“What was that?” a nearby voice cried out in shock. “What did you do?”
Marie Fuentes was at the foot of the pier, on her knees, hands over her mouth, staring in horror. She’d seen the whole thing, and had probably gotten knocked back by some of Joann’s power. The whole warehouse area up to the park was dark now, and the water of the river was black, opaque. Nothing reflected off it. The waterfront felt like a cave.
“What are you?” Fuentes demanded again, shrieking.
A killer, Joann thought. She met Fuentes’s gaze and said evenly, “I stopped him. That’s my power. That’s what I do.” She stepped forward, intending to confer without raising her voice. To ask Fuentes what should be done about all this. She didn’t get very far.
“Get away from me. Don’t come near me.” Fuentes stumbled to her feet, backed away. Her gaze locked on Joann, unable to look away from the horror she was. Right up until she turned and ran.
So, on top of everything else, Joann wasn’t going to be able to ask her for a ride out of there.
Joann didn’t have to call the police. As she suspected, Fuentes did it for her, and about twenty minutes after she left, sirens and flashing red and blue lights flooded the street along the pier. Joann was waiting for them, sitting cross-legged, holding her SCARE badge straight up while a dozen flashlights panned over her. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of guns out and pointed at her, which should have made her nervous or angry—or both, reasonably. But all she had to do was push back her hood and she could drop them all.
“Federal agent! Justice Department!” she called tiredly, multiple times, until the cops stopped shouting at her to put her hands up, even though they were already up. Yeah, there was a good chance she might have been shot. But this was wild-card Manhattan and she was wearing a mysterious cape. They finally gave her a break and let her explain.
It looked like the Jokertown precinct had responded to the call. The lead detective, wearing a suit and overcoat, leaning against a squad car and talking into a radio, had a pair of ram’s horns spiraling off the sides of his head. The half-dozen officers who’d responded to the call all seemed nonchalant to her eyes. Like, this was Jokertown, they found bodies all the time. Just a street kid. Joann had to work to keep her mouth shut. Eventually, the horned detective—his name badge said “Storgman”—came over and told her this was clearly a case of self-defense. There’d be some paperwork. Likely an autopsy. “Call Dr. Tachyon before you do that autopsy,” Joann said. “Or whoever’s the pathologist these days over at the Jokertown Clinic. The kid’s a wild-card victim.” Storgman made a quick note. His partner shrugged and turned away, and Joann despaired that any of her requests would be heeded.
She called Fuentes a half a dozen times over the next couple of days. Was shunted to an answering machine every single time.
She wrote her own report, making it as detailed and objective as she could. Described how she came to investigate the case, the involvement of the Park Service, her discovery of Vlad and what he was doing. Trying to justify her own use of force against him, but without conviction. She also suggested that the activities of Charon and his passengers, and their link to Ellis Island, should be investigated. Didn’t have any confidence that they would be. But at least it was on paper now. Anyone who did decide to investigate—or who wondered why Joann hadn’t done more—would have an answer, in black and white, filed in triplicate and made available to the public, per government regulation.
She had become a good bureaucrat, at least.
First thing she saw in the hospital room, even before glancing to the bed to make sure Ray was there and his normal surly self, was the cactus in the terra-cotta pot she’d brought a couple weeks before. The pot had been moved to a windowsill, and the fat spiny plant had shriveled and turned yellow, desiccated to a skeleton of its former self. The flower was a brown, flaking spot at its base. The thing had died, horribly. And she hadn’t done it.
“Ray, what did you do to it!”
He looked to where she stared with such horror. “What? Oh. That. I’m not sure. It just … it just did that.…” His jaw looked almost back to normal, or at least as normal as it was ever going to be, though a puckered welt across his cheek was still healing. Made him look like he was wearing half a mask. His speech sounded clear.
“It’s a cactus! How did you murder a cactus?”
