Her lipstick was the most whorish red she could find, and she bent and kissed her own mouth in the mirror.
Her mouth. Not the pouty mouth of Artemisia Bliss.
Before she left the suite, she picked up her cell, typed a single digit in a text message, and sent it off. She smiled, thinking about how much fun Ludo Monk was going to have.
As she reached for the door handle the voice was there again.
Please! it screamed.
“Go away, you stupid bitch.”
She tried to reach for the door handle but her hand wouldn’t move.
No. I won’t let you.
The darkness started closing in around Mother Night. Like before, only she saw it coming this time.
I won’t let you.
Mother Night screamed.
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Georgia Airspace
Sunday, September 1, 2:22 p.m.
“It’s called DragonCon,” said Bug. “It’s one of the largest science fiction and gaming conventions in the world. Something like sixty or seventy thousand people.”
“And you think Mother Night is planning a strike there?’
“Yes,” he said quickly, “and for a couple of reasons.”
“Hit me.”
I was dressed in black BDUs that didn’t fit well. Everyone had found clothes except for Bunny, who only had pants. Our jet hurtled through the skies at unsafe speeds, flanked by F-15s, with a path cleared by executive order. The National Guard and every cop with a gun was massing in four separate staging areas, waiting for the word.
“They spread it over five hotels in Atlanta,” Bug continued. “The Hyatt Regency, the Marriott Marquis, the Hilton and Towers, the Sheraton, and Peachtree Place. Brings in about forty million in tourist dollars. And it raises tens of thousands for charities and—”
“I don’t need the sales pitch,” I barked.
“No, you need to hear this. One of the things they do every year is a massive blood drive. Auntie thinks that might be ground zero for Mother Night.”
“You sound skeptical. Why?”
“Well … as devastating as polluting the blood would be, it wouldn’t stand out as the biggest event of the last two days. I think she has something else planned.”
“They have a mass gathering of zombies to do the dance from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” They had more than fifteen hundred people there last year. A bunch of celebrities from zombie movies and TV will be there, including the cast from The Walking Dead and George Romero, the guy who did Night of the Living Dead.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Beside me, Top shook his head like a sorrowful hound dog.
“No,” insisted Bug. “It’s part of the event every year.”
“That’s where you think Mother Night will hit?”
“I do. At least … I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only way she can absolutely win.”
He told me why.
He talked about Bliss’s need to win. About her suicidal tendencies, fueled by boredom and a fear of not being acknowledged as the best. About her growing dissatisfaction because she could not publish anything about the ultrasecret work she was doing, even though that work—inarguably—had helped guys like me save the world. About a child who was so freakishly smart that she could not help but grow into an oddity. Sure, some people—a rare few—manage their genius. But many do not. That old saw about there being a fine line between genius and madness wasn’t bullshit. Bug cited the documentation and case studies.
As he told me this I knew that Church was listening, and I wondered how this was hitting him. The entire success of the DMS was built on having the very best. The smartest, the most insightful, the fastest thinkers, the innovators. Was he wondering if his own desire to have an irrefutable A team of the best and brightest was somehow flawed? That it was appropriate to the job we had to do but maybe inefficient when it came to saving the people who did that job. I knew for sure that I had lost psychological ground since going to work for him. Every time I went to war with the kinds of people we had to fight, and every time I faced the horrors that those people inflicted on the world, I went a little crazier. Even Rudy was showing some cracks around the edges, and he was a rock. Christ, he was my rock. He kept me sane, but every day he had to face secondhand horrors as field guys like me unloaded on him in therapy sessions.
Was Church examining his own conscience, wondering if this was somehow his fault?
Was Hu? After all, he’d hired her.
Was Aunt Sallie, who’d taken Bliss on despite personal misgivings?
Was I complicit? I’d let her use me as a sounding board for her explorations of the evolution of evil within a person’s soul.
“Deacon,” I said, “we have to shut it down. The convention … we have to shut it down.”
Church’s voice was heavy and slow. “Cowboy, there are sixty thousand people there. Most of them are tourists staying at those hotels or surrounding hotels. I’ve been on the phone with the governor of Georgia and the mayor of Atlanta, as well as advisors from Homeland and the National Guard. They believe that any attempt to shut the conference down will likely result in a panic that would send all of those people into the streets. If Mother Night releases a pathogen during that panic, then we will lose all possible control. There would be absolutely no way to contain the outbreak.”
“We have to do something.”
“We are. National guard and police are moving into position now. Truckloads of barricade materials are being brought in and we are going to try to create a quarantine zone around those five hotels. We have people coordinating the logistics. However, I spoke with the president five minutes ago and he has authorized a fleet of helicopters for air support and we’re scrambling bombers from Robins Air Force Base.
“To do what?”
“To sterilize the area.” It sounded like those four words were pulled out of Church’s mouth with pliers.
Sterilize.
“How?” I asked, though I already knew. It was simply that my mind rebelled at conjuring the word.
