Patrick’s eyes widen. “I don’t understand. What’s with waving that thing at me if you’re not—”
“Case of mistaken identity: we’re not the only players in town.” Johnny scans the alley again. “Tell you what: let’s you and me go somewhere an’ catch up on the news over a cup of tea. It’ll be just like old times again. You on, mate?” Patrick is, in truth, not exactly the rumble Johnny was looking for. His pulse slows, adrenaline rush receding.
“What about me car? That’s me wife’s wheels you fucking minced.” The airbag is deflating slowly; Patrick slowly eases out of the driver’s seat, wincing. “Jesus Mary, my fucking knee…”
“Wipe the steering wheel and leave it. You’ve got triple-A? You can call it in as stolen later. Do me right and I’ll front you the dosh for repairs.”
Patrick raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, Sarge, you win.” That was Johnny’s tag in the Network: it brings back a rush of memories, not all of them welcome. “You’re not angry with me?”
Johnny shakes his head. “Climb in the cab. Front seat.” He walks round the pickup, opens the driver’s door. “The Nazgûl. You freelancing? Expensing?”
Patrick climbs up into the high cab slowly, wincing. “They’re paying Moira’s medical bills.”
“How is she?” Johnny asks, checking his mirrors and turning over the engine. He’s never met Patrick’s other half, but it’s the right question to ask when you’re building trust prior to a debrief.
“Cancer.” Patrick’s voice is flat. “’Ad it for three years. You know ’ow it is over here.”
“Jesus, Pat.” The truck jolts forward with a screech of fiberglass and metal. Johnny sees Patrick wince, checks the rearview to ensure the Neon’s bumper isn’t still fouling the tow hook. “Why didn’t you go home?”
“She’s got family on this side of the pond.” Patrick closes his eyes. “Like I said, the Black Chamber offers a generous medical insurance package. Even for stringers.”
Johnny reaches out sideways without taking his eye off the alley and takes Patrick’s left wrist. It’s bony, the skin loose as a chicken carcass; he rotates it, glances sidelong at the symbol tattooed there. It’s quiescent right now. He lets go. “Jesus, Patrick,” he says softly. “How long?”
“Two years. It was that, or bankruptcy and no high-quality chemo for Moira.”
Johnny does not want to hear this, so he leans forward, scanning, as he guides the big truck down the narrow alleyway. Putting a human face on the oppo is never welcome: it feels like staring into a bathroom mirror and seeing a skull. Learning that an old workmate has taken the Dark Mark—signed on as a freelance stringer for the Black Chamber’s mind-riders to spy through—is harsh; that he’s done it for the love of a good woman is all the worse, like a moral bullet to the kneecap.
At the end of the alleyway there’s a car park and a row of dumpsters. Johnny slides the pickup round and out towards the street exit on the far side. Pulling out into the traffic he asks, “What do the Nazgûl want with me, Pat?”
There’s a pause. Then, “Mister McTavish. What are you doing in Denver?”
The voice is Patrick’s, but it speaks with a Midwestern twang quite unlike his Northern Irish tenor. The other ward around Johnny’s neck is suddenly choking and hot, gripping tight; there’s a pale violet light in the cab, coming from the vicinity of Patrick’s wrist.
“Cut that out: I’m not your bitch.” Johnny’s hands clench the wheel, but his mind is abruptly calm. He’s got his rumble; the potential for collateral damage is simply an unwelcome addition.
“You are on our soil. Under normal circumstances that makes you my bitch.”
“You want to talk to me, get a fucking cellphone.” Johnny pauses. “What precisely do you mean, normal circumstances?”
A laugh forces itself out of Patrick’s larynx, followed by a wheezing series of coughs. “You will tell us who sent you here.”
“Nobody sent me.” Johnny slows, seeking a parking space. He’s acutely aware of the sleeping, hungry knives holstered inside his jacket, a million miles from the hand that grips the gear stick.
“You are here with your mistress, Persephone Hazard, who is inside the Omega Ministries’ compound.” The creature that animates Patrick’s body speaks assertively. “This we know. Eight hours after your arrival, an agent of the British Special Operations Executive also arrived in Denver. You were observed together.”
Johnny pulls over, kills the engine, and switches off the lights. He turns to face Patrick’s body. “Why are you telling me this?” He demands. As he turns, he palms a small item from beneath the steering column. “Who are you?”
“We are Control.” The amber glare of the street lamps casts deep shadows across Patrick’s face, but not so deep that Johnny can’t see the faint fluorescent trails writhing in the empty gaze. “The unblinking, red-rimmed eye, as Peter Jackson frames it. We see everything we look for. Usually.”
Johnny waits. The pressure on his ward is oppressive: he can feel it around him, as dark and implacable as the waters of the Challenger Deep, a chilly, soul-crushing dread.
“But we cannot see your mistress. And now that we know where to look, we cannot see inside the Omega Ministries’ domain.”
“You’re having trouble seeing—” Johnny stops. (The Black Chamber is having trouble with remote viewing? Is there some grit in the unblinking panopticon gaze? Or a detached retina?) “What do you want?”
“We want. Co-operation. Yours, mostly. Freely given.”
Johnny chuckles nastily: “Fuck off.” His grip tightens on the item he palmed. Control has got Patrick. It’s a dilemma. Usually he wouldn’t think twice about doing the necessary, but there’s no telling what happens to the mount after the rider departs. “You’ve got assets. Use them yourself. Like I said, I’m not your bitch.”
There is a pause. “Normally we would. And we’d deal with you later.” A longer pause. “First we could not see within the Omega Ministries. Now the area of darkness is growing. Colorado Springs is closed to us. Denver is dimming. Our hands are numb and cannot grip.” Control’s tone is chilly. “Are you Born Again, Mister McTavish? Are you willing to bend your neck to the yoke of Raymond Schiller’s master?”
“Are you telling me you’ve lost your grip?”
“That depends on the meaning of the word ‘lost.’” For a moment Control sounds uncertain. “We are experiencing difficulty conducting operations in north-central Colorado. There is an unnatural storm system to the north that formed overnight, a weather bomb. Flights are diverted, road checkpoints are established. The FBI office in Denver reports that all is quiet on the western front, but pools of darkness expand and the gripping hand is paralyzed.”
The pressure on Johnny’s ward relaxes a little, and he takes a deep breath. “You think Schiller is to blame? What’s he doing? Begun one of the great summonings?”
“Find out, Mister McTavish. Write us a letter, a full and frank report, or tell your friend O’Donnell here. Either way: inform us, let us know what you discover. Be of use to us and we will have no reason to take exception to your presence in our backyard. You have three days. Use them wisely.”
Of an instant the oppressive sense of dread vanishes. Johnny lashes out, pulling the compact taser just short of Patrick’s sallow face. It’s not his favorite weapon, but it’s safer—probably. For an uncertain moment he wonders if he’s making a deadly error. But the faint glow in Pat’s eyes has gone; he slumps forward against his seat belt, then begins to shake and twitch uncontrollably.
Johnny safes the taser hastily, then flips it around, using it as a wedge to separate Patrick’s teeth: the fit only lasts a few seconds, but by the time it’s over Johnny has crossed a line in his own head. Sometimes people do good things for bad reasons, and sometimes people do bad things for good reasons. He isn’t sure which this is yet, but he’s hoping for the former.