Dealer's Choice Page 11

  “Calm yourself,” said Wyungare, stroking her hair. “He’s still inside there.” He gestured with his chin toward the bed where the great reptile wheezed ponderously and the massaging rollers moved endlessly up and down the mottled body. “We got him out of his initial captivity, but he is still there in the upper world. I don’t think there’s a way to manifest him back here in this physical reality.”

  Cordelia looked stricken. Her dark eyes started to glisten. She pulled free of Wyungare’s hands and moved toward the bed, bending down and taking hold of the black cat’s head with her fingers. The cat meowed deep in his throat. “Can’t we do something?”

  “We can go back,” said the man. “But we must first have a council. We need to sort things out.”

  “The madness,” said Cordelia, not yet turning to look back. “What did you mean by that?”

  “The boy Bloat is powerful. On the psychic plane, in the dreamtime, whatever you want to call it, his power has obeyed no rules, confined itself to no boundaries.”

  Cordelia nodded silently.

  “There’s something you have to understand,” said Wyungare. “In this world there are many, many cultures who have a greater appreciation of these things than do most of the Europeans. With my people, the dreamtime is not just a part of reality, it is reality.” The man hesitated. “Imagine a group of villagers spending most of their lives living in a delicate, balanced environment like a grove of trees and flowers, with a crystalline stream running past their homes. Imagine that one day, without warning, an enormous steel bulldozer bursts through the brush and cuts a swath of destruction through all the green things and through the houses. It pushes all manner of debris into the stream. The shock to the people who live here is incalculable. They can no longer reach what they know is their reality. Some are maddened. Some are hurt in lesser ways. But no one is left unaffected.”

  Cordelia continued unconsciously stroking the cat, her face averted toward Wyungare. “Bloat is doing all that?” Wyungare nodded soberly. “He is not simply giving scattered sleepers nightmares. He’s destroying them — he’s blasting their realities.”

  “Whole peoples?” Cordelia whispered.

  “He has to be stopped. If he can be healed, then that will happen. If not…” Wyungare spread his hands in a universal gesture.

  “You can do this?”

  The Aborigine chewed his lip. “Perhaps. I have some allies. There is a Peruvian holy man named Viracocha. I hope to draw aid from Buddy Holley here in your country. There are others. It is possible I — we — can help the boy.”

  “And heal the dreamtime,” said Cordelia. The cat had started to relax, butting his black snout into her hand.

  Wyungare nodded. “To attempt this, I need to meet with the boy in person.”

  “You can’t just, uh, call him up on the psychic telephone, you know, find him there in the dreamtime?”

  “Remember the interference,” said Wyungare. “It’s something like sunspots and radio broadcasts. I need to be close to him physically.”

  “That won’t be easy. There’s a wall. CNN’s been carrying it all morning. You can’t get through.”

  “It’s fundamentally a psychic barrier,” said Wyungare. “I’ve got a plan I’ve stolen from Homer. It worked for the noble Odysseus; I think it will work for me. But I’m going to need your uncle.”

  Cordelia stood up, shocked. “You’re going to manifest him in this world?”

  Wyungare shook his head violently. “No! I thought of this while we were inside him, within the dreamtime. For this, I need him in his alligator form. I must get him to the water.”

  Cordelia stared, at first as though her lover were utterly demented, and then as a grin started to quirk around the corners of her mouth. She began to giggle, then to laugh outright. “You’re crazy too,” she said. “I saw that movie. Circe’s island. The hero was tied to the mast, and the crew put wax in their ears.” She shook her head and wiped away tears. "Just like the movie,” said Wyungare. “Jack won’t need wax in his ears.”

  “Good!” said Cordelia. “I wouldn’t relish trying to put it there. How are we going to get him to the bay?”

  Wyungare shrugged. “Walk him. Wake him up and point him in the right direction. Alligators can move rather fast when they wish to.”

  Cordelia giggled again, a little hysterically. “How are you going to steer him, dangle a poodle in front of his snout?”

  The Aborigine shook his head quite seriously. “Just as I contacted his human self, I can do the same with his reptile brain.” He looked down. The black cat had ambled over in front of the man and sat down on his haunches. He looked up expectantly at Wyungare. “Our friend here will help, I think. He has a bit of a bond with your uncle.”

