … I can’t take the responsibility.”
“And the suitcase?”
“I’m going home. Back to Japan. To the Shoin-ji temple at Hara.”
Miranda said, “What about your power?”
“It’ll come back,” Fortunato said, “I think. As to what I’m going to do with it, I don’t know. I just don’t know” Miranda looked at Ichiko. “Well,” she said. “I don’t want to give up the business. But I don’t know if we can make a goof it without help. The Gambiones are always lurking like vultures, waiting for a sign of weakness.”
“We’ve always protected ourselves with influence and money,” Fortunato said. “You can do that as well as I ever could.”
“Ah,” Ichiko said. “But there was always the fist inside the glove.”
Fortunato picked up a deck of cards from the end table. He took out the ace of spades and threw the rest of the cards away. He took the pen again and wrote, Help if you can. Fortunato.
“There’s a man called Yeoman. You can trust him. If you need him, leave word at the Crystal Palace, and show him this card.”
Veronica walked with him to the door. “What are you going to do?” he asked her.
“Fuck men for money,” she said. “It’s all I’ve got. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lucky,” she said. She kissed him good-bye. Her mouth was soft and sweet and almost enough to change his mind.