Wild Cards_ Jokers Wild Part 32

Out of the corner of her eye Jennifer saw the joker draw back to strike Ray again, but somehow, while spitting blood and fragments of teeth, Ray reached up and caught the joker's arm with one hand while raking across his masked face with the other. The mask came off, exposing a face that looked like a bombed-out battlefield. The man's scar-enc.u.mbered mouth was wide open and sucking for air.

"You're one ugly son of a b.i.t.c.h," Ray mumbled through mashed lips and broken teeth. A merry light danced strangely in his eyes. He twisted like an eel, jerked his leg upward, and caught the joker in the groin.

A stream of spittle ran down the joker's chin and he howled. Ray flipped him over, straddled his chest, and pummeled the joker's face until his fist was splashed with the joker's blood. The joker went limp, and Ray laughed lightly and stood up. His eyes, gleaming with an uncanny light, fastened on Jennifer. She glanced at Brennan, but he was busy with the Egrets. Ray started toward her, fastidiously wiping away the blood that dripped from his smashed jaw before it could fall on his uniform, as the three thugs from the limo approached from the other side.

"You're coming with me," Ray said. Jennifer could barely understand his mumbled words, but she let him take her arm.

"Hey, bug off, man. The chick's ours," one of the thugs said, and Jennifer let him take her other arm.

"I can only accompany one of you," Jennifer said, then ghosted and stepped aside. Ray grinned fixedly and advanced on the thugs as Brennan beat down another Egret with a crushing backhanded blow. The two Egrets still on their feet exchanged glances, decided it wasn't worth it, and beat cheeks down the sidewalk and through the crowd. Brennan turned back toward Jennifer. He wasn't even breathing hard, although he did look baffled as he watched Ray punch out Wyrm's thugs. Jennifer glanced at the limousine sitting in the street before them, motor running and door open.

"Come on," she called to Brennan, and dove through the open door. He followed her into the car, pulled the door shut, and a huge birdlike form hurtled out of the sky and slammed against the windshield. It was a skinny winged joker with a crown of dirty white feathers like the crest of a scraggly c.o.c.katoo, ugly purple and red wattles hanging from his jaw. He shook his head, stunned by the impact like a sparrow that'd flown into a plate-gla.s.s window, croaked something unintelligible, and slipped off the hood into the street, tripping Ray who had just disposed of his final adversary and was leaping toward the limo. Brennan watched them fall to the pavement in a tangle of limbs. Jennifer gunned the motor as Wyrm stood up groggily. The limo sped off as the reptilian joker looked around in bewilderment.

"What happened?" he asked, but no one could really tell him.

CHAPTER 18.

11:00 p.m. p.m.

The toilet flushed. Latham paused to wash his hands, dried them on a monogrammed towel, and turned off the light as he emerged from the bathroom.

Hiram held his breath and tried to squirm closer to the ceiling. His fist was clenched very tight, and the slightest motion threatened to send him drifting across the room. He prayed Latham wouldn't look up. Thank G.o.d he hadn't turned on the ceiling light; a man of Hiram's girth floating up near the fixture would cast a noticeable shadow. He could thank Popinjay for getting him into this absurd situation.

He'd hoped Latham would head straight back to his computer, but he wasn't going to be that lucky. The attorney walked to his dresser and began to empty his pockets: money clips, keys, a handful of change. He undid his tie, removed his vest, hung them carefully in a walk-in closet, slipped into a smoking jacket. It was black silk, with a dragon motif worked in gold across the back, and it fit perfectly. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Latham untied his shoes, donned a pair of slippers. No No, Hiram thought down at him, don't lie down, please please don't lie down. don't lie down.

The phone rang.

Go away, Hiram thought wildly, go back to the other room. Loophole glanced at the door, as if he was considering it. Then he lifted the receiver off the bedside extension. "Latham."