  “Rub-a-dub-dub,” said Cordelia, cracking up again. “Three men in a tub. No, one man, a gator, and a pussycat. But no owl…”

  “An owl would be handy,” said Wyungare. “But first we must get the alligator to the shore.”

  “I think not,” said a new voice. Both Wyungare and Cordelia turned. The black cat hissed and showed his claws, the fur rising up along his tail.

  Dr. Bob stepped all the way into the room. He wasn’t smiling. “Rounds bring me back every once in a while,” he said, “and sometimes my timing seems to work out.” He smiled again, but managed to make the expression look disapproving in the extreme.

  “You might knock,” said Cordelia.

  “This is a hospital,” said Dr. Bob. “I am a physician. Normal rules are, shall we say, a bit suspended.”

  “What happened to Troll?” Cordelia looked puzzled, realizing that the head of security should have kept Dr. Bob out.

  “There was a code zero,” said the doctor. “Our lumpen green friend’s services were required in matters of more urgency.”

  “Granted,” said Wyungare. “Could you excuse us, please?”

  “You mean, would I leave?” The doctor shook his head. “Under the circumstances, assuming I heard correctly, that would seem to be unadvisable.”

  The three of them stared at each other.

  “We seem to be in a bit of stalemate.” said Wyungare finally. He smiled humorlessly. “Time is wasting. I suspect I could settle this matter quickly by taking up my nulla nulla and cracking your skull smartly, Dr. Mengele.” The physician seemed to take an unconscious step back. “But we should probably pursue a more civilized course.”

  “You want me to hit him?” said Cordelia.

  Wyungare shook his head. “Channels. To ensure peace and good karma, as you say here, I think we shall consult the good doctor’s superior. Let’s go.”

  “Fine,” said Dr. Bob. “Let’s.”

  On the physician’s way out the door, the black cat hissed and lightly struck with his forepaw. The claws ripped through Dr. Bob’s expensive slacks and the man recoiled.

  He bent and probed his ankle with a forefinger. “I do believe,” he said mildly, “our friend drew blood.”

  They traipsed down a floor to Dr. Finn’s disarranged office. There was no one there. Cordelia picked up a phone and had the doctor paged. In about thirty seconds, an answer came back.

  “Up,” said Cordelia. She gestured with her index finger. Her look at Dr. Bob suggested a wish to use a very different digit.

  In the elevator, the woman punched the button marked ROOF. Wyungare looked questioningly at her.

  “I should have thought,” said Dr. Bob, “it’s our administrator’s exercise hour.”

  “What about the code zero?” said Cordelia. “Don’t those emergencies draw on everyone?”

  “Perhaps,” said Dr. Bob, “I exaggerated a bit.”

  “Perhaps,” said Wyungare, “you lied altogether.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The car chimed, the door drew back, and the three stepped out. They walked through an open doorway and found an exercise track laid out crudely on the clinic roof. Finn loped around the nearest turn and drew up, chuffing loudly, in front of them. The d
octor was holding a stopwatch.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Not Derby quality, but pretty good for a man of my age.” Finn grinned and snorted. He picked up a white towel from the graveled roof and wiped at the profuse sweat. “Frankly, I just don’t give a damn about the Triple Crown anymore.” He glanced at the three. “Let me guess. Problems?”

  Dr. Bob explained the problems.

  Then Wyungare and Cordelia told their side of it.

  Finn stood silently, taking it all in. At the end, Finn uttered a sigh. He said, “Obviously we cannot lightly discharge a patient in Mr. Robicheaux’s condition.”

  Dr. Bob nodded vigorously and smirked.

  “He is in no condition to leave the clinic without a thorough set of evaluations,” added Finn.

  “Absolutely,” said Dr. Bob.

  “Perhaps you can now excuse us,” said Finn to Dr. Bob, “while I explain certain facts of medical life to our guests.”

  Dr. Bob frowned, looking quickly at his superior. Then he offered his unctuous smile and nodded. As he turned to leave, he winked at Cordelia. The young woman balled her fists, but said and did nothing.

