His legs suddenly felt watery. He reached for a nearby wall. Heat radiated off the pavement, and the din of the city hammered at him. What a world, what a world. Who would’ve thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness? No, that wasn’t right, get a grip. He envisioned the sturdy brown tomes of the Britannica from his childhood, opened Volume One and began reading. This letter has stood at the head of the alphabet during the whole of the period through which it can be traced historically. It was all there, all still in his mind. Mother and father might shriek their invective at each other, a bruising clash of legalese and psychobabble, an endless verbal car wreck, but he was safe in his fortress, perched on the closed lid of the toilet under the sixty watt, big book on his lap, transported. Order from chaos. It had saved him, made him a survivor. Words had power.
Time to get home, to hunker down and wait. There was still time, at least a little. He turned into a narrow alley that shielded him a bit from the noise. His nostrils flared at the hot garbage smell emanating from the dumpsters. Funny how, even now, he had such an acute sense of smell, how easily his nose was offended. Shambling along, feet cushioned in his over-large New Balances by wadded newspapers, he mentally ran over the possible routes home, discarding Rockefeller Center for Grand Central. This time of day there’d be less scrutiny, easier to slip into the darkness. Just be careful not to touch the third rail.
He heard a rustling behind him, an odd, whispery sound, and turned, intrigued. Wadded candy wrappers, stained sheets of the Post and bits of excelsior that had tumbled out of the dumpster were starting to swirl about in a mini-tornado, gathering speed. But where was the wind? They seemed to be moving of their own volition. With shocking abruptness the force grew, edging the dumpsters back and forth on their wheels, their heavy metal lids rising and then banging down, again and again. His skin pricked, and he noticed a smell of ozone in the air. Not yet; please, not yet. Although he had been expecting it, he found that he was terrified. Above him, he heard a crackling, snapping noise- and it ain’t Rice Krispies-and looked up to see blue electrical discharges whipping about in the sky. Dark clouds roiled, casting a yellow-gray pall. He felt incredibly small and, worst of all, observed.
The blue lightning was increasing in ferocity, slashing in all directions, with a sound like ice sheets splintering. And behind it, another, greater sound, a low roar that vibrated through him and grew in power, rumbling the ground. He wanted to run, to hide. A desire that seemed to come not from him but to drive him overwhelmed him. A compulsion to emerge from the shelter of the alley, to see.
The pavement beneath his feet was heaving now, buckling, as if some massive serpent below were struggling to burst forth. He fought his way to the alley mouth, peered out.
The sky was alive with blue lightning. It spat its hatred down at the city, frenzied wild fingers reaching out to every spire. The roar was deafening now, a spike through his head. He clapped his hands to his ears, but it did nothing. The roar changed pitch, rose higher, became a scream.
The buildings, the buildings were melting. Like ice cream cones on a hot day, dripping down, the entire city was liquefying. Proud towers turned to slag as the lightning danced its mad dance and the clouds enfolded it like a shroud.
Goldie’s mouth was open, and he was screaming, too, though he could not hear it against the shriek of the city. He folded in on himself, arms covering his eyes, rocking, all armor torn away. In what he knew were his last moments, he surrendered to it, realizing that no matter how much he prepared, how much he might know, in the end it would do with him whatever it wished.
He opened, and the world fell away.
There was a jolt, and he heard that he was the only one screaming. He clamped his mouth shut and cautiously opened his eyes.
The buildings stood upright; the men and women went about their business; the cars surged and huffed, going nowhere.
“Your old men will see visions. .,” Goldie murmured, shakily finding his feet again. He wasn’t that old, not really. But Jehovah, Moloch and Jupiter-not to mention Jerry Garcia, his personal god-he felt old.
The lobby was hell. Or, more accurately, purgatory.
As Cal entered, he found himself jammed up against a throng of dark-suited men dragging on cigarettes, women hopping from foot to foot, exchanging Nikes and Reeboks for heels-all crowded riotiously together, buzzing discontent and impatience.
He quickly saw the reason: a bank of elevators lay inoperative, a workman bent over the maw of one with a lamp, the top of the cab visible at floor level. A litter of tools lay near an open red toolbox, along with big metal hooks and blocks of wood.
Cal scanned the opposite row of elevators. They were working, but the lights above revealed them on distant floors-twenty-seven, thirty-two, thirty-five-tauntingly static, as though nailed there.
“What’s up with this?” “This fucking city. .” “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. .” The angry, brittle voices swirled about Cal. But one voice held sway.
If there is a later. .
It was the kind of apocalyptic ranting you heard on New York streets every day, but the words dogged him, lodged in him with rough conviction.
And resonating within him, too, in a voice his and not his, a response.
There would be a later, cast in darkness and blood and screams. And a sword. And he would rise to it.
Or not rise. .
Cal thought of Stern, thirty-five floors above, all fang and claw, waiting, and a sudden thrum of passion flared in him, a determination to stand in opposition.
Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. .
“Hey, asshole, how ’bout you play with that later and let the rest of us do some real work?”
The words seized Cal’s attention. He saw that a lean executive was standing over the workman, red-faced, fists balled in challenge. The suit was Cal’s age, had the same hair, the same clothes, might well have been Cal.
The day before.
For a moment, the crouched figure didn’t move, and Cal wondered if the man had heard. Then he set down the work lamp and turned. With surprise, Cal saw that it was a woman with shaggy, short-cropped hair and a grease stain on one cheek. Even through the scuffed brown trousers and baggy denim shirt, Cal could discern a slender form with broad, muscular shoulders. Her face was all strong lines and clear, disdainful eyes. The patch on the front of her shirt read “Colleen.”
“Hey, cut the lady some slack.” Cal was surprised that it was his voice. Without intending, he had spoken.
The young woman turned on him. “Listen, hotshot, I need a personal savior, I’ll ask for one, okay?”
Derisive laughter bubbled from the crowd. Cal flushed hot embarrassment. An elevator opposite dinged, and its doors slid open. Cal was carried along with the press of bodies into the car, the mass that needed to be somewhere, whether they wanted or not. He saw the young woman over their heads for just a second, turning back to her labors. Then the doors slid shut, and she was gone.
IN THE AIR
Nobody asked her questions at the car rental return.
Nobody asked her questions at check-in.
Nobody asked her questions at security.
(Am I really going to get away with this?)
It was part of Jerri Bilmer’s job to look unconcerned, to blend in with other caffeine-deprived morning travelers jostling along the concourse. To stand in line in the Kigali airport or at a bus stop in Baghdad without even a quickening of breath while RPF or Republican Guard came around checking papers and ransacking luggage at random. To appear, not innocent-they always go for those who look innocent-but simply as part of the background. To appear like nothing, no one, with microdots or little rolls of fiche burning holes in her purse strap or shoes.