And he was heading uptown.
Where Jack lived.
Mother . . .
The word rushed back at Jack like a bullet. He’d said “Mother.” That could only mean the Lady. They’d assumed the Fhinntmanchca would be out to disrupt the noosphere, but it looked like he—or it, or whatever Darryl had become—was after the Lady herself.
He pulled out his phone and dialed his apartment.
No answer.
He tried the phone he’d given Weezy and the voice mail picked up immediately. She must have shut it off again.
He watched Darryl’s retreating back. If he was heading for the Lady, then he was heading for the apartment. Jack had to get there first. Warn the Lady. Get her out of there. Tell her to move to the Wilkins ice shelf or someplace equally remote until he’d figured how to deal with this.
His first thought was to take the subway, but the Sunday trains ran few and far between. Something could go wrong and Darryl might beat him on foot. Best thing was to hoof it up there ahead of him.
Jack broke into a loping run, planning to bypass Darryl and his two handlers. He was just catching up when he saw Darryl step off the curb and stride into the middle of Columbus Circle. Drexler and Thompson stayed ahead of him, waving their arms, trying to prevent another collision. Amid screeching tires and blaring horns they succeeded—just barely—and Darryl entered Central Park.
Jack stood staring. If Darryl had been heading toward the apartment, he’d have angled left, staying on Broadway, following it into the Upper West Side. Instead he was taking a straight-ahead uptown course, due north.
But to where?
All Jack could do was follow.
He crossed into the park and quickly caught up. Darryl had left the path and was striding through the trees and bushes, with Drexler and Thompson close behind.
As he pressed into brush he would push it aside, dissolving whatever he touched. Jack tried to understand what he’d become. Not like he was antimatter, because when matter and antimatter collided, the result was mutual destruction. With Darryl, the destruction was only one-sided. Was that what the Fhinntmanchca was—some sort of human-Otherness hybrid capable of destroying any earthly matter it contacted? That was how it seemed. Except for his clothes. Why hadn’t his clothes dissolved? Had to be a reason, and Jack was sure it wasn’t modesty.
Darryl marched straight through the Heckscher ball fields, into the trees beyond, and then across the Sheep Meadow. Anyone who might have got in his way took one look at him and moved aside.
Where the hell was he going?
When he plowed into the trees at the north end of the Sheep Meadow and kept going, Jack had had enough.
Time for some answers.
He checked his pockets. He’d come prepared for various levels of conflict, close order and otherwise: a sap, a miniature stun gun, his backup piece, and an extra mag for his Glock.
Drexler and Thompson had been so intent on where Darryl was going they’d rarely looked back. Jack had stayed off to the side, following at a distance and at an angle, paralleling their course. As they entered the trees, he picked up his pace and closed the gap.
When he reached them he had his Glock and stun gun—a Firefly model, the size of a cigarette pack—ready. Thompson was on the left, Drexler on the right, so Jack held his weapons accordingly. Drexler had to know more, so that meant Thompson was going down.
They heard him at the last moment and turned. Jack pressed the Firefly against Thompson’s upper arm, releasing 950,000 volts into his nervous system.
“Good morning,” he said to Drexler, jamming the Glock’s muzzle under his chin while he counted off five seconds of shock. Thompson jerked and spasmed, then collapsed as his muscles lost all tone. He lay in the brush, limp and dazed, as threatening as a puddle.
“Who are you?” Drexler said, on tiptoe now because of the upward pressure of the barrel. “Do you have any idea who I am, who you’re dealing with?”
Jack pocketed the Firefly, grabbed the man’s shirtfront, and wheeled him around so he could keep an eye on Thompson. Then he chose his words for maximum impact.
“Your precious Fhinntmanchca—where’s it going?”
Drexler’s eyes widened in shock. “What—what did you say?”
“You heard me. Your Fhinntmanchca—what’s it up to?” He lowered the pistol to Drexler’s gut. “Don’t worry, it’s not answer or die—it’s answer or hurt a lot. An awful lot. Ever been gut shot?”
“Nein! Don’t!”
“Then educate me. What do you expect it to do?”
“I have no idea, I swear!”
“Didn’t the One tell you?”
That had been a shot in the dark, but it struck pay dirt. Jack hadn’t thought Drexler’s eyes could widen any further, but they managed.
“Who are you? How can you know—?”
Jack shook him and spoke through his teeth. “What . . . is . . . happening?”
“I swear I don’t know. That’s why I was following—to see. I swear.”
Jack believed him. Rasalom was supposedly the only one who knew, and if he wasn’t talking, then Drexler had to find out on his own, just like Jack.
But not with Jack.
He took a small step back and looked him up and down. His white suit was speckled with what looked like coffee stains.
“You fallen on hard times? What happened to your wonderful ice cream suit? You used to be such a neatnik.”
The blue eyes bored into Jack’s. “How do you know me?” The eyes narrowed. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? The Taint is heavy upon you. I know you—”
Enough of that. Jack spun him around.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled out the Firefly and jammed it against the back of his neck. Five seconds later he joined Thompson on the ground. The Kicker king was stirring so Jack gave him another quick jolt, then went in pursuit of Darryl.
His trail of ruined vegetation made him easy to find. Jack followed as he skirted the lake along its west side, then passed behind the Delacorte. But instead of continuing uptown after clearing the theater, he stopped and looked around until his gaze fixed on something to his right.
He said, “Mother,” and began to move in that direction.
Alarmed, Jack ran up behind him and scanned the area around the Turtle Pond. He let out a shout when he recognized two figures sitting on the grass.
17
“No!”
The raw emotion in the shout grabbed Weezy’s attention. Something familiar about the voice too. She looked up and saw a scary-looking guy striding straight for them along the water’s edge. His gaze seemed fixed just over her shoulder—at the Lady.
And then someone ran up behind him carrying a long club—no, a five-foot deadwood branch, thicker than a baseball bat. She didn’t recognize his rage-contorted face at first, then—
“Jack!”
Without a word of warning he swung the branch against the stranger’s back. It landed with a loud thunk! that sent him stumbling ahead.
“Weezy!” Jack shouted. “Get her out of here!”
“Whatever is Jack doing?” the Lady said.
Weezy scrambled to her feet.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure he had a very good reason for attacking that man.”
“What man?”
Weezy turned to her. She was staring at Jack and obviously saw him, but . . .
“The man in the dirty work shirt.” She pointed. “Can’t you see him? He’s right there.”
The Lady shook her head. “No. I see Jack swinging a dead branch.”
The dog sensed something. He was on his three legs, baring his teeth as the fur rose along his back.
Weezy turned back in time to see Jack thrust the branch between the stranger’s legs. The man pitched forward onto his hands and knees. Weezy jumped as she saw the wet ground near the water erupt in steam and seem to dissolve where his palms landed.