Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild Page 16

  “Uh . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  The joker’s fingers had thick, sharp nails. He ran them across the bare skin of Jennifer’s chest, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave red welts with their passing.

  “Uh—”

  The tree behind them blew up. Blew right up, showering them with leaves and fragments of branches. The shock waves from the explosion knocked Jennifer and the men holding her to the ground. One let go of her arm and she kneed the other one three times. She wasn’t sure if she hit his stomach or groin, but whatever she hit was tender enough to make him scream and let her go. She rolled away and looked wildly around, as the thugs were doing.

  “There!”

  One of them pointed across the street. A man stared back at them. His features were concealed by a hood. He was of average height, rather nicely built. Nothing about him really stood out, though, except for the bow he held. It was a high-tech piece of machinery with funny curves and multiple strings and what looked like small pulleys attached to it. He was calmly nocking another arrow while people on his side of the street also noticed him and started to run about like a flock of panicked chickens.

  The reptiloid seemed to recognize him. He hissed hatefully as the man brought his bow to bear, but a bus going down the street suddenly blocked his aim.

  The thugs were scattering and Jennifer took this as a propitious time to do some vanishing of her own. She ran deeper into the park, thanking her lucky stars for the man’s intervention.

  How did he fit into this? she wondered. What could he want? She wondered if he was the crazed Bow and Arrow Vigilante that the papers had been full of the last few months. He must be. New York City was a strange place, but she doubted that there could be two people running around shooting at things with a bow and arrow.

  And she realized something else as she cut through a copse of trees, wincing as she stepped on a sharp stone. She had seen him before. Even though he now wore a hood, she recognized him by his clothes and by his build as the man who had accosted her in the bleachers of Ebbets Field.

  Why was he following her? What did he want?

  CHAPTER 9

  2:00 p.m.

  It was two o’clock before Bagabond was able to return to Rosemary’s office. Both the streets and the subways were swollen by the masked and made-up revelers. Once she had seen an alligator snout in the crowd but, even as she turned toward it, she realized it was papier-mâché—not Jack. It had deeply disturbed her. Bagabond had always felt self-pity at the changes in her life caused by the virus. Jack and his often-uncontrollable shape-shifting taught her that there were worse fates than experiencing the deaths, births, and pain of every wild creature in the city.

  She leaned against the wall and considered the horrible fates of the jokers, never able to escape into hiding because of deformities too hideous or life-threatening to be hidden. Trapped in the isolation of their own betraying bodies. Bagabond shivered violently, closed her eyes for a moment, and reached out to the black and the calico, her oldest companions. They were safe. The thought warmed her.

  A slight tug alerted her. She reached down for her camouflage-fabric purse as she sent a wave of hate and threat at the man attempting to snatch her handbag. Startled at her reaction and disoriented by the alien feeling in his head, the tentacled-joker-masked purse snatcher retreated into the crowd.

  She rarely attempted to use her ability on humans; she was never sure what its effect, if any, would be. Still uncomfortable in her heels, Bagabond pushed off from the wall and entered the surging flow of the crowd as it, and she, moved toward Jetboy’s Tomb and the Justice Center.

  By the time she reached the Justice Center, much of the crowd had diverted into Jokertown, Jetboy’s Tomb, or Chinatown. Bagabond walked into the district attorney’s building. She felt less at home in the business-suit costume than she did in rags, and it was more difficult to walk with head raised confidently. Getting out on Rosemary’s floor, she realized that Paul Goldberg was no longer on phone duty. Bagabond nodded to the current receptionist and walked back toward Rosemary’s office. As she did, Goldberg walked out of an adjacent office, arms filled with legal references, nearly colliding with Bagabond.

  “Christ! Sorry.” Goldberg attempted to juggle the books, succeeding with all but the top one which Bagabond neatly caught. “Thanks,” he said. “You okay?”

