Chariot - [Millennium Quartet 03]

by Charles L. Grant

  Pull the arm.

  And now, Trey supposed, he was supposed to believe that he had been driven back to Las Vegas because he was somehow important to the woman who called herself Eula. His accidents had been real; the results were not. It had taken him a while to figure out the truth— leaving town would kill him, staying here wouldn’t.

  As if—quarter in—he were being kept on ice—pull the arm—for the party to come.

  He scooped the quarters from the tray into the bucket, realized he’d need another, and stuffed the remaining money into his jeans pockets.

  And if all this was true—

  “I have never been so insulted in my life,” a familiar voice said behind him, shattering the white noise. “William, you should have stood up to him.”

  Trey swiveled around, clipping the man’s leg with his knees. “Sorry,” he said automatically.

  “No problem,” the man said.

  Trey smiled up at him. “I get intense sometimes.”

  The man smiled back. “I know how you feel.”

  “So, what part of Oklahoma are you from?”

  “Oklahoma City,” William answered. Shook his head morosely. “Not that that’s a good place to be from lately.”

  “William,” the woman snapped, and walked away.

  William gave Trey a what-can-you-do shrug and followed meekly.

  Trey watched until he couldn’t see them anymore, swiveled back to his machine, took a quarter, and watched his fingers pinch the coin hard enough to sting. Because if they didn’t, he would drop it.

  No, he thought. But he knew, just as he knew which machine would welcome him, that if he went back to the house and found the list Beatrice had given him, he would see that each major outbreak of the Sickness coincided with an appearance by Emerald City’s gospel singer.

  He already knew that her debut had been in Paris.

  Quarter in.

  Can’t be.

  Pull the arm.

  He didn’t believe it. Any of it. None of it. Not a word.

  Listen to the falling quarters.

  Jude and the girls, and Eula was home.

  He stood so fast as he turned that he nearly fell against his neighbor, pulled away from her with a muttered apology, and stared blindly at the plastic bucket filled with his winnings. He touched it. He touched the side; it was real. He touched the coins; so were they.

  He looked down and touched his leg where the bullet had gone through.

  So was this.

  He took the bucket to the Change booth and smiled as he was expected to when the woman commented brightly on his lucky streak tonight. He took the bills she gave him, and became stiff-legged, awkward, as he tried not to run through the casino. A few heads turned in his direction, wondering if he were drunk. He didn’t care; not tonight. A wrong turn put him at the main entrance where the recorded voice of Merlin touted the banquet spectacle downstairs. A moment to get his bearings, and he started for the back, was halfway there when a hand grabbed his arm.

  “I thought,” said Dodger O’Cleary, “that you were going to take care of that little problem.”

  * * * *

  2

  O’Cleary pulled him unresisting out of the flow, into a niche beside the escalators that led to the shops and restaurants above. The man looked as if he could use a good night’s sleep, but Trey was too confused to make a wisecrack.

  “So one of our boys,” O’Cleary said, keeping his voice low, his expression pleasant, his grip still in place, “is walking around the outside, checking cars and stuff, you wouldn’t believe how many jerks we catch trying to use electronics out there to screw up things in here. Anyway—”

  “Evening, Dodger,” Trey said, equilibrium back. “Nice to see you, too.”

  “Anyway,” O’Cleary repeated, “you’ll never guess who he finds sitting out there?”

  Trey smiled politely, said nothing.

  “A weird old guy in a stupid Western jacket, and a woman young enough to be his granddaughter, for Christ’s sake.” He sighed loudly to mark the extent of_ his professional patience. “My guy asks them is everything’s okay, and the old man says everything is fine, they’re just waiting for a friend.” The grip tightened, just a little. “They’re not supposed to be here, Trey. Don’t I remember telling you that? I’m sure I remember telling you that. They are not supposed to be here.”

  “It’s a free country,” Trey told him.

  “Not in my casino, it ain’t. Now, I don’t care if you guys are buddies now or whatever. You told me you’d take care of it, pal, and you didn’t.”

  “So I’m banned, right?”

  O’Cleary’s face darkened. “Getting close, Trey, getting close.”

  Trey didn’t get it. He hadn’t understood before, and now he really didn’t get it. What the hell kind of threat were Harp and Beatrice to the Excalibur? Or any other casino in town, for that matter. They were looking for him, they found him. It seemed to him that O’Cleary didn’t have a beef.

  “I think,” he said mildly, “you’re overreacting a bit, don’t you?”

  The grip turned into a vise.

  “You don’t tell me my business, Trey, I don’t tell you yours. Whatever the hell that is.”

  Trey looked pointedly at the hand on his arm, but O’Cleary didn’t move it “I’m going home, Dodger,” he said. “I haven’t done anything wrong, and neither have they. You want me banned, that’s . . . whatever. I don’t really care.” His voice deepened. “Just let me go, lay off, okay?”

