Bodysnatcher shrugged, but the Outcast heard the sudden curiosity the question aroused. “I don’t know,” he started to say, then he — almost — grinned. “You’re thinking that maybe we should find out.”
The Outcast allowed himself another smile. “Exactly.”
“Then send Needles up here,” Bodysnatcher said.
“Why?”
“I want to look nice for the man when I surrender,” he said.
“So,” Battle said after Ray summarized his meetings with Ackroyd and Vivian Choy, “I think we can count on Ackroyd. You did a good job there.” He hmmmed for a moment. “I guess we can forget about Lazy Dragon. I don’t think he’ll call. That’s all right. We should have enough muscle for anything that freak Bloat might throw at us.”
“That’s it then?” Ray asked.
“Not quite,” Battle said. “We still have one more visit tonight. To Our Lady of Perpetual Misery.”
“The Church of Jesus Christ, Joker?” Ray asked.
“Not the church. The graveyard.”
Ray looked at him. “Christ. Not another deader.”
“How’s that?” Battle asked.
Ray was being as subtle as he could. “Well, Puckett’s dead, isn’t he? And he’s on the roster.”
Puckett was waiting outside Ray’s office, ostensibly because Ray said there wasn’t room for the three of them inside, but really because Ray couldn’t stand the sight or smell of him. The government ace acquiesced easily enough and Battle didn’t seem to be missing his company either.
“Puckett is a special case,” Battle said slowly. “And I see you’ve been checking on us.”
“Not really,” Ray lied. “I just recognized the name. It took me a little while to remember where I’d heard it. The Texas sniping incident.”
Battle nodded. “We should really use Puckett’s code name, Crypt Kicker. And you’re quite right. He’s dead.”
Somehow hearing Battle say that in such calm, reasoned tones made it seem even worse. “I didn’t know tower snipers were usually recruited into government service,” Ray said with distaste.
“They’re not,” Battle explained, “but Puckett, as I’ve said, is a special case. Oh, he’s had his problems with the law in the past. Haven’t we all?” Battle asked. “But Bobby Joe has seriously repented for his wrongdoings. When he — well — woke up, he knew that the Lord had given him a second chance to do right with his life. He accepted Jesus as his personal savior and decided to devote the rest of his life — or whatever — to upholding the law.”
“Christ!” Ray said.
“Exactly.”
This was getting too weird. “Just where did he ’wake up’?”
“In the potters field where he’d been buried by the state. It seems the grounds had also been used as a toxic waste dump. PCBs, insecticides, industrial acids, light radioactives. That sort of thing,” Battle said, leaning forward with a tight little smile. “And Puckett — that is, Crypt Kicker — found that he’d absorbed the toxic wastes into his body and that he can now secrete them. Couple this with the fact that he’s also extremely strong and extremely hard to hurt — he is dead, after all — and extremely, extremely loyal to the government and its properly appointed representatives, and you can see that he makes the perfect soldier.”
“Too bad he smells so damn bad.”
“Well, almost perfect.”
Ray nodded. This was all as crazy as he had feared. Worse even. “What about this graveyard stuff? Are we counting on another convenient resurrection?”
“Oh,” Battle said, a twinkle in his eye, “in a way.” He stood and checked his watch. “I’ve got to be going, but I’ll meet you at the graveyard in six hours. And bring a shovel, will you?”
The military was deploying again, and Patchwork was busy reeling off their movements to the crew of the Joker Situation Room. The Rox, however, was making its own preparations.
Cruise missiles, for example, were supposed to be incredibly accurate, but they guided themselves to the target through a radar image of the target locked into their guidance systems.
So, with Modular Man’s help, the Rox was changing its radar profile.
Bloat was creating rafts with radar reflectors. Building them out of thin air so that jokers in rubber boats could tow them out into the bay and anchor them there. Some of the reflectors were hollow masts filled with lead foil, some were odd structures that looked like step pyramids covered with aluminum.
“Right angles,” Kafka kept saying. “We want lots of right angles.”
Modular Man’s radar had several times picked up the New Jersey offshore. The funny step pyramids and hollow masts gave off radar profiles almost as large as the battleship.
High above the Rox, looking at its reflection in his radar image, he was certainly confused.
He could only hope it would confuse the cruise missiles.
As the skies had darkened in the west above New Jersey, the pair with the black cat and alligator in tow felt more confident about crossing the financial district and the southern tip of Manhattan to Battery Park.
The small groups of humans and beasts continued to attract little attention. The onset of night helped. The major exception was an elderly lady walking her two poodles. As Wyungare and the others crossed Chambers, the old woman, apparently noticing them from a block away, pointedly crossed to the other side of Park Row. Once there, she ignored them as she tottered abreast of the fugitives. Both dogs, attired in matching red sweaters, yapped as they pulled at their leashes. The old woman jerked them back into line, eyes still fixed straight ahead. Jack started to veer into the street. Wyungare set his hand on the gator’s snout and the reptile returned to his original course.
“I think he’s hungry,” said Cordelia.
“We’ll be at the water soon.”
“I’d never eat anything from that cesspool.”
“You’re not an alligator with a four-meter metabolism.” Wyungare paused thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I could do with a snack myself.”
“I thought you people could trek for weeks without eating,” said Cordelia.
“’You people’?” said Wyungare. He reached and lightly touched her hip with his index finger. “Perhaps you might try that regimen yourself, Euro-girl.”
Cordelia slapped the finger away. “You weren’t complaining earlier.”
White teeth, major grin. “I must admit I enjoy some meat on a woman.”
Cordelia matched his smile tooth for tooth. “Me too, love, depending on whose meat it is.”
Wyungare, a bit embarrassed, let his hands swing at his sides. “Ah, look, our destination.” They could see the elms of Battery Park.
“Listen, mon cherie,” said Cordelia, “I have a question.”
Wyungare looked at her quizzically. Beside them, the paws of the black cat padded steadily; the alligator grunted in hoarse accompaniment.
“I’m helping the three of you make a break and embark on this fantastic voyage to the Rox. For whatever good it will do, you know? I hope you’ll accomplish some good. But the question I still have is, what about Uncle Jack?”
Wyungare said. “I will continue searching him out. I shall talk with him.”
“So?” said Cordelia. “That sounds like the same sort of rigmarole I got from the clinic staff. At least Dr. Bob Mengele, asshole that he is, actually tried to do something.” The grit in her voice edged her words. “I know you’re not just bullshitting me, love; if you were, that would be it for us. So just tell me what you think you can do. Please.” The metal in her voice dulled. Wyungare saw tears in her eyes.
He stopped and gripped her shoulders, confronting her face-to-face. Wyungare carefully side-kicked the alligator; Jack whuffled and looked around confusedly, but stopped too. The black cat turned his head and burred curiously from deep in his throat.