  After the elevator door had sucked shut after Dr. Bob, Finn cleared his throat. “Listen up, you two. I’ve got a clinic to run and I need the confidence of my staff. But I am not blind. I’ll say this just once. Give it a rest for a time, perhaps an hour. Exactly — an hour. I will make sure Dr. Bob Mengele is occupied. It will be up to you two to finesse the smuggling of a fourteen-foot alligator from his room. I don’t know anything about this.”

  Wyungare said gravely, “We shall do our best.”

  Cordelia said, “We’ll have to wake him up.”

  “It can be done,” said Finn. “Remember something: I can’t give you permission. But I can give you one shot at the gold ring.” He smiled.

  “Good,” said Cordelia. “I wasn’t looking forward to buying every Mylar helium balloon in the gift shop, tying them on, and floating him out like a zeppelin.”

  Even Wyungare cracked a smile.

  It all went very smoothly. Modular Man didn’t know whether to be pleased by that or not.

  He hadn’t known that Bloat could read the minds of people inside his domain. Bloat had read Travnicek as soon as Modular Man had carried him across the outer wall — read his intentions, and called off the castle’s defenders.

  “I want some things,” Travnicek said. He stood, blue-skinned and featureless, below the vast creature that was Bloat, pale body pulsing beneath the broken arm and torch of the Statue of Liberty. Armored mermen stood guard, lances at rest. The giant carp on which they rode were propped on the floor on splayed fins. Marble columns rose on high.

  “I want a place of my own,” Travnicek said. “A tower, so I can get up and down when I want, arranged to my specifications. You can built it the way I want, yah?”

  “Just visualize it,” Bloat said, “and I’ll try to put it somewhere.” His voice was high-pitched and adolescent.

  Travnicek turned to Modular Man. “This is the damn life, right?” he said. “I think it, and White, Fat, and Ugly here builds it.”

  A joker named Kafka made an angry, chittering sound, but Bloat only giggled.

  “You don’t care what people think, do you?” he asked.

  Travnicek’s voice was defiant. “Why should I?”

  Bloat looked down on him. There was a touch of sadness in his tone. “Welcome to the Rox,” he said, “I think you’ll fit right in.”

  “Of course I have a plan,” said Wyungare. “Do you think I’m bluffing?”

  Cordelia raised her eyes ceiling-ward. They stood again in room 228, Jack’s room. “Give me patience, Lord.” The black cat moved restlessly about their feet, stalking fluidly between their legs in a slalom pattern.

  “I need to borrow your Walkman,” said the Aborigine. “Please.”

  Cordelia looked curious, but extracted the small black box from her handbag. “You want some tunes to go with it?”

  “I have my own, thank you.” He dug into his dilly bag and took out a tape cassette.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll take a quick journey into your uncle’s reptile mind and attempt to establish some communication. This will be quick and dirty, no time for ceremony.”

  “You’re not going to strip?”

  He shook his head. “No time.”

  “Good,” said Troll. “Aesthetics are important here.”

  Cordelia jerked around. “None of you ever knocks.”

  “Sorry. I’m used to just barging in. Besides, as I gather your Australian friend was saying, we don’t have a lot of time for social niceties. Dr. Finn really cannot afford to be seen helping you. I can.”

  “So what’s the tape?” said Cordelia as Wyungare clicked it into the Walkman.

  He adjusted the ear-buds and handed her the box.

  “Gene Krupa? Cool. Not exactly traditional,” she said.

  “I’m not going to bother with my own drumming,” said Wyungare. “I need what’s called a sonic driver. This will do admirably. I find Mr. Krupa’s approach to rhythm quite impressive.”

  “I’ll go ahead and disconnect the sleep probes,” said Troll. “The moment the voltage stops going into the alligator’s brain, he should start to wake up.” He set the medical case down on a chair. “I’ve got some stimulants that should help accelerate the process.”

  “You know how to do all this?” Cordelia shook her head. “Gator uppers.”

  “Precisely.” Troll hesitated. “Hang around this place long enough and you either have to learn something or go bug-fuck. I sure don’t have an M.D., but please trust me anyway.” Cordelia laughed. “You sound like a doctor.”

