by Peter David
“I’ve no reason to,” Miss Basil said. “I’m in servitude to him; it doesn’t mean I have to like him, or extend succor to him. His disappearance leaves my situation in limbo. I can’t act against Arthur, because that would be against Merlin’s wishes; but I don’t have to act on Arthur’s behalf either. And if Arthur were to fall, then I would be bound to nothing or no one. Nor can I take direct action against you because . . . because ...”
Gwen waited for a reason why. Basil looked thoughtful.
“Actually, I suppose I could,” she said after a time.
Gwen’s blood froze, and she suddenly had a realization that death was standing three feet away and could cover that distance in no time. She also knew that to run would be to bring it down upon her. So she stood her ground, which wasn’t that difficult, considering she suddenly felt numb from the waist down.
Miss Basil gave her a long, appraising look and then lowered her gaze. “Too easy. It would be like clubbing a baby seal. Besides ...” And now she actually smiled. “You have strength in you yet. I am . . . surprised. And it takes a good deal to surprise something that has seen as much as I. Perhaps you’ll provide more surprises and amusements yet.”
And she told her an address.
Gwen frowned. “I know that street . . . that block. I’ve walked past it a hundred times. There’s no bookshop there. Is this some kind of trick?”
“Why should I trick that which I could simply destroy?”
“For amusement,” Gwen said dryly.
Miss Basil inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Touché,” she admitted. “Tell me, have you ever been looking for it?”
“No. How could I look for something that isn’t there?”
“All you have to do is not look where it isn’t.”
Gwen blinked in confusion, then nodded and said, “I’m not sure whether to thank you or not.”
“Depends whether you live or not, I suppose.”
Knowing that there was no point in staying, Gwen rose and headed for the door. She heard no sound behind her, no scuffling of feet, and yet somehow she knew that when she glanced behind her—which she did—Miss Basil wouldn’t be there—which she wasn’t.
RENT TAYLOR WAS dying. At least, that’s how the Democratic nominee felt every time he looked at the polls.
Even as he had spent the past week running from one function to the next, pushing his charm and personality to the breaking point and beyond, he could feel the election slipping away from him. He was finding it impossible to keep up a positive front and, considering that as an actor keeping up fronts was his greatest gift, such a realization could not have been more distressing to him. He was feeling so emotionally depleted, in fact, that he had departed the Senior Citizens Action Team (SCAT) meeting early, pleading illness. In a way, that was true. He was becoming sick of politics and, even more, sick of himself.
He drove along the lower east side, heading toward the Fifty-ninth Street bridge and an Astoria fund-raiser, glad that he had brought his own trusty Jag. He knew that someone of his status should be riding around in limos, but Kent had always been a hands-on kind of guy. He liked to drive himself, he liked to be in command of his destiny. If anything, that was the most frustrating aspect of politics: His destiny was in the hands of the sort of people who were so stupid that they still addressed him more often by the name of his character—“Henry Lee”— than they did by his own name.
And this Arthur guy! He was climbing in the polls, strong but sure, despite the totally insane performance he’d given at the debate! No . . . because of it! The capricious nature of the support people gave, the way that they were embracing him, galled Taylor no end. He had originally thought this campaign was going to be a lock. What, after all, could possibly top the exposure he’d had playing an intelligent, insightful, and popular mayor on television?
Well, he’d had that answered, hadn’t he? Despite it all, what people loved the most was “reality.” “Real life” television, not the types of dramas in which he starred. The turning point for Penn had come when that building caught fire. Penn had been lucky enough to be there and be the hero, and all of a sudden he was practically a lock. Everything else was gravy for him.
“I could have been the hero,” muttered Taylor. “I played one on TV enough times.” Indeed, just think if it had been me, he thought, I could be the one in an unassailable position now. I could be the—
By this point he had eased the Jag onto the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. He thought about the legend that claimed Simon and Garfunkel had come up with “Feeling Groovy” while stuck in traffic on this particular span. Even though there was virtually no traffic around now, he started whistling it. But then the whistle died on his lips. He’d been driving with the top down, despite the chill of the evening air. It gave him more of a view, which was probably why he saw what he did. He pedaled the brake while staring incredulously.
There was a woman on the pedestrian walkway of the bridge. She was standing next to one of the metal tower supports, was using the crisscross of beams to climb up onto the railing. Her intention could not have been clearer. She was wearing a simple white shift, and she had long black hair that was whipping around in the chill evening breeze.
Despite the fact that he was in the middle of the bridge, Taylor eased his car over as if he had every right to park there. He put on his emergency blinkers and then clambered out the top of the car. Excitement pounded through him. The thought of leaving his Jag in this precarious situation, when he customarily only parked it in certain garages attended twenty-four hours a day by armed guards, was anathema to him. But the prospect of losing the mayoral race was even more repellent, whereas the thought of what would happen if he could slam dunk this rescue was just too tempting.
Trying to look nonchalant, he made his way over to the walkway, mentally pleading the whole time, “Let her be there when I get there, let her be there when I get there.”
