Angie swung them back around as they crashed out through the far wall. Where? she yelled, above the turbine.
As if in answer, the black Honda came corkscrewing down, twenty meters in front of them, and threw up a silver sheet of rain. Turner grabbed the controls and they slid forward, the hover blasting up ten-meter fantails of ground water; they took the little combat copter square in its polycarbon canopy, its alloy fuselage crumpling like paper under the impact. Turner backed off and went in again, faster. This time the broken copter slammed into the trunks of two wet gray pines, lay there like some kind of long-winged fly.
What happened? Angie said, her hands to her face.
What happened?
Turner tore registration papers and dusty sunglasses from a compartment in the door beside him, found a flashlight, checked its batteries.
What happened? Angie said again, like a recording, What happened?
He scrambled back up through the hatch, the gun in one hand, the light in the other The rain had slackened. He jumped down onto the hovers hood, and then over the bumpers and into ankle-deep puddles, splashing toward the bent black rotors of the Honda.
There was a reek of escaping jet fuel. The polycarbon canopy had cracked like an egg. He aimed the Smith & Wesson and thumbed the xenon flash twice, two silent pops of merciless light showing him blood and twisted limbs through the shattered plastic. He waited, then used the flashlight. Two of them. He came closer, holding the flashlight well away from his body, an old habit. Nothing moved. The smell of escaping fuel grew even stronger. Then he was tugging at the bent hatch. It opened. They both wore image-amp goggles. The round blank eye of the laser stared straight up into the night, and he reached down to touch the matted sheepskin collar of the dead mans bomber jacket The blood that covered the mans beard looked very dark, almost black in the flashlights beam. It was Oakey. He swung the beam left and saw that the other man, the pilot, was Japanese. He swung the beam back and found a flat black flask beside Oakeys foot. He picked it up, stuffed it into one of the parkas pockets, and dashed back to the hover In spite of the rain, orange flames were starting to lick up through the wreckage of the gas station. He scrambled up the hovers bumper, across the hood, up again, and down through the hatch.
What happened? Angie said, as though he hadnt left What happened?
He fell into his seat, not bothering with the harness, and revved the turbine. Thats a Hosaka helicopter, he said, swinging them around. They must have been following us They had a laser. They waited until we were off the highway. Didnt want to leave us out there for the cops to find When we pulled in here, they decided to go for us, but they must have figured that that poor fucker was with us. Or maybe they were just taking out a witness...
His head, she said, her voice shaking, his head -
That was the laser, Turner said, steering back up the service road. The rain was thinning, nearly gone. Steam The brain vaporizes and the skull blows...
Angie doubled over and threw up. Turner steered with one hand, Oakeys flask in the other. He pried the snap-fit lid open with his teeth and gulped back a mouthful of Oakeys Wild Turkey.
As they reached the shoulder of the highway, the Hondas fuel found the flames of the ruined station, and the twisted fireball showed Turner the mall again, the light of the parachute flares, the sky whiting out as the Jet streaked for the Sonora border.
Angie straightened up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and began to shake.
Weve got to get out of here, he said, driving east again. She said nothing, and he glanced sideways to see her rigid and upright in her seat, her eyes showing white in the faint glow of the instruments, her face blank. Hed seen her that way in Rudys bedroom, when Sally had called them in, and now that same flood of language, a soft fast rattle of something that might have been patois French. He had no recorder, no time, he had to drive.
Hang on, he said, as they accelerated, youll be okay. Sure she couldnt hear him at all. Her teeth were chattering; he could hear it above the turbine. Stop, he thought, long enough to get something between her teeth, his wallet or a fold of cloth. Her hands were plucking spastically at the straps of the harness.
There is a sick child in my house. The hover nearly left the pavement, when he heard the voice come from her mouth, deep and slow and weirdly glutinous. I hear the dice being tossed, for her bloody dress. Many are the hands who dig her grave tonight, and yours as well. Enemies pray for your death, hired man They pray until they sweat. Their prayers are a river of fever. And then a sort of croaking that might have been laughter.
Turner risked a glance, saw a silver thread of drool descend from her rigid lips. The deep muscles of her face had contorted into a mask he didnt know. Who are you?
I am the Lord of Roads.
What do you want?
This child for my horse, that she may move among the towns of men. It is well that you drive east. Carry her to your city I shall ride her again. And Samedi rides with you, gunman. He is the wind you hold in your hands, but he is fickle, the Lord of Graveyards, no matter that you have served him well... He turned in time to see her slump sideways in the harness, her head lolling, mouth slack.
25 GOTHIK/KASUAL
THIS IS THE Finns phone program, said the speaker below the screen, and the Finn, hes not here. You wanna download, you know the access code already. You wanna leave a message, leave it already. Bobby stared at the image on the screen and slowly shook his head. Most phone programs were equipped with cosmetic video subprograms written to bring the video image of the owner into greater accordance with the more widespread paradigms of personal beauty, erasing blemishes and subtly molding facial outlines to meet idealized statistical norms. The effect of a cosmetic program on the Finns grotesque features was definitely the weirdest thing Bobby had ever seen, as though somebody had gone after the face of a dead gopher with a full range of morticians crayons and paraffin injections.
Thats not natural, said Jammer, sipping Scotch Bobby nodded.
Finn, Jammer said, is agoraphobic. Gives him the hives to leave that impacted shitpile of a shop. And hes a phone junkie, cant not answer a call if hes there. Im starting to think the bitch is right. Lucas is dead and some heavy shit is going down.
The bitch, Jackie said, from behind the bar, knows already.
She knows, Jammer said, putting the plastic glass down and fingering his bob tie, she knows. Talked to a hoodoo in the matrix, so she knows.
Well, Lucas isnt answering, and Beauvoir isnt answering, so maybe shes right. Bobby reached out and shut off the phone as the record tone began to squeal.
Jammer was gotten up in a pleated shirt, white dinner jacket, and black trousers with satin stripes down the leg, and Bobby took this to be his working outfit for the club. Nobodys here, he said now, looking from Bobby to Jackie. Wheres Bogue and Sharkey? Wheres the waitresses?