“I don’t know, okay! I gave it plenty of water—”
Joann managed not to put her hand on her forehead and groan. She invited herself to sit in the chair by the bed. “And how are you feeling today, Agent Ray?”
He was sitting up, dressed in cotton pj’s, one leg hanging over the edge, foot tapping the air. “Ready to go back to work. Tell Cyclone you saw me, and that I’m ready to work.”
Joann crossed her arms and glared. “How far are you running?”
“I’m … I’m running.”
“Treadmill? You been outside yet?”
“My abs still aren’t quite where they need to be—”
“Billy…”
“What are you, my mom?”
She glared, and he scowled, which twisted the scars in a new pattern and made him look particularly mean. But he had a dejected look in his eyes that made staying mad at him impossible.
“One of these days you’re going to face something you can’t bounce back from. Just … take it easy, okay?”
“I am. I will.” He sat back, studied her. Actually looked at her, which made her squirm a little.
“What’s happened with that thing in New York?” he asked, which surprised her even more. Her hood was up, her face mostly hidden, like always. Something in the slope of her shoulders must have indicated her mood. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that case.
“I killed someone. Just a kid, really. He needed help, and I tried, but…” She shrugged. Crossed her arms. Didn’t want to talk about it, but also kind of did.
So she told him the whole story, right up to where she decided to use her power. She realized that she’d known she was probably going to kill him. She did it anyway. And if she had to do it over, she wouldn’t change anything. But she still mourned.
She sighed. “He was hurting someone. I’m not sure he even meant to. But … I had to stop him.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I couldn’t think of another way.”
“You did what you had to,” he said, with a confidence she didn’t share.
“I just wish … hard to feel like an ace when I can’t control my power. When it just happens.”
“I’ve noticed a thing,” he said. “We don’t call ourselves aces, jokers, whatever. It’s other people who call us that. They decide, not us. That kid—was he a joker or an ace? I mean, a power like that—he could have made a hell of an assassin—”
“Billy—”
“You know what I mean. Eh, in the end, it doesn’t matter. Just what we do with it.”
That sounded almost wise.
“What about that other guy?” he asked. “The guy you did save?”
“Charon?” She had saved him, she supposed. The guy almost even thanked her for it. In her experience, when underworld types told you to stay the hell out, it meant they sort of liked you.
“Yeah. What’s his story?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a ferryman. He’s got some kind of connection to Ellis Island.”
“And what’s going on with that?”
“I don’t know. But … I can’t get past the feeling that this is all going to blow up into some giant, bloody mess.”
“Well. Just as long as it waits a few more weeks till I’m back on my feet. I’ll fix that problem.”
He grinned his crooked grin, and she wasn’t comforted.
“Nobody’s Fool”
by Walton Simons
THE EARLY-DAWN LIGHT FILTERED through the mist over the water. Jerry sat at the powerboat’s wheel, trying to figure out how to start it. The gun he’d gotten from the Imma
culate Egret was in his pocket. He’d done his best to clean it. It wouldn’t do to have it explode in his hand.
David was on Ellis Island, the Rox. Jerry was willing to stake his life on that. He’d head out to the island and gun David down, die a hero’s death. There was a note in his apartment explaining everything. He hoped that Beth was the one to find it.
Jerry started the engine. Fumes boiled up from the boat’s stern. Jerry cast off the lines and carefully backed out of the slip. He’d rented the boat. No point in buying one, since it was going to be a one-way trip. Once he was clear of the dock, Jerry stopped backing the engines and started moving forward. He spun the wheel and pushed the throttle. The eighteen-foot boat bounced out through the waves toward Ellis Island. Cold spray stung his face. Jerry wished he’d taken some Dramamine. His stomach was in less than great shape. But it usually acted up when he was scared. Still, facing David had to be easier than facing Beth. At least with David he had a chance of winning.
A tug passed by in front of him. Jerry took its wake at high speed and bounced out of his seat. He hit his mouth on the dash and split his lip.
