Jack took a quick, faltering step back and almost fell.
Still coming for him! His jaw dropped as he watched her reach forward with both hands and grip the pole that skewered her, then pull herself forward, pushing the pole through her chest to bring herself closer and closer to Jack.
How could he fight a creature that didn't feel pain? That wouldn't die?
He began swearing, cursing incoherently. He ran around the roof picking up pebbles, bits of litter, an aluminum can, hurling them at her. Why the hell not? About as effective as anything else he’d done to her. When he came to the emergency generator, he picked up one of the two-gallon metal cans of diesel oil and went to hurl that at her—
—and stopped.
Oil. Fire!
He finally had a weapon—if it wasn’t too late.
The Mother had pulled herself almost to within reach of the roof edge. He twisted at the metal cap but it wouldn't budge—rusted shut. In desperation he slammed the edge of the cap twice against the generator and tried again. Pain shot through the earlier wound in his palm, but he kept up the pressure. Finally it came loose and he was up and scrambling across the roof, unscrewing the cap as he moved, thanking the faulty power grip for the last blackout. Without it, he and the other tenants wouldn't have chipped in for an emergency generator.
Oil sloshed over his bandaged hand as the cap came off. Jack didn't hesitate. He leaped onto the parapet and splashed the oil over the slowly advancing rakosh. She hissed furiously and slashed at him but Jack remained just out of reach. By the time the can was empty, the air around them reeked of diesel fuel. The Mother pulled herself closer and Jack had to drop back to the roof to avoid her talons.
He wiped his hands on his shirt and reached into his pocket for the lighter. After an instant of panic when he thought his pocket was empty, his fingers closed on it. He held it up and thumbed the little lever, praying the oil on his hand hadn't got to the flint. It sparked, the flame shot up—and Jack smiled. For the first time since the Mother had shaken off the damage of five hollowpoint rounds in the chest, Jack thought he might survive the night.
He thrust the lighter forward but the Mother saw the flame and ripped the air with her talons. He felt the breeze as they passed within inches of his face. She wouldn’t let him near her. He couldn't toss the lighter at her and expect an explosion of flame. Diesel fuel needed more than that to start it.
Then he noticed that the pole was slick with the oil. He crouched next to the parapet and reached up to the ball at its end. The Mother's talons raked by, millimeters away from his hair, but he steeled himself to hold his position as he played the flame of the lighter against the oil on the ball. For an agonizing moment, nothing happened.
And then it caught. He watched raptly as a smoky-yellow flame—one of the loveliest sights he’d ever seen—grew and spread across the ball. From there it crept along the upper surface of the pole, straight toward the Mother. She tried to back away but was caught. The flames leaped onto her chest and fanned out over her torso. Within seconds she was completely engulfed.
Weak with relief, Jack watched with horrid fascination as the Mother's movements became spasmodic, wild, frenzied. He lost sight of her amid the flames and black smoke that poured skyward from her burning body. He heard sobbing—was it her? No... his own voice. Reaction to the pain and the terror and the exertion was setting in. Was it over? Was it finally over?
He steadied himself and watched her burn. He could find no pity for her…the most murderous engine of destruction ever imagined. A killing machine that would go on—
A low moan rose from within the conflagration. He thought he heard something that sounded like "Spa fon!"
And then she was still. As her flaming body slumped forward, the pole cracked and broke. The Mother rakosh spun to the floor of the alley trailing smoke and flame like the loser in an aerial dogfight. And this time when she hit the ground she stayed there. Jack watched for a long time. The flames lit the beach scene painted on the alley's opposite wall, giving it a sunset look.
The Mother rakosh continued to burn. And she didn't move. He watched until he was sure she would never move again.
23
Jack locked his apartment door and sank to the floor behind it, reveling in the air-conditioned cool. He’d stumbled down from the roof in a daze, but had remembered to pick up his Glock on the way. Weak…every cell in his body cried out in pain and fatigue. Needed rest, and probably needed a doctor for his gashed back. But no time for any of that. Had to finish off Kusum tonight.
He pulled himself to his feet and went to the bedroom. Kolabati was still asleep. Next stop, the phone. He didn't know if Abe had called while he was up on the roof. He doubted it; the prolonged ringing would have awakened Kolabati. He dialed the number of the shop.
After three rings, a cautious, "Yes?"
"It's me, Abe."
"Who else should it be at this hour?"
"Did you get everything?"
"Just got in the door. No, I didn't get everything. Got the timed incendiary bombs—a crate of twelve—but couldn't get hold of any incendiary bullets before tomorrow noon. Is that soon enough?"
"No," Jack said, bitterly disappointed. He had to move now.
"I got something you might use as a substitute, though."
“What?"
"Come down and see."
"Be there in a few minutes."
Jack hung up and gingerly peeled the torn, blood-soaked shirt from his back. The pain had subsided to a dull, aching throb. He blinked when he saw the liverish clots clinging to the fabric. He'd lost more blood than he’d thought.
He got a towel from the bathroom and gently held it against the wound. It stung, but the pain was bearable. When he checked the towel half a minute later, he found blood on it, but very little of it fresh.
Jack knew he should shower and clean out the wound but was afraid he'd start it bleeding again. He resisted the temptation to examine his back in the bathroom mirror—it might hurt worse if he knew how bad it looked. Instead, he wrapped all his remaining gauze around his upper chest and over his left shoulder.
He went back to the bedroom for a fresh shirt and for something else: He knelt next to the bed, gently unclasped Kolabati's necklace and removed it. She stirred, moaned softly, then was quiet. Jack tiptoed out of the room and closed the door behind him.
In the living room he clasped the iron necklace around his throat. It gave off an unpleasant, tingling sensation that spread along his skin from head to toe. He didn't relish wearing it, nor borrowing it from Kolabati without her knowledge. But she’d refused to remove it in the ship, and if he was going back there he wanted every edge he could get.
He slipped into the fresh shirt as he dialed the number of Abe's daughter's apartment. He was going to be out of touch with Gia for a while and knew his mind would rest easier after confirming that everything was cool in Queens.
After half a dozen rings, Gia picked up.
"Hello?" Her voice was tentative.
Jack paused for an instant at the sound of her voice. After what he’d been through in the past few hours, he wanted nothing more than to call it quits for the night, hop over to Queens, and spend the rest of the time until morning with his arms around Gia. He’d nothing more tonight—just holding her.
"Sorry to wake you. I'm going out for a few hours and wanted to make sure everything is okay."
"Everything's, fine."
"Vicky?"
"I just left her side to answer the phone. She's fine. And I'm just reading this note from Abe explaining that he had to go out and not to worry. What's going on?"
"Crazy stuff."
"That's not an answer. I need answers, Jack. This whole thing scares me."
"I know. All I can say right now is it has to do with the Westphalens." He didn't want to say more.
"But why is Vicky...oh."