The singer fell back onto his butt, both hands clamped over his mouth and muffling a guttural noise of rage. His eyes shone at Lucas in the firelight, a bright, glazed blue. Lucas’ eyes assessed him in turn and found no threat.
He stooped and easily retrieved the revolver. At the sight of his own blood oozing between his fingers, Stannard made another inarticulate growl and almost charged. The M-16 kept him right where he was, huddled against the front door. After a second he searched his gums with his fingers and came up with a chunk of broken tooth. He stared at it as though it were a sliver of ice from Saturn’s rings.
“You shouldn’t swear with your mouth full,” said Lucas, motioning with the gun. “Over by the fireplace, back to the wall. And stay on your hands and knees. Now.”
The bass beat from the stereo made the floor buzz. Stannard was aware that as he crawled, he was almost able to sneak his hand down into the crotch of his jeans. Almost.
“I expected more,” Lucas half shouted, enunciating so his voice penetrated the instrumental bridge of the song. “Don’t you have a speech? Something more flamboyant?”
Stannard’s jaw felt like broken concrete. He slid around, backed against the warm bricks near the fireplace. With effort, he said, “You saw the video. Or you wouldn’t be here. You’re the same way…”
More of his cockiness leaked away when the expression in Lucas’ eyes told him that he had not seen “Maneater.”
C’mon, bad man—take me down if you can.
The message had gone unreceived.
“You’re totally in the dark, aren’t you?” Lucas said. “You’re so self-involved you don’t even know why you’re here. Is this the persona, the phony image, the lie you foist on children that makes them die?”
Stannard knew that explaining his movie deal and his need to maintain his record as the singer with the most covers in the history of Circus magazine would not serve. Behind that, a thought that chilled him like a shot of liquid nitrogen—the thought that this was not the man who had accosted him on the steps of the Beverly Hills Courthouse. This was a different guy who only looked like Lucas Ellington, and the image of the man Stannard had come prepared to call out started to flake at the edges.
“You’re going to die in the dark,” Lucas said. Stannard had a cold flash of Jackal Reichmann as he had looked in intensive care, his stare fixed, his lungs filling and emptying rhythmically, as though his respirator were wired into a drum machine. The woman wearing the towel wore the same blank, zomboid expression. Now, as his backbone went clammy against the bricks in preparation to catch a bullet, the woman came to life and moved forward, nearer the fire, to protest.
“No,” said Sara. “The dying, the killing—it stops, and it stops now, Lucas. Listen to me. You and I can go back. We can fix everything that went wrong. We can obliterate all of this. Look at me. I know what I’m dealing with now. This poor son of a bitch can’t help you. His dying can’t help you. See? He doesn’t even know what’s going on.…”
She stopped talking when the muzzle of the M-16 rose to zero in on Stannard’s forehead. The singer tried to take the only opening he could see.
“Uh… better listen to her, Lucas… I mean, I can help get you out of this mess, man—maybe she ‘n’ me are the only people who can help you now.” Sweat trickled freely from beneath the white-blond hair. Blood slicked his chin. The scar splitting his eyebrow stood out, bloodlessly pale against his tan.
Lucas aimed at the scar, the mark he had placed on Stannard so long ago, and thought about the greasy attorney Whip Hand’s management had sent to buy him off with a settlement. “You’re going to tell me about trials, and media coverage. Devices by which I am supposed to attain leniency and freedom in return for sparing your life now.” He shook his head with the helpless grin parents reserve for excessively stupid children. To Sara, he added, “I’ve brought my entire life together, right here in this room. I need no further help. I’ve woven the threads just fine, and to my own satisfaction. Now I must hurry. This moment cannot hold.”
Sara thought the only thing Lucas had woven together was a quilt of total insanity. Yes, he had achieved his various purposes—he’d gotten wife and daughter back in a multiform configuration. He’d reconstructed the past so it came out with an apocalyptic punchline.
A banshee wail from Stannard—the Stannard on the tape, wrapping up “Riptide”—cut them all off. Lucas quickly checked the front windows. The next song on the tape commenced.