  “Fine. You were released from the phones, I take it.” Bagabond carefully placed the book on top of the stack beneath Goldberg’s chin.

  “You caught my act?” Goldberg grinned, then looked puzzled. “I can’t believe I don’t remember seeing you.”

  “You were distracted. Is Ms. Muldoon in?” Bagabond gestured toward Rosemary’s office.

  “If you thought this morning was distracting, you’ll love this afternoon. All hell’s broken loose.” He shifted the books slightly to the right. “So, if you get a chance, say good-bye before you leave. You’ll be a breath of sanity.”

  “We’ll see.” She reached out and steadied the top volume.

  “Goldberg! Where are those goddamn casebooks?” The rough disembodied voice was distinctly impatient.

  “Never keep Mrs. Chavez waiting.” He trapped the first book with his chin and began trotting down the hall. “Later, I hope.”

  Bagabond turned to watch him leave. Looking back toward Rosemary’s office, Bagabond saw her leaning against the doorframe, smiling.

  “Making a conquest, Ms. Melotti?” Rosemary waved Bagabond inside her office.

  Bagabond shook her head, realizing angrily that she was blushing.

  “Uh huh. Why the outfit?” Rosemary closed the door behind her. “Have a seat.”

  “Business.” Bagabond sat down and kicked off her shoes with an inaudible sigh.

  “Does that translate to ‘I really don’t want to know’?” Rosemary received only a bland stare from Bagabond. She continued, “The Butcher’s dead. ‘Car accident.’ I can’t say I’m tremendously distraught, but I’m not buying the accident theory. Know anything about it? Happened in Central Park a little after twelve noon.” Rosemary sat on the edge of her desk and leaned back, stretching her neck and arching her spine. “As resident expert on the Families, everybody’s been asking me about it. I was hoping maybe a squirrel or one of the cats saw something . . .”

  “Sorry. Their memories are much too short for—” Bagabond gasped and broke off. “Jack!” Her body spasmed.

  “Suzanne, what’s going on? Should I call a doctor?” Rosemary grasped Bagabond’s hand only to have it jerked away. Bagabond saw the end of her snout, a bright flash of flame; she saw a hand holding a packet of small books wrapped in clear plastic, another hand waving the pistol; another flash—

  She still looked sixteen to Fortunato, though she was obviously old enough to be serving drinks. She wore jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt under her apron, and her red-brown hair was pinned up in a loose mess on top of her head. She had a row of dishes lined up on one arm and a fat tourist grabbing the other. The tourist was shouting at her about something and she was starting to sweat.

  Her sweat was an event. Water began to condense out of the air all around her. The fat tourist looked up, trying to figure out how it could be raining inside.

  “Jane,” Fortunato said quietly.

  She whirled around, eyes as wide as a gazelle’s. “You!” she said, and the dishes hit the floor.

  “Relax,” Fortunato said. “For god’s sake.”

  She pushed her hair off her forehead. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

  “Yes,” Fortunato said, “I would. I want you to not ask any questions, just come with me, right now. Forget your purse or sweater or whatever.”

  Obviously she didn’t like the idea. She looked at him for a couple of seconds. She must have seen something there, seen the urgency in his eyes. “Uh . . . okay. But this had better be important. If this is some stunt, I’m not going to be amused.”

  “It’s life or d
eath. Literally.”

  She nodded, and wadded her apron into a ball. “Okay then.” She threw the apron in a heap with the broken dishes. “This job really sucked anyway.”

  The fat tourist stood up. “Hey, what the hell is going on around here? You her pimp or something, buddy?”

  Fortunato never got a chance to react. The girl gave the fat man a look of pure hatred and the light drizzle pattering around him turned into a sudden five-second torrent that soaked him to the skin.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Water Lily said.

  “Good Lord, and how many times have you been robbed?” she exclaimed as her eyes roved about the immaculate living room with its plush white carpet, maroon vertical blinds, white baby grand piano, and maroon sectional sofa.