There was a short pause. "You're not making any sense," the lawyer said curtly. "Yes, I understand that you're in pain." Silence. "He ate ate your foot?" The tone was incredulous. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Spector, I don't believe you. If you've lost that much blood, perhaps you're . . ." A sigh. "All right, describe these books." your foot?" The tone was incredulous. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Spector, I don't believe you. If you've lost that much blood, perhaps you're . . ." A sigh. "All right, describe these books."

This time the silence was much longer. Hiram couldn't see Latham's expression from his vantage point against the ceiling, but when he spoke, his tone had changed. "No, James, don't read from it. It wouldn't be healthy. Where are you?" A frown. "Yes, but what what dump, where, I don't . . . They're all in Times Square, she's been sighted . . . no, I don't know how long." He glanced at the bedside clock. "No. No, I want you here as soon as possible. Take a cab . . . I don't care how you get one, just do it, do you understand? You know the address." dump, where, I don't . . . They're all in Times Square, she's been sighted . . . no, I don't know how long." He glanced at the bedside clock. "No. No, I want you here as soon as possible. Take a cab . . . I don't care how you get one, just do it, do you understand? You know the address."

Latham hung up the phone, rose thoughtfully from the bed, and then-to Hiram's immense relief-went directly back to the desk in the other room.

Hiram shuddered, unclenched his hand, and drifted slowly back to the floor. He touched down as lightly as a feather. Spector Spector, he thought. Where had he heard that name before? What else had Latham called him? James, that was it, James Spector.

Suddenly it fell into place. Dr. Tachyon, that was where he'd heard the name, half a year ago, over a rack of lamb at Aces High. A man who'd escaped from the clinic and left a trail of death behind him, an accountant named James Spector, but he had a new profession now, and on the street they were calling him . . . Demise.

He heard Latham pick up the phone. Hiram glanced toward the front door, but to reach it he would have to cross the living room, in plain view. The window was a better bet. He tiptoed across the room, slid it open slowly and carefully, stuck his head out. It was a long fall, but not nearly as long as the fall from Aces High.

Grimacing with distaste, Hiram Worchester climbed up on the sill and pushed himself through the window. It was a tight fit, and for one horrible second he was afraid that he was stuck. Then he squirmed a little harder, the b.u.t.tons gave on his jacket, and he popped free and began to fall. He only hoped that he wouldn't be blown too too far off course. far off course.

And in fact there was enough power left for Fortunato to find the Rolls. He thought about Peregrine, about her mouth and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and what she would taste like between her legs. Just the thought made him stronger.

He was going to have her. Even though it meant risking both of their lives. The Astronomer was not through with either one of them, and they'd be terribly vulnerable in bed.

But there was time. The Astronomer had to recharge, and so did he. He tried not to think about the Astronomer out there somewhere, maybe even now picking out his victim. Tried not to remember that the time he had was being bought at the cost of somebody else's life.

He turned a corner and saw the Rolls. Peregrine unlocked the door for him and he got inside.

"Your business?" she asked.

"Taken care of. For now."

"Good," she said. "I'd hate for you to be in a hurry."

Jennifer took a corner with enough speed to wring an angry whine from the limo's tires and a few angry curses from the pedestrians who had spilled off the crowded sidewalk onto the roadway itself. She glanced quickly to her right and saw Brennan leaning back against the luxurious upholstery, smiling.

"What are you so happy about?" she asked.

"Kien doesn't have the book."

"Hmmm?" Jennifer cut across two lanes of traffic and threw a fast left. She glanced into the rearview mirror. She didn't think they were being followed, but she wanted to make sure. "What makes you say that?"

"Simple," he said. "Wyrm is still following us. Or you, to be precise. Therefore Kien doesn't have the book." He suddenly lost his smile and frowned. "But if it isn't where you left it . . ." He left the sentence unfinished.

"Someone else must have it. Them." Jennifer realized that she was getting so caught up in Brennan's quest that she was forgetting the stockbooks full of stamps. The books that were, or at least should be, important to her. "Why do you want that d.a.m.n book so much?" she asked suddenly, running through a red light. "What's your connection with Kien?"