“Recognize it?” said Lucas.
Stannard knew Jackson Knox’s badass intro to “Hit Man” by heart. They’d banged out the tune together, with Brion Hardin contributing lyrics. The hit man of the title was Stannard, who onstage would prance through his King of the Hit Singles routine. The song was always a spike point of their live show; they built toward it, working the crowd, making them wet for it; then Whip Hand would deliver with a bang.
About a hundred newspapers had recorded with fact-mad fervor that “Hit Man” had been the song performed by Whip Hand at the moment the Los Angeles riot broke out and people started dying.
“Sara—get on your knees, please, and face him. Now.”
“What?”
“You have to be looking up at him. And you, songbird, Mister Hit Man, you have to sing now. Sing for your life. Sing along with yourself. That should appeal to someone with an ego as huge as yours. Perform. You are here to perform for everyone, to show off. So do it. Don’t laugh, because your life really does depend on your performance now.”
“Go ahead,” Stannard said quickly to Sara. “Get down just in case he fries a gasket and pulls the trigger.”
She wanted to object, but her heart threatened to burst from her chest if she did not comply. She got onto her knees before the rock god.
“Maybe you could toss the audience a moon,” said Lucas, savoring it now. “Drop your pants in public, like your buddy.”
Stannard knew of Tim Fozzetto’s ass-bearing routine for ’Gasm. That brought the rage surging back.
“Timmy’s dead meat because of you.”
“If I were you, I’d worry about my ass instead of his.”
“And Jackal Reichmann’s a vegetable! You really are one berserk motherfucker. You need a vet to put you to sleep.”
“Can’t hear you.” Stannard’s “Hit Man” vocals buffered the three of them from the outside world. “Come on, superstar. Gyrate. Entice the women in the audience. Touch your crotch.”
Stannard’s mouth stalled, but only for an instant. His mind shifted gears behind the ice-blue irises. “Sure. Whatever you want. Just don’t hurt the lady, okay? Be cool with that piece, and you’ll get whatever—”
“I already know that,” Lucas said, finger whitening on the trigger. The females in the audience did not have to fear him. He was not the danger.
“Watch this.” A lascivious stage smile cut across the singer’s face. He had assumed his serpentlike concert masque. Slowly, methodically, with a practiced hand dance he had executed hundreds of times in hundreds of bedrooms, the ex-front man for Whip Hand opened up his pants. The yellow and orange and black of his leopard bikini briefs radiated from the V of his jeans.
Sara tensed, shutting her eyes, shaking. The gun barrel hovered too far behind her to grab. She was the no man’s land between the two antagonists.
She could not see Lucas’ face as he said, “Perfect —hold it right there.” And fired.
Certain she was hit and killed, she yelped and hugged the floor. Certain she had felt the bullet hurtle past her face close enough to skin her nose, she stayed down.
Stannard screamed, drowning out his recorded self as the bullet shattered his right kneecap. He toppled to the left, his hand in his pants, with a grunt. His head knocked over the iron rack of fireplace tools, and a poker clattered on the hearth. Every particle of his Tarzan persona evaporated in that instant; Lucas saw it leave the singer’s expression like a fleeing ghost, like a corrupt soul abandoning a drained corpus.
Lucas took one step closer, flipping the M- 16 from single to rapid fire. From waltz to rock and roll.
Stannard’s taped voice pealed into high screech, telling millions that he was the hit man, baby.
The wounded man jerked his hand out of his groin, and Lucas caught a fast flash of black onyx in Stannard’s fist. Sara, who had recovered hands and knees and was trying to scrabble out of the way, saw the singer wince as the thing in his hand made a flat bang—spack!—and unleashed a flash of light.
The slug from the three-and-a-half-inch Magnum derringer, the fail-safe Stannard had tucked into his pants back on the goat path, took Lucas low in the left side of the neck and failed to erupt from the far side. He made a watery strangling noise that went unheard past the music and absorbed the momentum of the bullet with four anvil-heavy backward steps. His eyes squeezed shut in pain, then opened in time to see Stannard making for the .44 Magnum, which Lucas had discarded on the sofa a safe distance from Sara’s reach.