  “Too many. I do wish you humans would have the sense to legalize narcotics. It would make life so much simpler for so many people.”

  “Some of us humans wish that too. It would make such a nice cash crop for developing nations,” she answered, drifting over to fondle the petals of an elaborate gardenia-and-orchid bouquet resting atop the glass coffee table. The air conditioner chattered away, pouring cold air into the room, making it less than comfortable.

  The gardenias breathed their fragrance into the room mingling with the smell of coffee, which still lingered from the morning, and the pungent scent of incense. The rest of the table was swept clean but for a large photo book. All Those Girls in Love With Horses by Robert Vavra. Roulette rested the book in her lap, and turned the pages.

  “And which do you love? The girls or the horses?”

  “Which do you think?” Tachyon responded with an impish smile. He was playing back his phone messages, most of which seemed to be from women. The final message ended, and he switched off the machine and unplugged the phone. “So we can have at least a few hours of privacy.” She found herself unable to meet the hunger in his gaze, and she dropped her eyes back to the book.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  Tension filled the room, forming almost-tangible lines between them. Agitated, Roulette rose and roamed about the room. Two walls were covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with works in several different languages, and in an alcove formed by an outthrust of the wall and flanked by two windows was what could only be described as an altar. A low table covered by an embroidered gray cloth held a simple but profoundly beautiful flower arrangement, a single candle, a small knife, and a tiny Hopi seed pot holding a long, thin incense stick.

  “Is this really for . . .”

  “For worship?” he said, turning from the small efficiency kitchen where he was pouring himself a drink. “Yes. That’s that ancestor business I told you about.”

  That opened a whole set of disturbing memories: singing in the choir at the Methodist church back home, her mother rehearsing the angels for the Christmas pageant, her head bobbing energetically as she pounded out the melody on their old piano, and the children’s voices like piping crickets filling the house. Being frightened by a hell-and-damnation sermon by a visiting missionary, and clinging to her father for comfort.

  She flung herself to the piano, seating herself on the cushioned bench. A violin, its smooth golden curves softly reflecting back the light from a brace of track lights, lay on the piano. And for the first time she found some disorder in this perfect room. A jumble of scores and music sheets marched across the stand. Roulette frowned and leaned in, studying the notation on one of the hand-scored pieces. The notes seemed to be in the familiar positions, but there were odd notations in the clefs. The piano cover fell back with a thud, and she sight-read through the music.

  She was very aware when Tachyon came up behind her, for the sense of tingling magnetism increased, and the delicate scent he favored washed over her. Ice tinkled in the glass as he attempted to clap.

  “Bravo, you are quite accomplished.”

  “I should be, my mother’s a music teacher.”

  “Where?”

  “Philadelphia public school system.”

  There was a slight pause, then the Takisian asked, “What did you think?”

  “Very Mozartian.”

  A tiny line appeared between Tachyon’s arching brows, and he closed his eyes as if in pain. “What a blow.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No artist likes to be told they are derivative.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—”

  He held up a small hand. Grinned. “Even when they know it’s true.”

  She turned back, and shuffled the sheets, and went on to the second page. “Derivative or not, it’s pretty.”

  “Thank you, I’m glad my small effort pleased you, but let us play a true master. I so rarely find someone I can—” he paused, and shot her a glance alight with mischief “—jam with.” He flipped quickly through the piles of music, and pulled out Beethoven’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in F, the so-called Spring sonata.

  She watched, held by the way his small, elegant hands caressed the polished surface of the violin, tightening a string here, plucking a single quivering note from another. “Which do you prefer?” she asked, indicating the piano and the violin.

  “I can’t choose. I am partial to this.” Another stroke to the wood of the violin. “For it kept me on the edge of the gutter rather than in it for a number of years.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Old history. Shall we tune?”

  The A hung trembling in the room matched by a floating tone from the violin.