“Shit,” he said. “Can’t I get anything to go right?” He pointed the nose of the craft toward Ellis Island and pushed the throttle all the way forward.
About a half mile away, his stomach knotted up and he felt his breakfast at the back of his throat. Jerry bent over and put one hand to his mouth. His brain flashed sparks. The sky above seemed to change color, from blue to green to purple. Jerry felt like iron hammers were pounding his flesh. He felt a cold spasm in his gut and fell over, the wheel spinning out of his grasp. White noise hissed in his ears. He stretched his arm out toward the throttle and pulled it back, then blacked out.
There was a harbor patrol boat next to his when he came to. A man in a yellow poncho was chafing his wrists. Jerry sat up slowly, his ears ringing.
“You all right?” the man in the poncho asked.
“I’ve been better, but I’ll live.” Jerry slowly sat up and looked over his shoulder. He’d drifted away from Ellis Island.
“You were headed to Ellis? That place is a rat’s nest now.” The man shook his head. “Are you crazy?”
“No. Just enthusiastic.” If the man caught his reference to King Kong, he didn’t comment on it.
“Want a tow back in?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Jerry said. “If you don’t mind.”
This had obviously been a bad idea, but hindsight was always twenty/twenty.
Jerry’s instincts told him to stake out Latham’s penthouse. There was no particular logic to it, but a good detective always trusted his guts. At least, that was what he’d read and seen in the movies. For once, he’d been right.
A car pulled up right before midnight and a young man got out. Jerry recognized him in an instant. David had an arrogance to his walk that didn’t change even when he was being hunted. Latham met him at the door. They hugged, and then St. John talked while David listened and nodded. The conversation was brief. Jerry couldn’t be sure, but he thought they actually kissed lightly before David trotted back down the steps to the car.
Jerry tailed David to Central Park. He knew it was dangerous to walk in the park at night. Even back before he’d turned into a giant ape, that was a bad idea. David was about twenty yards ahead of him and walking fast.
On the other side of a wooded hill was the Central Park Zoo, where he’d been the feature attraction for over twenty years. Maybe as a giant ape he’d have been able to take David with no trouble. As it was, he’d have to rely on his ability with his stolen gun and a little luck.
A cool wind stirred the hair on the back of his neck, tickling it. He’d made himself look tough by giving his facial disguise a few scars. Jerry knew he could die doing this, but at this point there just wasn’t anything else in his life. If he could cash it in trying to make a positive difference in the world, maybe people wouldn’t remember him too badly. Beth, especially.
David stepped off the path and up into the trees. Jerry walked forward slowly, staring at the shadows for some hint of movement. When he reached the point where David had disappeared, Jerry paused, then moved quietly into the trees. He headed off the path at a right angle, putting his feet down carefully to avoid making much noise. An empty beer can glinted in the moonlight not far ahead. Jerry took a few more steps and found himself at the edge of a tiny clearing. He reached inside his coat to make sure the gun was still there. An arm caught him from behind and pushed hard against his windpipe, and he felt a forearm against the back of his neck, Jerry felt a hand yank the gun from his shoulder holster. He sucked hard at the air, but hardly any made it to his lungs.
“What have we here?” David asked, stepping into view. Jerry recognized him by his voice. There wasn’t much light to see by, and his vision was blurring.
Jerry tried to gasp out an answer, but could only manage a choked hiss.
“Let’s sink him in the pond,” a young female voice said.
“That may not be necessary, Molly,” David said. He leaned in close to Jerry. “We’re going to let you go for a second and you’re going to tell me why you were following me.” David held up the gun. “With this, no less.”
The arms came loose from either side of Jerry’s neck and he fell to his knees, gasping. A simple lie would probably be best. Not that it would matter. “I … just wanted your … money.”
Several of the kids laughed. David shook his head. “You were going to rob me? What a piece of shit you are. You have no idea who you’re dealing with, little man.” David’s voice was cold, yet he looked strangely beautiful in the pale light. Jerry figured it was the last face he’d ever see.
