"I'd say that's the least of our worries today," Hiram said. "Why?
"
"If certain people would show more responsibility, and not unplug their phones, they wouldn't have to ask."
"Don't be testy."
"Tachyon, I've had a rather difficult day…"
"I've had better myself."
They stared in silence at each other, then Worchester sighed, and ran a hand across his bald pate, and smoothed down his full beard. Tachyon smiled, and said in a softer tone,
"Shall we try again?" He tightened the belt on his robe, seated himself on the arm of the sofa. "Now, what brought you here?"
"Excuse me, but what about these… these… goons?" asked Roulette.
"You needn't worry, they will sleep for a good many hours."
"And him?" She pointed at the wasp.
"He weighs about six hundred pounds," Hiram answered. "I doubt he'll go anywhere."
"Oh," she said faintly.
"The Astronomer's raging through the city," Hiram said. "I was afraid he might have gotten to you already. You know about the Howler, of course. Kid Dinosaur's dead, too, torn to pieces at Jetboy's Tomb, and the Turtle was attacked and reportedly crashed into the Hudson. He hasn't been seen since." Worchester caught the slight doctor as he swayed, and eased him onto the couch. "Brandy," he snapped, and Roulette forced tension back into her weak knees, and obeyed. "I apologize for putting it so baldly, but there's no good way to deliver news like that."
"I cannot believe… the Turtle, you say? And that child!" Tachyon covered his face with his hands.
In a few brutal words Worchester appraised them of the events at the Tomb.
Roulette didn't notice when Hiram lifted the glass from her slack fingers. She was seeing a pointed-faced kid, cute despite the wash of pimples across his chin, teasing his elders.
She wondered what his dreams and goals had been, and she felt anguish for his parents. A sound that was both an agonized cry and a sob tore from her, and she went down into darkness.
Unfortunately it was not empty. Within waited the twisted body of her child, and the burning eyes of her master.
Fortunato got as far as a middle-aged woman guarding the entrance to the NBC sound stages. He could see the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza through the huge window to his right.
He couldn't get any sense of Peregrine being in the building, but she was an ace and it was possible she could block him somehow.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we simply can't give out that kind of information about our performers."
Fortunato locked eyes with her. "Page her," he said. Her hand moved involuntarily to the phone, then hesitated. "She's not in the building. Letterman's doing her show tonight. "
"Tell me where she is."
The woman shook her head. Her tightly permed red hair followed her every move. "I can't." She looked like she was about to cry. "She had some important dinner to go to tonight. That's why she's not here for the taping."
"All right," Fortunato said. "Thank you. You've been very helpful." The woman smiled tentatively.
Fortunato leaned his head against the elevator doors as he dropped back down to street level. They still hadn't found the Turtle's body. Peregrine's apartment was empty. Nobody had seen Jumpin' Jack Flash in weeks.
The game had been going on for seventeen years, and now it was down to the last twelve hours. Hess beating the shit out of me, Fortunato thought. The only time I ever hurt him was when I broke that fucking machine and stopped TIAMAT
He was exhausted. Up all night with the Mirror of Hathor, chasing around uselessly ever since. You have to turn it around, he told himself. Strike back at him, hurt him.
He wanted it so bad he could taste it.
But how could he even find someone that he couldn't see? How?
Chapter Thirteen
6:00 p.m.
Spector decided to go ahead and hit the Gambiones for Latham and his Shadow Fist friends. He had to operate on the. assumption that he'd find a way to keep the Astronomer from killing him. If he could manage that, his new connections might mean some big jobs in the very near future.
He didn't like spending money on clothes, but there was no way he could go into the Haiphong Lily with blood spattered all over his suit. He'd decided on this clothing store be cause it didn't look like much from the outside. It didn't look like much from the inside, either. There were no fancy dressing rooms and too much dust on the floor. It was his kind of place. Spector slid a dark brown coat off the rack and pulled it on. He walked over to the mirror and winced. He looked like a man in a fudgsicle.
"Can I help you, sir?" The clerk was short with tufts of curly red hair on the sides of his head and a white cloth tape measure draped around his neck.
Spector struggled out of the coat; his arm was still bothering him. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to him. "I need a suit. Brown's not my color: Got anything in gray?"
The clerk walked over to the rack and started poking though the suits. lie was muttering to himself and shaking his head.
Spector made sure no one was looking, then pulled a few hundred-dollar bills out of his brown envelope.
The little man turned around, holding an ash-gray suit. "Mm. This has possibilities, I think. Is this yours?" He pointed to Spector's old coat, which was lying on a straight-hack chair.
The clerk looked close and ran his hands over the material. "What's this all over? Bloodstains?"
"It's fake blood. I was down in Jokertown earlier. Pretty wild down there." Spector took the gray jacket and put it on. It was a little large, but fit him well in the shoulders. "I'll take it."
"What? Don't you want to try on the pants?" The clerk blinked and stood up straight.
"That's why I've got a belt. How much is it?" He draped the pants over his good arm.
"With alterations, two hundred and fiftv dollars. Nice material, though. Worth every penny. You can't get workmanship like this often anymore."
"I don't need any alterations," Spector said. The clerk opened his mouth to speak, but Spector raised a finger. "I've got an aunt in Jersey who loves to do this kind of stuff. So how much?"
"Two-twenty."
Spector handed him the money and picked up his other coat, feeling for the envelope to make sure it was still there. He looked in the mirror again. Not bad, he thought. You may be the best dressed killer at the Haiphong Lily tonight. He dropped his old pants and stepped into the new ones. They were big on him, but he'd manage.
The clerk returned with Spector's receipt and change. "Here you go, sir. Let us know if you change your mind about those alterations. I can promise you the finest fit in town."
Spector took the money and thrust it into his pocket. "Sure." The bell over the doorway tinkled as he opened it to step outside. "An angel just got his wings." He cleaned out the pockets of his old suit as he walked down the street, then dumped it into the first trash can he saw.
The alligator had a waking dream-or at least as much of a dream as reptiles have.
He was no longer here in the tunnel deep below the pulsating city. He was someplace else, somewhere warmer and lighter, where the water was hospitable and frequently full of live, darting food. The reptile ghosted along the bayou, most of his body concealed below the surface, with nostrils and orbital ridges protruding up out of the water and cutting small wakes.
After a time, he entered a place where the trees seemed to grow upside down, their gnarled roots twisting in dense wooden knots above the water. Above him, the canopy of interlaced branches blocked most of the sun. Shadows increasingly dappled his back as he slid along.
Sounds came to him, amplified by the water. He recognized the patterns-food, though food that sometimes could injure him if he were incautious. He homed in on the vibrations.