  “Good God, what is that? A Stradivarius?”

  “Don’t I wish. No, it’s a Nagyvary.”

  “Oh, that chemist in Texas who thinks he discovered the secret of the Cremona school.”

  The violin dropped from his chin, and he smiled down at her. “What a delight you are. Is there nothing on which you’re not informed?”

  “I daresay a thousand things,” she replied dryly.

  His lips pressed against the corner of her mouth, drifted down her neck, the breath puffing gently and warmly across her skin.

  “Shall we play?” And she noticed with embarrassment and anger the catch in her voice.

  They began in perfect unison, the violin singing the first held note then gliding into the elegant ornamentation. She echoed the phrase, and time ceased and reality withdrew. Twenty minutes of perfect harmony and graceful genius. Twenty minutes without word or thought or worry. A perfect moment. Tachyon stood transported; eyes closed, lashes brushing at his high cheekbones, metallic red hair curling across the violin, joy on his narrow face.

  Roulette laid her hands in her lap, stared down at the keys while Tachyon, also remaining silent, placed the violin in its case. Moments later his hands touched her shoulders, resting like nervous birds, as though frightened to remain.

  “Roulette, you make me feel . . . well, something that I haven’t felt for many, many years. I’m very glad you came walking down Henry Street today. Perhaps there was even a reason for it.”

  She watched with rather distant interest as her fingers tightened about each other, knuckles whitening with strain. “You’re looking for significance again.”

  “I thought you only warned me against looking for comfort.”

  “Well, add significance to it.” She lifted a corner of the numbing blanket with which she had covered her emotions, and found panic throbbing in time to her rushing heart-beats. She probed at her soul, and found a bleeding wound. Fear, hate, guilt, regret, hopelessness.

  She blamed him.

  “Let’s go to bed.” And she was startled by the flatness of the words when they masked so much anguish.

  It would have been quicker to travel crosstown underground. Jack had clattered down the steps at the West 4th Street station. One level, two levels, three. Few people other than maintenance workers went down to the fourth level. He went through an anonymous steel door and entered an eastwest maintenance tunnel. In their little cages, the dim safety bulbs shed a brittle yellow glow, cast
ing islands of illumination along the passageway. Jack’s shoes scuffed in dirt.

  It was exhilarating to be able to stride along without having to account for endless numbers of slower pedestrians getting in his way. Jack checked his watch, and then looked at it again, unbelieving. It was only a little after two. It seemed as if he’d been searching the city for Cordelia for days. More to the point, he’d completely lost track of time. He wondered if maybe he was squandering his time now. Maybe he should be calling Rosemary, checking with Bagabond, phoning the police, anything . . . He should have been watching instead of thinking.

  When he swung around a dogleg in the passage and slammed into someone coming the other way at a dead run, he had, at first, only the briefest impression of a dark figure. He glimpsed one huge eye centered in the other’s face, a monocle glittering in the dim light—

  “Son of a bitch!” said the other person, raising one hand toward Jack. Red flame erupted from the fist, a rolling wave of painful sound crashed against Jack’s ears, and he heard something buzz past his head, spanging against the concrete wall of the corridor. Cement chips sprayed the side of his face. There was no pain yet.

  “Hey!” Jack yelled. He dropped to the floor of the tunnel and the epinephrines took over. Now it was all instinctual. All the pent tension of the long day, the frustration of his search, his intermittent desire to kill something, flashed into critical mass. Also he was hungry. Very hungry.

  “Bastard. Get away from me! You die!” The dark figure drew down with the pistol. Another shot. Jack saw the sparks where the bullet hit a steel stanchion.

  “What the hell you doin’?” Jack cried. “Aaaaaahhh!” said the reptile brain, flooded with welcomed hormones. Jack felt his body elongate, the vestigial tail extending and swelling, clothing ripping, his snout springing forth before his eyes. The rows of teeth sprang up faster than anything sowed by Cadmus.