  Wyungare sat down cross-legged. “Carry on,” he said to the two. “I’ll be back with you soon.” He punched the tape player’s ON button and closed his eyes.

  Bloat’s Wall towered a hundred feet high. Brokers on Wall Street could look out their office windows and count the demons on its ramparts. The Staten Island Ferry passed right under its battlements, or had before service was suspended.

  But above the physical barrier was another wall. Invisible. Intangible. A wall of fear. A wall of loathing cold as stone, of hatred hard as iron. The wall of terror had the same boundaries as the other, but it was higher, much higher. To get to the Rox took courage and a strong stomach. Most people didn’t have either.

  The previous month, when the Turtle had tried to take Dr. Tachyon out to the Rox in search of his stolen body, the stone wall hadn’t been there, but the invisible wall had stopped him dead. On the second try, Tom had discovered a very important fact: the wall ended around two thousand feet.

  This time he came in high, and it was candy.

  The powers-that-be had decided it would be undignified for the rest of the peace delegation to sit on top of his shell. The vice president had volunteered his limousine. Tom couldn’t help notice that he hadn’t volunteered himself.

  The limo floated under the shell, gripped tight by Tom’s telekinesis, the two moving as one. It was long and black and bulletproof. A little flag emblazoned with the vice presidential seal flew from one fender, a miniature stars and stripes from the other. The delegates sat in back. Nobody sat in front. The Great and Powerful Turtle was all the driver they needed.

  The demons moved in as they passed over Bloat’s Wall.

  Tom watched them approach on his screens. Mermen riding on flying fish, carrying lances shaped like swordfish. They took up positions around the shell, and escorted him in, surreal outriders in a procession out of nightmare. The Rox grew stranger the closer they got. Inside the Wall was more bay. Slender stone causeways connected the castle with its outer defenses. On Ellis itself, the castle bulked huge as Gormenghast. Tom glimpsed stone walls twenty feet thick, a confusion of towers and turrets and courtyards, crystalline fairy bridges delicate as spun sugar, onion domes carved in obsidian and ruby, black iron portcullises, huge wooden doors banded in steel, a
nd in the center of it all a high golden dome as wide across as three football fields.

  When they got above it, Tom saw that the golden dome was fashioned in the shape of a tremendous face, staring up at the sky. The eyes were skylights, but they seemed to follow them as they approached. One of the mermen dipped his spear. Tom understood the gesture. Down.

  He thought of falling leaves.

  The shell and the limo drifted downward. The face swelled larger and larger on his screens. When they were almost on top of it, the mouth opened wide, swallowing the limo. Tom followed.

  He found himself in a vast, airy chamber full of golden light and jokers. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, staring up at the peacemakers as they descended. And from the middle of that human sea rose a mountain of pale flesh.

  Bloat.

  The governor was even bigger than Tom remembered. Still growing, it seemed. The chubby, boyish face and the two small arms that grew from the top of his monstrous body looked like flyspecks. Tom pressed a button: his cameras tracked and zoomed in. Bloat’s features filled his screens. The boy governor was smiling.

  It was the face of the golden dome, Tom realized.

  The torch from the Statue of Liberty stood behind Bloat’s throne, mounted on an iron frame. In front of him, a landing area had been cordoned off with velvet ropes. Tom teked the limo down to a gentle landing, and hovered ten feet above it.

  A handful of VIPs had been allowed inside the ropes. Tom swung some cameras toward them. A humanoid cockroach stood protectively in front of Bloat, a penguin at his side. A magnificent antlered joker towered over both of them, shaking out a red-gold mane as he watched the limo. On the fringes stood groups of normal-looking teenagers who had to be jumpers.

  The penguin skated forward and opened the back door of the limousine. Senator Gregg Hartmann stepped out, looked around for a hand to shake, found none offered, and cleared his throat. Father Squid squeezed out after him, struggling with his bulk and the folds of his cassock.

  High above them, Bloat giggled. “Welcome to the Rox.”

  “Governor,” Hartmann said politely. “Thank you for seeing us. We’ve come in the name of peace.”