  O’Cleary watched him carefully. “That a threat?”

  Trey rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Dodger, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Maybe,” O’Cleary said, glancing at the ceiling, “You ought to come with me.”

  “Dodger, come on,” he said, not getting the security man’s attitude, “this is getting ridiculous.”

  “So now you’re calling me ridiculous?” O’Cleary glowered and tugged. “That’s it, pal, you’re coming with me. There’s some people upstairs who want to talk to you.”

  Trey stood his ground, anger narrowing his eyes. “Let. Go.”

  An unpleasant tiny smile touched the security man’s lips.

  “Just give me an excuse, Falkirk. Just give me an excuse.” With his free hand he pulled a small walkie-talkie unit from his hip pocket, put it to his lips without taking his gaze from Trey’s face. “O’Cleary here. Listen up. There’s a car in the lot, license number—”

  When Trey yanked his arm free, O’Cleary cursed and reached out to snag it again. Instead, what he caught was Trey’s hand, and they stood there as if shaking hands in farewell.

  Bewildered by the man’s behavior, Trey recalled something Beatrice had said about his touch and the machines, about people, and as O’Cleary’s face tightened and darkened because he couldn’t budge Trey at all, he thought, hi, how are you tonight, because it was the only thing he could think of.

  It was enough.

  A flash of brilliant white, and all that he could see around them became a photographic negative for less than a second.

  It was enough.

  No images, no words, no thoughts; he just knew.

  “You bastard,” he said, not sure if he was shouting or not.

  “You goddamn son of a bitch, you work for her.”

  Sudden bedlam nearby as a dozen slot machines began to spill quarters and trumpet jackpots; people yelling, cheering, applauding; music blaring as customers converged on the clutch of winners, one or two noticing that one or two of the winning machines had no one playing them.

  O’Cleary turned to look, gaping, and it was enough to allow Trey to break the grip and, without thinking and without caring, swing his left fist- to strike just under the man’s jaw. O’Cleary didn’t fall, but he yelped and staggered into the rapidly growing crowd, which instantly welcomed him as another celebrant, spinning him around while he bellowed into his walkie-talkie until it was knocked from his hand.

  Trey ran.<
br />
  He used elbows and shoulders to shove his way through those who were trying to get past him to the machines. Ignoring the curses and the alarmed looks. Breaking free, searching the area for a sign of his location, then running again, out of the white noise into a cacophony that nearly deafened him. When he reached the ramp he slowed to a fast walk as one of the resident-tower guards appeared at the bottom.

  “You should see it,” Trey told him as he passed. “More winners than you can shake a stick at.”

  “No shit?” the guard said, but Trey was already through the doors and outside, trotting across the pavement to the blacktop, then sprinting for the car. He scrambled into the backseat and said, “Home, I have to get home. All hell’s breaking loose.”

  “Not quite,” said Harp dryly, but started the engine and left the parking lot in a hurry.

  “What is it?” Beatrice asked anxiously.

  “He was stalling me,” Trey said, practically bouncing on the seat as if that would make the car go faster. “The son of a bitch was stalling me. Something’s wrong at home. This ain’t right. Something’s wrong.” He leaned forward to grab her shoulder. “He was working for her. My friend. He was working for her, did you know that?”

  She shook her head quickly. “John?”

  Trey slumped back, fighting to slow his breathing, not bothering to try to figure out how he had done what he had done. Nor did he try to guess what was happening in Emerald City. All he knew was that something had gone wrong there, and he had to try to stop it.

  “John?” Beatrice said again. “John, you know what will happen if—”

  “I know,” Harp said calmly. “But the man must get home.”

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Oh, dear.”

  Headlights flooded the car’s interior, washed away and left the dark.

  Suddenly Trey scrabbled at his belt buckle, swearing until it parted and he was able to yank his jeans down to his knees. When the next set of headlamps filled the interior, he saw the entry wound, and it was still there, still raw. When he poked it around the edges, he felt needles, distant but there.

  He looked up and saw Harp watching him in the rearview mirror. “She took it away. The thing, the protection.”

  Harp nodded.

  “But you don’t need it now,” Beatrice told him as he pulled his pants back up.

  “Me?” He grinned, although he really didn’t feel like it.

  “Not exactly, but close enough.” She looked over her shoulder, and he saw the dampness in her eyes. “Not as strong, of course, but yes, Mr. Falkirk, you’re still protected. In a way.”

  He didn’t question her because he knew that now there were no doubts, no more questions. It terrified him, made him shiver with a cold that wasn’t there, but he believed it at last; he believed it all.