“Fuel-air bombs. In the event that we are certain the seif-al-din has been released at the conference, we will burn everything within a six-square-block radius. And if it comes to that, Captain … God help us all.”
“Then we have to damn well make sure it doesn’t happen,” I snarled. “We need spotters in the crowd. We know what Bliss looks like, in or out of her Mother Night getup.
“Cowboy,” said Bug, “you don’t understand. You don’t go to events like this. These are fan conventions. At least one out of every three people is in costume.”
My heart, which had been teetering on the edge of a long drop, toppled over into darkness.
The jet flew on.
But toward what?
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Grand Hyatt Hotel
109 East Forty-second Street
New York City
Sunday, September 1, 3:46 p.m.
Junie Flynn sat on the bed, legs crossed, shoulders against the headboard, eyes closed. Meditation was the only thing that kept her from climbing the walls. And even then, inside the calm space she had created while the minutes and hours passed, tension nipped at her with rat teeth.
No calls.
No word.
Nothing.
Not from Joe or anyone at the DMS. The only call she’d received had been a short, awkward one from Violin asking if they could talk sometime, maybe. Junie agreed, of course, but before she could ask what Violin wanted to talk about, the strange and moody woman had hung up.
Apart from that, Junie’s cell remained as silent as if it were broken.
She knew that this was how it had to be. Secrecy was paramount for the DMS. If anyone ever suspected that she knew something about one of Joe’s missions, then she would become a liability. She could be used as a lever against Joe. It broke her heart to know that she was the
one chink in his armor.
Love was such a wicked thing at times. How like a blade. Used one way, it could carve and sculpt and prune, it could remove a tumor or harvest a flower. Used another way, it stole life and scarred beauty and destroyed hope.
Love was like that.
In Junie’s view it was the most powerful force in the universe, the core of creative energy, the shaper of all things, giver of life and author of possibilities. However, it could be turned to wicked purpose.
Mr. Church knew that, she was certain. The two men stationed outside her door were not there to protect her. Not really. They were there to protect Joe.
To protect the mission.
She understood that, appreciated it, and hated it, too.
The minutes grew like weeds to become hours, and Junie fought her panic. Moment by moment, the calm space around her withered and contracted.
When someone knocked on the door she jumped and cried out in a voice like a startled bird.
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Peachtree Center Avenue
Atlanta, Georgia
Sunday, September 1, 3:47 p.m.
“Now that’s really in poor damn taste,” growled Police Officer Michael Feingold.
His partner, Officer Carol Daniels, was standing a few feet away, arms wide to keep the crowd from crossing while traffic crawled past. He followed Feingold’s line of vision and didn’t have to ask what he was referring to.
Mother Night was crossing the street.
It was a young woman dressed exactly as the one from the video. Betty Page wig, sunglasses, painted lips, and an outrageous costume that pushed the envelope of modesty. Here at DragonCon they saw a lot of people push that same envelope, and occasionally tear it open. Earlier that day they’d busted two men dressed only in blue body paint and carrying plastic spears. They claimed to be ancient Celtic warriors. Even tried to argue that a layer of paint constituted clothing. It didn’t. Daniels and Feingold made them sit in their cruiser for a couple of hours and then gave them a citation and fine.
The girl in the Mother Night costume was wearing a high-cut midriff top that exposed the bottoms of her breasts.
“She shows even half a nipple and I’m busting her for public indecency,” said Feingold.
Daniels grunted. “That costume’s what’s indecent.”
The crowd parted to let the woman pass, and there were equal amounts of boos and cheers.
The woman held a sequin-encrusted leash that connected to studded leather collars on two men who stumbled along behind, hands bound behind their backs, pillowcases over their heads. The men were covered in realistic-looking wounds. Both of them wore blood-soaked white dress shirts, the flaps hanging. On the back of one, the words GOVERNMENT LACKEY were written in red lipstick. The other had GOVERNMENT STOOGE. Two other men followed behind, dressed in hoodies and gorilla masks.
The light changed and Daniels dropped her arms to let the crowd cross the street, rivers of people going from the Hyatt to the Marriott or the other way. It amazed both officers that these people still wanted to dress up in costumes, go to panels, cruise the dealers’ rooms, stand in line for celebrities, when half the damn country was in flames. At the morning role call, the sergeant said that the mayor was considering shutting down the convention but no one had a workable plan for what to do with sixty thousand tourists. The fear was that to stop the con would be to create doubt about a possible terrorist attack and that would result in immediate panic.
And, of course, chaos.
A plan was being worked out, according to the sergeant, and most likely this evening, as the activities of the day wound down, they would coordinate with event staff, hotel security, and some National Guard to shut it down and more or less tell everyone to stay in their rooms.
The plan, Feingold and Daniels agreed, was horseshit. No way it would work. There would either be a panic or a riot.
