All doubt and despair melted away in a sudden blast of triumph. The Goddess was at his side, guiding him. He could not fail!
Repairman Jack was not to have the last laugh after all.
21
Jack awakened with a start. He experienced an instant of disorientation before he realized he was not in his bed but in a chair in the front room. His hand automatically went to the Glock in his lap.
He listened. Something had awakened him. What? The faint light seeping in from the kitchen area was enough to confirm that the front room was empty.
He rose and checked the TV room, then looked in on Kolabati. Still asleep. All quiet on the western front.
A noise made him whirl. From out in the hall—the creak of a board. Jack pressed his ear against the door. Silence. A hint of an odor was present at the edges of the door. Not the necrotic stink of a rakosh, but a sickly sweet smell like an old lady's gardenia perfume.
Heart thumping, Jack unlocked the door and pulled it open in a single motion, then jumped back and took his firing stance: legs spread, the pistol in both hands, left supporting right, both arms fully extended.
The light in the hall was meager at best but brighter than where Jack stood. It would silhouette anyone attempting to enter the apartment. Nothing moved. All he saw was the banister and balusters that ran along the stairwell. Jack held his position as the gardenia odor wafted into the room like a cloud from an overgrown hothouse—syrupy, flowery, with an underlying hint of decay.
Keeping his arms locked straight out in a triangle with the Glock at the apex, he moved to the door, weaving back and forth to give himself angled views of the hallway to the left and right. All clear so far.
He leaped into the hall and spun in the air, landing with his back against the banister, arms down, pistol held before his crotch, ready to be raised right or left as his head snapped back and forth.
Hall to the right and left: clear.
An instant later he was moving again, spinning to his right, pressing his back against the wall next to his door, eyes darting right, to the staircase up to the fourth floor: clear.
The landing to his left going down: cl—
Wait. Someone there, sitting on the shadowed landing. His pistol snapped up, steady in his hands as he took a better look—a woman, barely visible, in a long dress, long sloppy hair, floppy hat, slumped posture, looking depressed. The hat and the hair obscured her face.
Jack's pulse started to slow but he kept the Glock trained on her. What the hell was she doing here? And what had she done-spilled a bottle of perfume all over herself?
"Something wrong, lady?" he said.
She moved, shifting her body and turning to look at him. The movement made Jack realize that this was one hell of a big lady. And then it was all clear.
Kusum's touch: Jack had disguised himself as an old woman when he’d worked for Kusum, and now...he didn't even have to see the malevolent yellow eyes glowering at him from under the hat and wig to know that he’d spoken to the Mother rakosh.
"Ho-ly shit!"
In a single, swift, fluid motion accompanied by a hiss of rage and the tearing of the fabric of her dress, the Mother rakosh reared up to her full height and flowed toward him, fangs glinting, talons extended, triumph gleaming in her eyes.
Jack's tongue stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth, but he stood his ground. With a methodical coolness that amazed even him, he aimed the first round at the upper left corner of the Mother's chest. The silenced Glock jumped in his hands, rubbing against his wounded palm, making a muted phut! when he pulled the trigger. The .40 caliber slug jolted her—Jack could imagine the lead projectile breaking open, releasing its hidden birdshot, sending it tearing in all directions through her lungs—but her momentum carried her forward. He wasn't sure where her heart would be so he placed three more rounds at the corners of an imaginary square in relation to the first, now oozing a stream of very dark blood...
The Mother stiffened and lurched as each slug cut into her, finally coming to a staggering halt a few feet in front of him. Jack watched her in shock. The very fact that she was still standing was testimony to an amazing vitality—she should have gone down with the first shot. But Jack was confident: She was dead on her feet. He knew the stopping power of those .40 caliber pre-frag hollowpoints. The hydrostatic shock and vascular collapse caused by just one properly placed round would stop just about anything. The Mother rakosh had taken four.
Jack wanted to put an end to this. He took careful aim and pumped another round dead center into the Mother's chest.
She spread her arms and lurched back against the newel post at the head of the stairs, cracking it with her weight. The hat and wig slipped from her head but she didn't topple over. Instead, she made a half turn and slumped over the banister. Jack waited for her final collapse.
And waited.
The Mother did not collapse. She took a few deep gasps, then straightened and faced him, her eyes as bright as ever. Jack stood rooted to the floor, watching her. Impossible! She was dead! Dead five times over! He’d seen the holes in her chest, the black blood! Her lungs should be jelly!
With a loud, drawn-out hiss, she lunged toward him. By pure reflex rather than conscious effort, Jack dodged away. Where to go? He didn't want to get trapped in his apartment, and the way down to the street was blocked. The roof was his only option..
He was already on the stairs taking them two at a time when he made the decision. His pistol was no good. Kolabati's words came back to him.
…fire and iron...fire and iron...
Without slowing or breaking stride, he dropped the Glock on the steps, glancing behind him as he did. The Mother rakosh was a flight below, gliding up the stairs after him, the remains of her dress hanging in tatters from her neck and arms. The contrast of her smooth, utterly silent ascent to his pounding climb was almost as unnerving as the murderous look in her eyes.
Jack increased his effort to the limit and managed to widen the gap between himself and the Mother. But only briefly. Instead of weakening, the Mother seemed to gain strength and speed with the exertion. By the time Jack reached the final steps up to the roof, she’d closed to within half a flight.
Jack didn't bother with the latch on the roof door. It had never worked well anyway and fumbling with it would only lose him precious seconds. He rammed it with his shoulder, burst through, and hit the roof on the run.
The Manhattan skyline soared around him. From its star-filled height the setting moon etched the details of the roof like a high-contrast black and white photo—pale white light on upper surfaces, inky shadows below. Vents, chimneys, aerials, storage sheds, the garden, the flagpole, the emergency generator—a familiar obstacle course. Perhaps that familiarity could be worked to his advantage. He knew he could not outrun the Mother.
Perhaps—just perhaps—he could outmaneuver her.
Jack had decided on his course of action during his first few running strides across the roof. He dodged around two of the chimneys, ran diagonally across an open area to the edge, and then turned to wait, making sure he was easily visible from the door. He didn't want the Mother to lose too much of her momentum looking for him.
A second later she appeared. She spotted him immediately and charged in his direction, a moon-limned shadow readying for the kill. Neil the anarchist's flagpole blocked her path. She took a passing sidearm swipe at it and shattered the shaft so that it swung crazily in the air and toppled to the roof. She came to the generator next—and leaped over it.
And now was nothing between Jack and the Mother rakosh. She lowered into a crouch and hurtled toward him. Sweating, trembling, Jack kept his eyes on the taloned hands aiming for his throat. He was sure there were worse ways to die, but at this moment he could not think of one. His thoughts were fixed on what he had to do to survive this encounter—and the knowledge that what he planned might prove just as fatal as standing here and waiting for those talons to reach him.