Ray choked back a snarl. This had to be another one of Ackroyd’s asshole flights of comedy. The two had crossed paths more than once. Ray knew that his face had been messed up badly by Mackie Messer, but there was no way that Ackroyd didn’t recognize him.
“It’s Ray,” he said sarcastically. “Or do I have to show you my ID?”
“Um, no,” Ackroyd said, putting his magazine down on the desk. It was the latest issue of Aces. “How’ve you been?”
“How’ve I been?” Ray repeated, outraged. I’ve been in the hospital for eight goddamn months, you asshole, he wanted to shout. But he knew that Ackroyd was only trying to set him off. “Fine,” he said between gritted teeth. “Just fucking fine.”
"Great,” Ackroyd said without conviction, staring at the ruin of Ray’s face. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“No thanks,” Ray spit out. “This isn’t a social call.”
“Business?”
“Business.” He paused to gather his self-control. “Listen, gumshoe, this isn’t my idea, but the man I’m working for thinks he needs you for a job.”
“What kind of job?” Ackroyd asked eagerly.
Now he goes into his eager-beaver act, Ray thought. He leaned forward, put his hands palm down on Ackroyd’s desktop. Ray was not one to dissemble. He gave it to him straight. “He’s leading a covert assault team onto Ellis Island.”
Ellis Island?” Ackroyd repeated. He shook his head. “You must be from Battle. I’ve already told him that this isn’t my kind of thing.”
“You don’t get it,” Ray said coldly. “I’m not asking your opinion. You’ve been drafted.”
“Drafted? I’m too old.”
“None of your fucking wisecracks,” Ray exploded. “Battle wants you on the team. You’re going.”
“I’m a private citizen” Ackroyd protested.
“Look,” Ray said, “I’m just a messenger. As far as I’m concerned, we need you like I need a pimple on my ass, but if the man wants you, you’re going. And he’s connected. Heavily. You decide you don’t want to go on this jaunt and we’ll have your ticket pulled faster than you can say ’unemployment line.’ You got me?”
“You can’t be serious,” Ackroyd protested. “You can’t take away my license.”
“Try me,” Ray said.
He glared at Ackroyd, who glared back. The standoff might have held for eternity except for the quiet knock on the open door to Ackroyd’s inner office.
Both men turned, stared, and barked out, “What?”
It was an old woman in a domestic’s outfit. She looked startled. “All right if I clean now, Mr. Ackroyd? I can come back later if you want.”
“It’s okay, Consuela,” Ackroyd said, still glaring. “Ray here was just leaving. He’s got to go polish his medals.”
"Polish my medals. Christ, you’re slipping, Ackroyd.” Ray reached into his pocket, pulled out a card, and dropped it onto the P.I.’s desk. “Be at that address, tomorrow, at six A.M. Or be ready to find a real job.”
He waited a moment for Ackroyd’s rebuttal, but none came. He left the office muttering to himself and shaking his head.
This time the rite was safe from interruption. Troll stood outside the door, arms folded, daring any intern to attempt to enter Jack Robicheaux’s room. He looked like his namesake. Nine feet tall and green-skinned, his appearance was not such that even Dr. Bob would try to move him. Which was good, because he had said things that suggested the blood between Troll and Dr. Bob was bad indeed.
In fact, Dr. Bob Mengele had indeed rushed up to the room when he had somehow found out that Wyungare and Cordelia planned to do something unorthodox with Jack Robicheaux.
“Relax, Doctor,” Wyungare said. “It’s only a trip the little missy and I are taking. I will perform no unauthorized therapy. All right?” Then he had firmly shut the door on Dr. Bob’s dumbfounded face.
He repeated the minor ritual he had set up earlier and alone. Wyungare set the single candle on the head of the bed-table. He changed into his waistcloth.
“Should I undress?” said Cordelia.
“It would just distract me,” said Wyungare. “Actually, you can wear whatever will make you the most comfortable.”
Cordelia took off her shoes.
Wyungare hunkered over the skin drum and began to tap out a steady rhythm.
“What do I do?” said Cordelia, hovering close to him.
“Listen to the drum. Watch the candle. Concentrate on your uncle. Remember him as you love him.”
Cordelia looked uncertain as she stared at the wavering candle flame. “Le bon temps," she whispered. And then, somewhere in the middle of what she was saying to herself, both Wyungare and she were somewhere else. She stared around them both at the rough stone pillars reaching toward a slate sky.
“Where are we? Are we in Jack’s head?”
“We are in the middle world,” said Wyungare. “This time we have to climb. Good healthy exercise.”
“Wonderful,” Cordelia muttered. “I wish I could have dreamed myself a fitter body.”
“I think it’s plenty fit enough,” said her lover.
Cordelia smiled. “You’re sweet.”
The pair clambered up an increasingly steep slope.
“Can’t you dream us a giant eagle to act as a magic elevator and get us up the mountainside?”
Whatever he was about to answer was lost as the reality fabric tore across like ripping silk. The noise echoed in her head, traveled in directly to the core of her bones, started to feel as though someone were scraping the marrow out with a dull metal blade. Cordelia saw something that looked like the squiggle lines when a TV’s not on cable and the reception keeps going in and out.
She squinted, concentrated. The picture got a little better, but not much. A buzz-saw whine assaulted her ears and started to cut an entry directly into her brain.
Wyungare knew what she was feeling and thinking. He took her hand. “Come on,” he said.
“What is it?” Her voice rose a little. “What’s going on?”
“It’s like interference,” he said. “The signal’s scrambling.”
She stumbled on the path, her ankle turning as her foot came down on a stone she had somehow not seen. She involuntarily whimpered with the abrupt pain.
“Are you hurt?”
“No!” she said. “Just tripped. Clumsy.”
The skies cleared. The metallic whine diminished and then dissipated.
“Better than it sometimes is,” said Wyungare. “Let’s make time, just in case it returns.”
“It?” "Him,” said Wyungare. “He. The boy.”
“I don’t like what he does.” Cordelia still limped.
“This is a minor manifestation.”
“What’s major?”
“I don’t think you truly wish to know,” said Wyungare.
“Don’t be so sure. Tell me.”
They had somehow climbed much farther than the apparent elapsed time could allow for. The two of them were close to the top of the climb. More trees, soft green shade, lush grass awaited as they reached the summit.
“It’s paradise,” said Cordelia. Their surroundings flickered, somehow rearranged themselves, settled into permanence. Cordelia and Wyungare walked under a thick canopy of twisted tree branches. They skirted a brackish pool. Something surfaced in the center of the water, then went down as fast as it had come up.
The air stifled. It was hot and filled with moisture. Heavy. Wyungare felt like he was trying to breathe underwater without any gear.
“This is Louisiana,” said Cordelia, apparently revising her first judgment. “It feels like our parish down south.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Wyungare, “considering the nature of our host.”