Brennan stared out the window for a long moment.

"You handle this car very well."

"Come on," she said, frustrated beyond endurance by his reticence. "Cut the stall and answer my questions. You owe me that much."

"Maybe I do," Brennan said reflectively. "All right. Kien and I go a long way back. Back to Vietnam." Jennifer slowed to a reasonable speed so she could keep one eye on Brennan as he spoke. He was looking out the window distractedly, looking, seemingly, far beyond the street outside the window. "He's an evil man. Utterly self-absorbed, utterly ruthless. He was a general in the army of South Vietnam, but he worked for anyone who'd pay him. He caused the deaths of a lot of my men. He tried to kill me." Brennan's face became expressionless. "He killed my wife."

They drove on in silence, Jennifer wondering if she had probed too far, if she even wanted to know the rest of the story. After a while, Brennan spoke again.

"I had evidence implicating him in nearly every dirty scheme that was going on in 'Nam, but I . . . lost it. Kien stayed in power. I was almost court-martialed. When Saigon fell I left the army and Kien came to America. I spent a few years in the Orient, finally returning to the States a few years ago. An old comrade of mine spotted Kien a couple of months ago and sent me a letter that brought me to the city.

"I'm convinced that the diary would implicate Kien in countless criminal activities. Maybe it contains enough evidence to put him away for good . . . like he should have been put away by the evidence I'd gathered twelve years ago . . ."

"I don't know if this diary would be accepted as evidence in court."

"Perhaps not," Brennan conceded, "but it would contain innumerable clues to his activities, to his a.s.sociates and underlings." He looked at Jennifer seriously. "Killing Kien would be simple, but, first, it wouldn't necessarily bring down the network of corruption that he's built up here in New York, and, second, it would be too easy on him." Brennan's eyes became shadowed with introspection. "I want him to lie awake at night and worry about the slightest noise, the fleetingest shadow that cuts across his dreams. I want him stripped of everything he has, all his wealth, all his power and riches. In the end I want him to have nothing but time, time weighing heavily on his head with nothing to change the endless succession of his dull and eternal days . . . And if he doesn't end up in a jail cell, I'll strip him of everything he has and make his life an inescapable h.e.l.l of grinding poverty and fear. To do it I'll need the diary."

Brennan lapsed into silence again. Jennifer licked her lips. Maybe, she thought, it was time to tell him the truth. He should know. But something froze up inside of her at the thought of telling him. She licked her lips again, forced them open.

"Brennan-"

She was interrupted by the sound of a telephone ringing in the back of the limo. Brennan started and looked toward the back seat as she sighed, feeling like a condemned prisoner granted a reprieve.

The dashboard of the limo had more controls than a s.p.a.ce shuttle.

"Which switch lowers the window between the seats?" Brennan asked.

Jennifer darted a glance at the dashboard and shrugged. Brennan slammed down a bunch of toggles, turning on the radio, locking the doors, putting up the television antenna and, finally, lowering the tinted gla.s.s barrier between the rear and front seats. He dove into the back. Jennifer heard a m.u.f.fled curse as he banged his knee on the liquor cabinet and bar that faced the rear seat. He picked up the phone, switched on the speaker attachment so Jennifer could hear, and grunted into it.

"Wyrm? Wyrm, is that you? This is Latham."

Jennifer, glancing at him in the rear mirror, saw a strange expression fall upon his features. He smiled with pleasure, but no humor, as if he recognized the name, as if he were glad to hear the man's voice.

"Listen carefully. Demise is coming with the book. I repeat. Demise has the book. Call off your search and escort him in. Do you understand?"

Brennan's smile was savage.

"I do," he said quietly.

"You're not Wyrm."

"No," Brennan said.

"Who is this?"

"The past, spook. And I'm coming for you."

He hung up the phone.

The din, as they walked crosstown, was deafening. The crowds were virtually tidal in their power to ebb and flow, carrying most unanch.o.r.ed pa.s.sersby with them.