“Do him,” said a husky female voice from behind. “I’ll snap his neck if you don’t want it to look suspicious.”
A long, quiet moment passed. “I think not,” David said. “He truly is beneath us, and I can’t see much entertainment value.” David grabbed Jerry’s face. “Look at me, thief. Remember my face. I’m going to be famous soon. People everywhere are going to be afraid of me. It’s only your insignificance which saved you. Find a hole and pull if in after you. If any of us ever sees you again, you’re dead. Understand?”
Jerry nodded. He felt sick. Maybe they were just setting him up and were going to kill him anyway.
David popped the clip from Jerry’s gun and tossed it into the trees, then smashed the handle of the gun into Jerry’s head. Jerry collapsed to the ground, his forehead banging with pain.
“Here’s your gun back, thief,” David said.
Jerry felt it land on his back. He heard David and the others make their way off through the brush. He lay there panting for a moment, then wobbled into a sitting position and pulled a leaf from his mouth. He’d almost died. Could have. Maybe should have. All of a sudden the hero’s death had lost its appeal. He picked up and holstered the gun. He staggered in the opposite direction David and his friends had taken. If his life were a movie, it would need a serious rewrite.
Sixteen Candles
by Stephen Leigh
THREE BLOCKS AWAY FROM the Dime Museum, the clock tower of the Church of Christ the Joker tolled midnight.
“Happy birthday to us, happy birthday to us. Happy birthday, dear Oddity, happy birthday to us.”
The voice was off-key and cracked. “Look at the present I brought us,” it said.
A fencing mask lent a shimmering distance to the heavy .38 cupped in Oddity’s hand. Flecks of reflected light from the Jetboy diorama ran along the barrel and glimmered wildly from the mask’s steel mesh. The interference shattered the harsh brilliance like a cheap spectroscope into pale, weak colors.
Evan could look at the gun and pretend the weapon was just a fantasy, something seen on television. He could almost imagine someone else was lifting it.
[Sixteen years. Sixteen years of pain in this monstrosity of a body,] Evan said in his interior voice.
[Evan, please don’t do this.] Patty’s voice. She was Sub-Do
minant at the moment, Oddity’s eternal pain dampened slightly for her. [I’m asking you to please just let it go. I’ll take Oddity for you until John’s ready. You can be Passive and rest.]
Evan ignored her. Far below, she could hear John—the third of the trio of personalities who were Oddity. John was Passive at the moment, down in the depths of the strangely-woven mind where Oddity’s agony was a faint tidal wash. The passive personality could hear but couldn’t intrude. Passive could open the torrent of his thoughts to the others or shield them; the others could listen or not as they wished. The fact that John made no effort to conceal his feelings now spoke more than the thoughts themselves.
[… goddamn asshole can’t stand the pain like me no courage at all fucking artistic sensibilities Patty may like it but I’m damned tired of the complaining it hurts all of us not just him can’t he see the power we wield…]
[No, John,] Evan sent down to him. [I don’t see power, and I don’t care. I want to be alone. Alone. I love you both, but being locked in here—]
Evan stopped. Oddity was sobbing with the emotional undercurrents. Evan raised Oddity’s left hand. It was mostly John’s, though past the lumpy interface the little finger looked to be Patty’s and the thumb had Evan’s coffee-and-cream coloring. The hand resisted him—Patty, trying to shove him from Dominant and take the body. Evan concentrated his will. The hand came up and slipped back the heavy cowl of Oddity’s hood. As Oddity moaned, the fingers curled painfully with tendons crossed and overstretched, and lifted off the fencing mask.
The feathery touch of air-conditioning on Oddity’s cheeks hurt, like everything else. The chill felt like ice water on a broken tooth. Without the mask, the gun in Oddity’s other hand was very present, sinister and compelling all at once. It smelled of oil and cordite and violence.
Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks Page 29