Lucas clamped his hand tight around the pistol grip of the M-16, and the hammering din of the clip emptying itself obliterated all other sounds. The muzzle kicked up and up as a jagged, zigzag path of Teflon slugs tracked from the floor between Stannard’s legs, through him, and up the wall above his head, finishing with four holes blown out of the ceiling. The light kick of the gun was enough to steal what remained of Lucas’ balance, and he went backward through one of the front windows in a shower of glass, his throat gushing fresh blood.
The Whip Hand tape went dead between songs, and in the moment of abrupt silence Lucas’ hand released the M-16. It clattered to the floor. He hung, seesawing on the window frame. Shards dropped from him and clinked.
Then Cannibal Rex snapped his own trigger, and all hell busted loose outside.
Gravity arranged Lucas, sliding him back into the room. His body settled into a slack sitting position, eyes opaque, his head lolling to the right like an infant’s, exposing the pumping carnage of his torn carotid.
Sara opened her eyes and saw Gabriel Stannard curled into a fetal ball on the floor, soot from the shovel and poker blackening his face in streaks. A puddle of his own blood was widening around him. His hand twitched without instructions; he groaned. It was all he could manage. She could not tell how many times he had been hit.
She crawled naked to the window as “Killer Guitars” commenced with a rattling Jackal Reichmann snare drum flourish. Glass splinters stuck into her knees and the balls of her feet as she reached to Lucas and got spattered when he exhaled. Her hands came away thickly coated, crimson.
He was still alive. But there was no more of Lucas in his eyes. Lucas had been all used up.
She closed her eyes and tried to hold without breaking. Outside, people were still firing guns. It seemed noisy and furious.
Very deliberately, she got up and walked to the bathroom on bleeding feet to fetch her robe. That was important. It felt wonderful on her skin, drinking up her nervous sweat. She bent over the motionless but living form of Gabriel Stannard to upright the tool rack and arrange shovel, whisk brush, and poker into position. Above the mantel, the melodramatic eyes of the women in “Girl’s Portrait” watched. They looked like nothing human. The Japanese painted for different values; there were almost no Oriental photorealists. Jesus god, she thought, I’m going into shock now; I’ve lost my mind, and I’m losing time…
She stepped over to the sofa and lifted Stannard’s .44 Magnum. It was much heavier than her Colt Diamondback. She checked the cylinder to verify the gun was loaded while Stannard’s voice sang of the glories of the killer six-string, the electric axe, the fretmaster, the guitar hero. The new Pantheon. The shooting outside had stopped, and people wearing body armor and toting shotguns were running doubletime up her front walk.
She pulled the hammer of the Magnum back to full cock and aimed at Stannard’s right ear. The weight of the gun caused the muzzle to waver, so she took two steps closer until it was impossible to miss. It felt correct now. Stannard had helped remove Lucas from the world; the Lucas she knew was gone. Her hopes had been erased, her work had been destroyed, and her chance for redemption by setting things right had been stolen. Lucas had wanted Stannard dead, and Stannard was still hanging on.
Now it was Sara who wanted to backtrack into the past, to change it around. Tears blurred her aim.
Pieces of the front door and frame exploded inward as the police kicked it down and piled into the foyer. Somebody shouted no; somebody shouted stop just as her finger applied pressure to the trigger. The safety was off. Her father had taught her how to shoot.
She wiped her face with her free sleeve and resumed bracing the gun with both hands. There was no way she could explain anything to these strangers. One overzealous cop raised his weapon to sight on her and was ordered to back off.
Sara turned, sighted, and fired. To her the motions were like swimming or riding a bicycle, unforgettable.
Three feet away the cassette deck sprang off the glass shelf, tried to spin, and crashed against the wall, scattering broken chunks of metal and plastic. The shelf held. Gabriel Stannard’s voice was severed in an instant, and the component’s blue digital meters faded out like dying eyes.