  “I can’t kill her,” he said, looking for a way to marshal his courage.

  “No,” Sir John said.

  “But I can kind of. . . what? Stall her?”

  No answer.

  Unconsciously he touched his jeans where the bullet hole was.

  “Does she know this?”

  “She does now.”

  “Oh, man, she’s gonna be pissed.”

  “Oh, my dear fellow,” Sir John said, laughing, “you have absolutely no idea.”

  * * * *

  3

  Harp turned the headlights off once they reached Emerald City’s’ access road, and slowed the car to a maddening crawl. Trey scooted over to the right side and lowered his window a couple of inches.

  The engine’s soft grumbling, the crunch of tires over pebble and sand on the crumbling blacktop.

  The wind, slow and steady, not much more than a breeze.

  In the distance, the houses along the street were squat silhouettes against a bright glow from Eula’s place, each more vague the closer to the intersection they were. He couldn’t see his own house at all.

  For a while he thought he heard music and maybe, although he wasn’t sure, the sound of laughter; for a moment he thought he heard the quiet neighing of a horse. But when he strained, he heard nothing but the tires and the wind, and he inhaled with a shudder.

  “What time is it?”

  Beatrice said quietly, “A few hours before dawn.”

  He forced a laugh. “Just like a Western.” He raised the window, cut off the noise. “So, do you guys have some kind of magical sixgun for me? Because if you do, I sure would like to see it about now.”

  “No sixguns, Mr. Falkirk,” Harp said regretfully. “Or magic wands. Or magic spells.”

  The car stopped a hundred yards from the intersection.

  “Well, that’s okay. You guys going to be my sidekicks?”

  Neither of the Harps answered.

  He sat with his hands folded in his lap. He had already known the answer, but he had to ask anyway. With his hand on the door handle, he closed his eyes briefly, then opened the door and slid out.

  What it always comes down to, he thought as he waited for his night vision to find his house; alone, what the hell.

  Then he smiled, moved to the passenger door, and rapped a knuckle on the window until Beatrice lowered it. He leaned over and grinned at the dismay he saw on her face, at the unreadable expression on the old man’s profile.

  “You know,” he said, shook his head and chuckled softly. He placed the back of a finger against Beatrice’s cheek, and she leaned into it, for a moment, just a little. Then he took the finger away. “You know, you guys still haven’t told me who you are. But you know something else? All that stuff you told me, about how you’re not divine or supernatural?” He stepped away from the car. “That’s the only thing about all this now that I don’t believe for a second.”

  He made his way off the road without looking back, concentrating on keeping away from the cactus and the scrub, his home beginning to define itself in the dark he knew wouldn’t last much longer. By the time he reached the back door, he had to remind himself to breathe; once inside, he had to order himself not to turn on any lights.

  His previous sense of urgency had gone, leaving behind only expectation, and he wasn’t sure if that was a relief or not.

  He had no idea what was going on up there at Eula’s house, or what had already gone on, but he had a feeling he didn’t need to. As he dropped onto the couch and pushed his fingers back through his hair, he also wasn’t so sure he actually needed to make a plan, since he had no idea at all what the hell he was going to do.

  Or what, exactly, he was supposed to do.

  It was all so overwhelming that it all seemed perfectly natural.

  Just sitting here wasn’t, however, especially when he smelled like he’d just spent several hours hanging around a pig sty. He could always go to bed, work things out once the sun rose, but it didn’t take a genius to realize he wouldn’t get any sleep. So to keep his brain reasonably on target, he stripped off his clothes and wandered into the bathroom, deliberately avoiding a look in a mirror, and took a shower as hot, then as cold, as he could stand it. Feeling the muscles in back and stomach, arms and legs bunch and relax. Grabbing a peek at his left leg because he just couldn’t resist, then scrubbing the faint pink scar as hard as he could, daring it to hurt and cursing mildly when it didn’t because he didn’t really think it would, but what the hell, it was a shot, right? It was another shot at the old I’m dreaming explanation.

  By the time he was dry and dressed, several internal systems reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for hours, and it wouldn’t do to drop from starvation weakness right in the middle of whatever comes next.

  Without thinking, he flicked on the kitchen light and made himself a thick sandwich, washed it down with a glass of almost tart orange juice, and decided that maybe he really ought to have a plan after all. For what, he had no idea, and the Harps were obviously halfway to wherever it was that they disappeared to when they weren’t busy telling him his life wasn’t what he thought it had been.

  He went out to the front
porch, leaned against the post so that he could look up the street and, because of the night, not be seen, in case anyone was watching.

  A soft glow and a soft wind.

  His nose wrinkled as he smelled dry dust on the air, and he rubbed a finger across his upper lip, then scratched behind his ear.

  You are, he thought, entirely too damn calm.