Having a fruitcake dressed as Mother Night was not likely to help matters. It was socially irresponsible as well as potentially dangerous. Riots have erupted over less.
As the woman crossed the street she passed within a few feet of Feingold and Daniels.
“I have to,” murmured Feingold, and then stepped into her path. The woman stopped.
“Is there a problem?” asked Mother Night. The two men in gorilla masks stopped also, flanked her as if they were bodyguards. The men with the pillowcase hoods milled as if drunk.
“Miss, I feel I need to urge you to reconsider your costume,” said Feingold, trying to sound calm and authoritative. “Some people might take offense.”
The woman tugged her sunglasses halfway down and looked at him with big, innocent brown eyes. “Oh, my. It’s just for fun.”
“People are dying,” said Feingold, his tone shifting into harshness. “Not everyone would think what you’re wearing is fun. Some people might get pretty angry about it.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” said the woman. “They’re going to kill me later on anyway. All part of the fun.”
“What?”
“It’s part of the show. Good guys and bad guys. Big dramatic finish and, oh, poor me, I die. Don’t you know that’s how it goes?”
“That’s not funny.”
The woman pushed her glasses back into place. “Oh, no, you’re wrong there. It’s hilarious.”
With that she moved around Feingold, nodded to Daniels, tugged on the sequined leash, and sauntered off, giving the crowd something to look at with absurdly exaggerated hip swagger. Lots of catcalls, whistles, obscene comments, shouts, and laughter. Her slaves staggered along behind her, their awkward balance occasionally steadied by the big men in masks.
Daniels came and stood next to her partner, who had his fists balled at his sides and whose face was now the color of a boiled lobster.
“She’s asking for trouble,” grumbled Feingold.
“Well, shame on her if she finds it and needs our help,” sniffed Daniels. “I might just not see her. Bitch.”
The crowds surged back and forth and the officers had to shift their focus back to the management of all those people. Feingold, unable to completely let it go, kept throwing looks at the hotel that Mother Night and her entourage had just entered.
Then something else caught his eye and he looked up as a phalanx of helicopters moved slowly from east to west above him, no more than a hundred yards above the hotels. They were military birds. Feingold had done a tour each in Iraq and Germany, and he knew helicopters. Those were AH-64D Apache Longbows and UH-60 Black Hawks. He counted at least a dozen of each, and four AZ-1Z Vipers. They vanished behind the buildings.
“The hell was that all about?” asked Daniels.
“Don’t know. Something with the attacks.”
Suddenly there was a burst of static from their radios and the dispatcher said, “All units, call in for instructions.”
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Grand Hyatt Hotel
109 East Forty-second Street
New York City
Sunday, September 1, 3:48 p.m.
Junie crossed to the door. The lock was in place. She leaned close.
“Yes?”
“Agent Reid, ma’am.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Shift change.”
“Oh, okay.”
She peered through the peephole and saw an agent dressed in a dark jacket, white shirt, and dark tie. He had a long, lugubrious face and the kind of bland, expectant expression people had when waiting for someone to answer the door. He turned and said something to someone else Junie couldn’t see. Probably Reid.
Junie flipped the lock back and opened the door.
“Do you guys need to use the bathroom before you…”
There were three people in the hallway. Agents Reid and Ashe.
And someone else.
Reid and Ashe lay on the floor. Blood pooled under their heads.
The other man stood there, and his bland expression changed into a slow
smile. He raised a pistol and pointed it at Junie.
“People like you make this too easy.”
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Marriott Marquis Hotel
265 Peachtree Center Avenue
Atlanta, Georgia
Sunday, September 1, 3:50 p.m.
She walked through madness leading her slaves on a leash.
Her costume was perfect, and she knew it, showing enough skin to attract the eye, and because she was dressed as the infamous Mother Night from yesterday’s video, every eye that fell on her lingered.
In any other place, she and her hooded slaves would create a screaming panic or have witnesses calling the police. But this was DragonCon, and there were hordes of bloodthirsty vampires, storm troopers from the 501st Vader’s Fist, Cenobites from the hell dimension, and far worse. By comparison, the gruesome and humiliating nature of her costume was understated.
Everywhere Mother Night looked she saw a deliberate insanity, a willful detachment from the ordinary. The atrium of the Marriott Marquis was vast, soaring four hundred and seventy feet above the lobby, and seeming to ripple and flow. Mother Night always thought it looked like the inside of the spacecraft from Alien. The one designed by H. R. Giger. Like this was the throat of some titanic dragon rather than the lobby of a hotel. The entire lobby, wall to wall, was crammed with people. But also not people. There were Orcs and Hobbits, Vulcans and Klingons, Vikings and spacemen, dead presidents and celebrity monsters. This late in the day, the panels were shutting down and the parties were kicking into high gear. Every tier of the atrium was abuzz with people going from room to room, in costume and in street clothes, sober and drunk, stoned and abstinent. Laughing. Everyone laughing.
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