"I'm trying trying," Bagabond said to Jack, eyes tightly closed as she leaned up against the brick pillar at an alley entrance off 9th Street. "The creatures of the city have never had to deal with this kind of human commotion before. They're terrified."

"I'm sorry," said Jack. The urgency in his voice belied the apology. "Just try. Please try."

"I am." She continued to concentrate. "Nothing. 'm sorry." She opened her eyes and Jack found himself staring into their apparently infinite black depths. "There are eight million humans in this city. Probably there are ten times as many creatures, not even counting the roaches. Be patient."

Jack impulsively hugged her. "I'm sorry. Do what you can do. Let's keep heading downtown." His voice had turned weary now. Bagabond held the embrace a second more than necessary. Jack didn't object.

Bagabond suddenly c.o.c.ked her head. "Listen."

"Are you picking up something?" Jack said.

"I'm hearing hearing someone. Aren't you?" She started to walk rapidly down the block. someone. Aren't you?" She started to walk rapidly down the block.

Jack heard it too. The music was familiar, the voice doubly so.

Blood and and bones bones Take me me home home

People there there I I owe owe People there there gonna gonna go go

Down with with me me to to h.e.l.l h.e.l.l Down with with me me to to h.e.l.l h.e.l.l "I'll be d.a.m.ned," said Jack. "It sounds like C. C."

"It is is C. C. Ryder," Bagabond said. C. C. had been one of Rosemary's oldest and closest friends in the city. But triggered by acute trauma, her grotesque wild card talent had kept her under close care in Dr. Tachyon's clinic for more than a decade. C. C. Ryder," Bagabond said. C. C. had been one of Rosemary's oldest and closest friends in the city. But triggered by acute trauma, her grotesque wild card talent had kept her under close care in Dr. Tachyon's clinic for more than a decade.

They stopped with several other onlookers, pressed up against the gla.s.s front of a Crazy Eddie's. There were several large video monitors set up in the display window. Overhead speakers piped the music out to the street. On the screens, sharp-edged geometric solids rolled and collided in black and white.

"Is she performing again?" Bagabond said. "Rosemary's said nothing."

"Not in person." Jack squinted through the gla.s.s. "Just in performance videos like this. I also heard she's been writing a lot of new stuff lately, songs for Nick Cave, Jim Carroll, people like that. I read in the Voice Voice that Lou Reed's even considering one of her songs for a new alb.u.m-and he that Lou Reed's even considering one of her songs for a new alb.u.m-and he never never does covers." does covers."

"I wish she was doing concerts again," Bagabond said, voice almost wistful.

Jack shrugged. "Maybe. I guess she can't deal with more than maybe two people at one time. I think she's finally getting better."

"If she's recording now," said Bagabond, "then she's getting better."

"I bet Cordelia'd like to meet her," said Jack.

Bagabond smiled. "Cordelia's sixteen. Maybe C. C. knows Bryan Adams."

"Who?" said Jack.

"Come on." She took his arm and led him away from the display window. The lyrics followed them: You can can sing sing about about pain pain You can can sing sing about about sorrow sorrow But nothing nothing will will bring bring a a new new tomorrow tomorrow Or take take away away yesterday yesterday [image]

In the neighboring cubicle, screened only by a thin cloth curtain, someone was puking. Noisily, energetically, vigorously, a real tour de force of puking.

"So I sez to him, I sez, I'm gonna smear your ugly nat face all over-"

But where the beery-voiced joker had been going to smear the face was lost in the lonely cry of sirens and a loud aggrieved "Ow!" from Tachyon.

"Stop sniveling," ordered Dr. Victoria Queen, who looked as if thirty-six years of living with her improbable name had permanently soured her disposition. The frowning expression was at odds with her lovely face and lush body. She took another st.i.tch in the alien's forehead.

"What are you using? A knitting needle?"

"Where's all this Takisian stoicism? To bear pain without flinching, to laugh in the face of vicissitude."

"You have a terrible bedside manner."