She was. Whatever God or gods were listening to his desperate prayers, it was obvious they were opting to cut him a break. Because by the time he was in shouting distance, not only had she not already jumped, but she had instead started climbing. Slowly, steadily, she was climbing the tower. She didn’t look back at him. Instead her full concentration was on her task. Obviously she wanted even more elevation for her jump.
It was at that point that the enormity of what he was trying to do settled on Kent. This wasn’t scripted; he had no idea what was going to happen here. This was someone’s life he was rolling dice with. He noticed that she was holding a bottle in her hand. Great, he thought. On top of everything, she’d probably been drinking. He had to proceed with the utmost caution, because the major downside of the situation suddenly presented itself to him: “MAYORAL CANDIDATE CAUSES WOMAN TO JUMP.” What a headline that would make.
Very cautiously, carefully, he cleared his throat to gain her attention. She didn’t look at him. He did so again, a little louder this time. Still nothing. A third time, louder than before.
“If you’re trying not to choke to death,” her voice floated to him, “please continue. If you’re trying to get me to notice you, you can stop. I’ve noticed you.”
He leaned back and looked up at her, trying to remember that one-shot role as a police negotiator he’d played nine years ago. There were things you were supposed to do to try and gain a jumper’s confidence, certain techniques in dealing with potential suicides. He knew it. But all he could think of was Mel Gibson handcuffing himself to the jumper and then vaulting off the building in the first Lethal Weapon movie. It was so unfair. He’d been up for the role of Riggs, and goddamned Gibson had gotten it. Kent knew he could’ve done that role with one hand tied behind his—
He was getting off track.
“Hi. What’s your name?” he said warily.
“You want to talk to me? Come up here.”
She had to be about fifteen, maybe twenty feet above him ... to say nothing of the perilous plunge to the river
below. The height didn’t particularly bother Taylor, nor the challenge of the climb. He was an experienced rock climber and had handled climbs of far greater difficulty and danger than this. Still, he hesitated.
“Fine. Forget it. I’ll just be going now,” she said, her voice deep and throaty and full of tragedy, and she made as if to release her grip.
“No! Wait!” he called out, seeing not only the hope of rescue, but the chance of resuscitating his campaign, on the verge of falling away. “I’m coming!”
He stepped up onto the rail, expertly snagged one of the diagonal crossbeams of the tower, and started up. He tried to make it look effortless, and within minutes had climbed to eye level with her. The wind whipped at him, but he held himself closer to the tower. “So . . . what’s your name?” he asked again.
“What’s yours?” she replied.
“Kent. Kent Taylor.” He paused, waiting for some moment of recognition. “City Hall? Played the mayor for five years?”
“I don’t watch TV.”
“Oh. Well ... as it so happens . . . I’m running for mayor of New York now.”
“I see. And is that why you’re here?” she said. “Hoping to get my vote? Sorry, I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“No, no, I just ... I saw your situation up here and I felt, well ...”
“That you wanted to stop me from doing something stupid?”
He smiled. “Something like that.”
She didn’t reply immediately. He tried to remember whether that was a good sign or not. He knew it was important to keep someone like this talking . . . although maybe that was the rule for concussion victims. Every medical show he’d ever guested in was tumbling together in his head into one unrecognizable lump.
“You have a nice voice,” she said abruptly.
“Thank you. So do you. Have you ...” He hesitated, then said, “have you been drinking?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then you know, it’s just a little possible that maybe you’re not thinking clearly. Which is why you’re considering doing . . . you know . . . what you’re thinking.”
“You mean jumping?”
“Yes.”
“Could you get closer. Your face is in shadow. I want to see if it’s as nice as your voice.”
He angled himself around so that he was within a couple of feet of her. He couldn’t see her face terribly clearly, as the moon had gone behind a cloud, but she certainly seemed attractive enough. “Yes,” she said, looking rather satisfied. “Yes, you do have a certain sort of rugged handsomeness about you.”
“Thanks. Now ... I did what you asked. How about,” he took a deep breath, “how about you do what I ask, and come back down with me. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Fair?” she echoed. “Are you going to stand there and tell me life’s fair? Life isn’t fair, Kent.”
“True. But you know, believe it or not, it beats the alternative. It really does. You know what they say about suicide? It’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
“My problems aren’t temporary, Kent. Do you want to know what my problems are?”
“Sure.” Keep her talking, keep her talking.
“Here.” With no warning, she tossed the bottle to him. He caught it reflexively and looked at her in confusion. “Take a swig,” she said.
“I . . . really don’t think I sh—”
She swung one arm free, closed her eyes and started to bend forward, like a bird about to lunge from its nest.
“Okay, fine.” He knocked back a deep swallow. It wasn’t bad, actually. A red wine, but it was pleasantly hot going down, and he felt a soft buzz in the back of his head. The last thing he needed to do now was get woozy. “S’ good, actually.”
“My problems,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken, “are . . . well, they’re unique, Kent. You know what they involve?”
“Sex? Just a guess.”
She blinked as she seemed to focus more on him. “That’s right. That’s very good. Sex. The deed. The act. The formation of the beast with two backs. That is where my problem rests, Kent.”
