"Hey," said an overly familiar voice from behind Cordelia's scapula. "What's happening?"
Without looking around Cordelia said, "Marty Carlucci, meet Dr. Tachyon and Peregrine." To the latter she said, "Marty's my chaperon."
"Hiya." Carlucci took the fourth chair. "Yeah, I know you," he said to Tachyon. He stared at Peregrine, frankly surveying her. All of her. "You I've seen a lot. I got tapes of every show you've done for years." His eyes narrowed. "Say, you pregnant?"
"Thank you," said Peregrine. "Yes." She stared him down.
"Uh, right," said Carlucci. He turned to Cordelia. "Kid, come on. We gotta get back on the plane." More firmly, "Now!"
Good-byes were said. Tachyon volunteered to pay for the coffee. "Good luck," Peregrine said, aimed specifically at Cordelia. Carlucci seemed preoccupied, not noticing.
As the two of them walked toward the boarding gate, he said, "Dumb fuckin' bitch."
Cordelia stopped dead still. "What?"
"Not you." Carlucci took her elbow roughly and propelled her toward the security checkpoint. "That joker who sells info-Chrysalis. I ran into her by the phones. I figured I'd save the price of a call."
"So?" said Cordelia.
"One of these days she's gonna get her invisible tits caught in the wringer and there's going to be real bright blood all over the laundry room wall. I told New York that too."
Cordelia waited, but he didn't elaborate. "So?" she said again.
"What did you tell those two geeks?" said Carlucci. His voice sounded dangerous.
"Nothing," said Cordelia, listening to the internal warning bells. "Nothing at all."
"Good." Carlucci grimaced. He mumbled, "She's gonna be fish food, I swear it."
Cordelia stared at Carlucci. The sheer conviction in his voice kept him from appearing a comic-opera gangster. She thought he meant what he was saying. He reminded her of the wolf-creatures in last night's maybe-dream. All that was missing was the dark spittle.
Carlucci's mood didn't improve on the flight to Australia. In Sydney they cleared customs and transferred to an A-300 Airbus. In Melbourne, Cordelia finally got to stick her head out of doors for a few minutes. The air smelled fresh. She admired the DC-3 suspended from a cable in front of the terminal. Then her companion fussed at her to get to the proper Ansett gate. This time they were seated on a 727. Cordelia was glad she wasn't trusting her bag to checked luggage. Part of Marty Carlucci's gloom involved speculation that his checked bag was going to get missent to Fiji or some other improper destination.
"So why didn't you carry everything on?" Cordelia had said.
"There's some stuff you can't carry on."
The 727 droned north, away from the coastal greenery. Cordelia had the window seat. She stared down at the apparently unending desert. She squinted, looking for roads, railroad tracks, any other sign of human intervention. Nothing. The flat brownish-tan wasteland was dotted with cloud shadows.
When word crackled over the cabin speakers that the plane was approaching Alice Springs, Cordelia realized only after she'd performed the actions that she had stowed the tray table, cinched her seat belt, and shoved her bag back under the seat ahead. It had all become utterly automatic.
The airport was busier than she'd expected. Somehow she had anticipated a single dusty runway with a galvanized tin shack beside it. A TAA flight had landed minutes before and the terminal was crowded with people who clearly resembled tourists.
"We rent the Land-Rover now?" she asked Carlucci. The man was leaning impatiently over the luggage belt. "Uh-uh. We go into town. I've got us reservations at the Stuart Arms. We're both getting a good night's sleep. I don't want to be any nastier than I have to be tomorrow at the meeting. It's all set up for three o'clock," he added as an apparent afterthought. "The lag's gonna catch up with us real fast. I suggest you get a good supper with me when we get to Alice. Then it's beddy-bye till ten or eleven tomorrow morning. If we pick up the rental and get out of Alice by noon, we should hit the Gap in plenty of time. There, you son of a bitch!" He grabbed his alligator case from the conveyor. "Okay, let's go."
They took an Ansett coach into Alice. It was half an hour into town and the air-conditioning labored hard against the baking heat outside. Cordelia stared out the window as the bus approached downtown Alice Springs. At first glance it didn't look terribly different from a small, arid American city. Certainly Baton Rouge was more alien than this, Cordelia thought. It didn't look at all as she'd expected from seeing both versions of A Town Like Alice.
The air transit terminal turned out to be across the street from the turn-of-the-century architecture of the Stuart Arms, a fact for which Cordelia was grateful. It was getting dark as the passengers climbed down to the pavement and claimed their bags. Cordelia glanced at her watch. The numbers meant absolutely nothing. She needed to reset to local time. And change the date as well, she reminded herself. She wasn't even sure what day of the week it was now. Her head had started to throb when she plunged into the heat that lingered even while the dark was falling. She thought longingly of being able to lie straight, stretched out on clean sheets. After she'd had a long bath. She checked that. The bath could wait until she'd slept for twenty or thirty hours. At least.
"Okay, kiddo," said Carlucci. They were standing in front of the antique registration desk. "Here's your key." He paused. "Sure you wouldn't like to shave expenses for GF amp;G and stay in my room?" Cordelia didn't have the energy to smile wanly. "Nope," she said, taking the key from his hand.
"You wanna know something? You're not on this picnic just because the Fortunato broads think you're such hot shit." What was he talking about? She used enough energy to glance at him.
"I've seen you around the GF amp;G offices. I liked what I saw. I put in the word."
Cordelia sighed. Aloud.
"Okay," he said. "Hey, no offense. I'm bushed too." Carlucci picked up the alligator bag. "Let's get the stuff stowed and catch supper." There was a LIFT OUT OF ORDER sign on the elevator. He turned wearily toward the staircase.
"Second floor," said Carlucci. "At least that's a goddamn blessing." They passed a mimeographed poster in the stairwell advertising a band called Gondwanaland. "Maybe after we eat, you wanna go dancing?" Even he didn't sound all that enthusiastic.
Cordelia didn't bother to reply.
The landing opened out into a hallway lined with dark wood trim and some unobtrusive glass cases containing aboriginal artifacts. Cordelia glanced at the boomerangs and bull roarers. Doubtless she'd be able to work up a little more interest tomorrow.
Carlucci looked at his key. "The rooms are next to each other. God, I'm looking forward to bagging it. I really am dead."
A door slammed open behind them. Cordelia caught a quick flash of two dark figures leaping. They were monsters. Later she decided they must have been wearing masks. Ugly masks.
Tired as she was, her reflexes still worked. She'd started to duck to the side when a stiffened forearm caught her across the chest and drove her into one of the glass cases. Glass shattered, shards spraying. Cordelia flailed her arms, trying to keep her equilibrium, as someone or something tried to grapple with her. She thought she heard Marty Carlucci screaming.
Her fingers closed on something hard-the end of a boomerang-as she sensed rather than saw her assailant spin around and spring for her again. She brought the boomerang forward in a whistling arc. Instinct. All instinct. Shit, she thought. I'm going to die.
The sharp edge of the boomerang sliced into the face of her attacker with the sound of a carving knife slicing into a watermelon. Outstretched fingers slapped her neck and dropped away. A body rolled to the floor.