Lord Jack was still behind them, deep in that man who called himself Keith Cavanaugh and made coats of arms in lustrous frames.
"Jesus," he whispered, his face bleached of blood.
"Jack?"' Mary took a step forward. He retreated two. There were tears in her eyes, her flesh and soul fevered. "I brought you…" She lifted Drummer toward him, like a holy offering. "I brought you our son."
His back met the wall, his mouth opening in a stunned gasp.
"Take him," Mary said. "Take him. He belongs to us now."
The telephone rang. From downstairs, the woman who did not know her husband's true name called, "Jenny, would you get that?"
"Okay!" the voice of a little girl replied. The phone stopped ringing. The noise of TV cartoons went on.
"Take him," Mary urged. Tears streaked down her cheeks, ruining her makeup.
"Daddy, it's Mrs. Hunter!" the little girl said. "She can't come until this afternoon!"
Three heartbeats passed. Then, from downstairs: "Keith?"
"Take him," Mary whispered. "Take him. Take me, Jack. Please…" A sob welled up like a groan, because she could see that her one true love, her savior, her reason for living and the man who had caressed her in her dreams and beckoned her across three thousand miles, had wet his pants. "We're together now," she said. "Like we used to be, only more groovy because we've got Drummer. He's ours, Jack. I took him for us."
He slid away from her, stumbled in his retreat, and almost went down. Mary limped after him, through the foyer and toward a hallway. "I did it all for us, Jack. See? I did it so we can be together like we used to -"
"You're crazy," he said, his voice strangled. "Oh my God… you… stole that baby… for me?"
"For you." Her heart was growing wings again. "Because I love you sooooo much."
"No. No." He shook his head. Jack had seen the story on the newscasts and in the papers, had followed its progress until more important matters had pushed it from the lead position. He had seen all the old pictures of the Storm Front, all the faces young in their years and ancient in their passions. He had relived those days a thousand times, and now the past had come through his door carrying a kidnapped infant. "Oh God, no! You were always dumb, Mary… but I didn't know you were out of your mind!"
Always dumb, he'd said. Out of your mind.
"I… did it all for us…"
"GET AWAY FROM ME!" he shouted. Red flared in his pudgy cheeks. "GET AWAY FROM ME, GODDAMN YOU!"
Sandy Cavanaugh came through a doorway and stopped when she saw the big woman holding her baby out to Keith. He looked at her and yelled, "Get out! Get Jenny and get out! She's crazy!" A pretty girl maybe ten or eleven years old, her hair blond and her eyes bright blue, peered into the corridor next to her mother. "Get out!" Jack Gardiner shouted again, and the woman grabbed up their child and ran toward the back of the house.
"Jack?" Mary Terror's voice had a broken sound, the tears streaming from her eyes and all but blinding her. You were always dumb, he'd said. "I love you."
"YOU CRAZY BITCH!" Spittle spewed from his mouth and hit both her and Drummer in their faces. "YOU'RE RUINING EVERYTHING!"
"Police!" Mary heard the woman cry out on the telephone. "Operator, get me the police!"
"Take him," Mary urged. "Please… take our baby."
"That's all over!" he shouted. "It was a game! A play! I was so high on acid all the time I didn't even know what I was doing! We all were!" Realization hit him, and rocked his head back. "My God… you mean… you still believe?"
"My… life… was yours," Mary whispered. "It is yours!"
"Police? This is… this is… Sandy Cavanaugh! We've got… somebody's in our house!"
"I don't want you!" he said. "I don't want that baby! That was a long time ago, and it's all over and gone!"
Mary stood very still. Drummer was crying, too. Jack pressed his back against the wall in front of her, his hands up as if to ward off something filthy.
She saw him, in that awful moment.
There had never been a Lord Jack. There had been only a puppet master, pulling heartstrings and triggers. Lord Jack had been a fiction; before her stood the real Jack Gardiner, a trembling, terrified bag of guts and blood. His power had always been a lie, a deft juggling of counterculture slogans, acid dreams, and war games. He had lost the faith because he had had no faith to lose. He had sewn the Storm Front together with deceitful hands, built towers of clay and painted them as stone, merged horses with lions, called them freedom fighters, and thrown them to the flames. He had created a coat of many arms whose purpose was to clothe himself in the threads of glory. And now he stood there in the uniform of the Mindfuck State, while Gary and Akitta and Janette and CinCin and all the rest of the faithful were ghosts. He was allowing a woman who knew nothing of fire and torment to call the pigs. And Mary knew why. It crushed her soul, but she knew. He loved the woman and the child.
Lord Jack was dead.
Jack Gardiner was about to die.
She would save him from the pigs as her last act of love.
She held Drummer in the crook of one arm, and she drew the revolver from her shoulder bag and aimed it at point-blank range.
Jack jammed himself into a corner. Next to him on the wall there was a framed coat of arms: a castle on a cloud, bordered by stags and swords. Beneath it was the name Cavanaugh.
Mary gritted her teeth, her eyes dark with death. Jack made a whimpering sound, like a whipped dog.
She pulled the trigger.
The noise was terrible in the hallway. Sandy Cavanaugh screamed. Mary fired a second time. Then a third shot rang out, all the rich red love gushing from the punctured body as Jack lay crumpled and twitching. Mary pressed the barrel against his balding scalp and delivered a fourth bullet that burst his head open and flung brains all over the wall and her sweater. Blood and tissue flecked her cheeks and clung to the Smiley Face.
Two bullets left. The woman and the child.
She started after them, but paused in the doorway.
Two bullets. For a woman and child. But not the ones who cowered and cried in that room. And not in this house where the pigs would leer and pick at the corpses like hunters with big-game trophies.
As Mary limped to the front door, she passed God skulking in a corner. "You know where," he said under his floppy-brimmed hat, and she answered, "Yes."
She left the house with Drummer, the two of them against the world. She got into the Cherokee and reached for her roadmap as she backed along the driveway in a storm of gravel.
Her finger marked the route and the place. It wasn't far, maybe twenty miles along the coast road. She knew the way. She wondered if Jack had ever gone there, to sit and dream of yesterday.
No, she decided. He never had.
A police car, its lights flashing, passed her as she turned onto Overhill. It took the curve to Muir Road and kept going. She drove on, heading home.
The door opened, and a white-haired man in a green robe with sailboats on it said, "Yes?" as if he resented the intrusion.
"Nick Hudley?" Laura asked, her nerves jangling.
"I am. Who are you?"
"My name is Laura Clayborne." She searched his face. He was too old to be Jack Gardiner. No, this wasn't him. "Have you seen a woman – a big woman, stands about six feet tall – with a baby? She might've been driving a -"
"Dark blue Cherokee," Hudley said. "Yes, she came to the door but I didn't see a baby." His gaze took stock of her dirty clothes and her bandaged hand. "She knew my name, too. What the hell's this all about?"
"How long ago was that? The woman. When was she here?"
"It wasn't over fifteen minutes ago. She said she was trying to find Muir Road. Listen, I think you'd better explain -" He suddenly looked toward the street, and Laura turned in time to see a police car speed by, going west with its lights flashing but no siren.