“Lots of people have problems in that realm.”
“Have you?”
He thought about the threesomes in college, and the prostitutes since then—all reliably discreet, of course. “No. But, well . . . I’m a TV star.”
“Of course, of course,” she said with a touch of mirth. “Know what happened to me, Kent?”
“Can’t say that I do. But I’m sure it . . .”
She let out an unsteady breath. “I was sexually abused as a young girl.”
“Ouch,” he said.
“By my brother.”
“Double ouch.”
“He had his way with me,” she continued, “and I, young and impressionable ... he took advantage of me, is what he did. And then he went on to all manner of success and power, leaving me behind, the uncaring bastard. He treated me like detritus, while everyone else treated him like a king. Well, you know what? He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”
“He absolutely shouldn’t,” agreed Kent.
He heard voices from the roadway and looked down. People had finally noticed them, were starting to gather and point. Cars had stopped, traffic backing up down the length of the bridge. People were getting out of their vehicles, running toward the pedestrian walkway. He heard his name mentioned as someone recognized him. Even better. With any luck someone would alert the media and they’d be able to witness his rescuing this poor, abused woman.
“So you know what I’m going to do?” asked the woman.
“You’re going to jump, in hopes that he’ll be sorry he drove you to it,” he said. “But that would be a huge mistake.”
She paused and then said, in a voice filled with quiet glee, “I have ... an even better plan.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’m going to let him think that he’s on the verge of some great triumph . . . remove obstacles that might stand in his way . . . and then, at the eleventh hour, then and only then will his triumph be snatched away.”
“That,” he said approvingly, “sounds like an excellent plan. There’s just one problem. You can’t carry it off if you’re dead.”
“You know,” she said as if this hadn’t occurred to her, “you’re right.”
Like a bat, she swung herself over toward him while still maintaining her grip, and then she snagged his hand. “Do you know,” she said, “they say that small children and people who have been drinking have the best chance of surviving falls, because they’re so relaxed. I think we should find out, don’t you?”
“Uh, no. No, I don’t think we should do anything but get down from here.”
“All right,” she said agreeably, and with a sudden movement, yanked him away from the tower. Before Kent even knew what was happening, he was treading thin air. He tried to twist, lunge, get back to the tower, but there was no hope at all. From below there were screams in the crowd, which quickly blended with his own screams as he plummeted toward the river. The last thing that went through his mind, for no reason that he could possibly discern, was a sudden craving for an ice cream sandwich, and then he envisioned some sort of segment on a cable TV show where he’d seen cliff-divers easily survive falls from much higher than this, and then remembered something else about how if you didn’t hold your body just right, then hitting a body of water from a height wasn’t much different from hitting concrete. Then there was a hideous, broken-sack-of-bones sound as his body struck the water, and blackness enveloped him.
MORGAN LE FEY watched with grim satisfaction as people drew in close, everyone talking at once. In the distance she heard ambulances. No one was looking up at her and pointing, because no one had seen her in the first place. All they’d seen was a mayoral candidate, with election day almost upon him, getting drunk and throwing himself off a bridge in some sort of suicidal despair. As for the specially treated wine, even one sip was enough to send his blood-alcohol leve
l through the roof . . . provided there was enough of him left to test. She took pride in the old adage that, if you want something done right, it’s always best to do it yourself.
IT WAS SEVERAL minutes before midnight.
Arthur sat in his dressing gown, staring at the moon out the window of his modest apartment. The moon had moved from behind the clouds and seemed quite . . . quite what? Thoughtful. Yes, that was it, if such a thing was possible. The moon looked thoughtful, pensive. Just as it reflected sunlight, it also seemed to reflect Arthur’s mood.
Arthur chose a star and wished fervently on it, so fervently that he stood there for a full minute with his eyes tightly shut. When he opened them he half hoped that his wish would be granted. But Merlin had not materialized in his living room. He paced like a caged panther. It was an incredible feeling of helplessness, not even knowing where to start looking for the kidnapped seer. Was he in New York? New Jersey? The East Coast, the West Coast? Was he even in the United States? Arthur moaned and rubbed his temples. Merely contemplating the possibilities made his head hurt.
He turned and looked at the telephone. It sat there, inviting, so tempting. To talk to her for just a moment. That would be all he needed to patch together the relationship that had once meant so much to him. But obviously it hadn’t meant anything to her, or she would not have made a mockery of it. But still . . .
He stood over the phone, a man decisive in all matters except those of the heart—a failing many men share. He resolved that, if she called him, he would talk to her. Yes, that was it. If she came to him, he would try to find it in his heart to forgive her.
“Ring,” he commanded the phone.
It rang.
He took a step back, stunned, and even a little impressed with himself. Tentatively he answered it and said, “Yes?”
“Arthur, it’s Ronnie here.”
“Yes, of course, Ron,” Arthur sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Late, isn’t it?”
“Never too late for news like this. You sitting down?”
“No. Need I be?”
“For this news, you may want to,” and then he continued without waiting for Arthur to seek out a chair, “Kent Taylor got hammered this evening and threw himself off the Fifty-ninth Street bridge.”