34
Like an insult from heaven, the rain got heavier and wetter and more miserable. The sniper spat his toothpick out onto the dark ground. Cheated of his moment, he felt fatigued and impotent, as though the plug had been pulled on his stamina.
Through his crimson-illuminated reticle, he had seen his target come crashing through the front window, obviously shot, obviously unmoving, no threat and nothing to deal with. The sniper’s work had been done for him, usurped by some amateur. He wanted nothing to do with the cleanup phase; it was not his mess.
In Arizona, Lucas had isolated a similar target in his own sights and had the moment stolen from him as well. His response had been a sense of relief, of freedom. In Dos Piedras, the killer himself became the new bullseye, framed by a new scope, a better shooter, and the moment had again been purloined. The sniper felt no sense of burden lifted. He was pissed off that he had mushed out here in the rain for nothing.
He had seen every cop movie it was possible to rent on videotape. They never got it right; they were always out to lunch when it came to the challenge of portraying police procedure the way it really was. Good and bad guys meet; both draw their awesome high-tech shooting irons simultaneously, both are such expert shots that they blow their guns out of each other’s hands. Or die in the moment of discharge. Or, sometimes, a SWAT sharpshooter was brought in to terminate the danger with the skill of a surgeon excising a malignancy. Irresistible force meets even more irresistible force. King Kong versus Godzilla. The good force was supposed to prevail. It wasn’t over unless good triumphed. If good got its ass kicked, then there was usually a sequel to set things right. Now that the sniper thought about it, he liked those predictable cinema finishes better than this.
That was the way the world was supposed to work. You eliminated the misfit, and society could go chugging happily onward.
He saw the media trucks and jeeps begin to hamper traffic down at the point. Video bar lights clicked on, and harsh shadows capered on the wet pavement.
As it turned out, not landing the chopper in the open field had been an excellent decision.
Keeping snipers clear of the press was the golden rule of SWAT operations. There was a phenomenon called “post-shoot trauma.” To protect the integrity of the team, each team member’s exposure to media attention had to be minimized. The news bloodsuckers would not care that he had done no shooting and in fact felt bad about that. They would only be interested in getting the guy with the long rifle case on camera.
To get himself clear of Dos Piedras tonight, the sniper realized, he would have to proceed as though he had actually shot someone. The evasive escape tactics would be the same. That put him back into a context in which he could function. He sleeved the AR-I and twisted his ballcap around so the wide bill would keep
the increased rain off his glasses. It might be possible to walk back to Vista View Park from here without being seen at all.
He turned his back on the scene and walked away, across the field, feeling a little better already.
35
“I don’t know why it took so long to call,” Sertha said. “Call it failure of nerve. People who are upset can waste so much time.”
“Don’t apologize; it’s natural.” The voice on the other end of the line was deep, succoring, almost the tone of an analyst. It was comforting to her, and knowledgeable, and so much more grown-up than Gabriel Stannard’s.
The voice was all the encouragement she needed to pry herself loose. It was for her own good. If she felt no more than a tug at the thought of leaving, then she knew a tug was not strong enough to hold her. She saw her reflection in the glass-topped table that held the base unit for the telephone. She looked regal. Every hair was in place. The illusion was perfect.
“There were reporters swarming all over the house,” she said. “We needed a private army to fight our way to the front gates. The hospital is even worse. I have no idea what they want.”
“I saw the news, read the papers. They’re like all carrion eaters.”
“I’ve been alone here, and have had a lot of time to think. I thought about what Gabriel needs, and what I need. We never really connected, I think. I know that sounds like a cruel thing to say when I’ve spent so long with him, but it is true more and more. We never intertwined. Sometimes we ran parallel to each other; it looked like we were in sync. But I see him now in the hospital, and he looks at me as though I’ve come to sell him a magazine subscription. He’s angry and frightened, and treats me dismissively. There is nothing I can do to help him except to be there for him… and he does not want me there. I do not think it is a front, false bravery. He truly does not want me there.”
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