by Clive Barker
He didn't step away, nor did he finish. She glimpsed a movement behind him, and he saw her look, turning his head in time to meet a blow. He stumbled but didn't fall, turning his motion to an attack with balletic ease and coming back at the other man with tremendous force.
It wasn't Freddy, she saw. It was Gentle, of all people. The assassin's blow threw him back against the wall, hitting it so hard he brought books tumbling from the shelves, but before the assassin's fingers found his throat he delivered a punch to the man's belly that must have touched some tender place, because the assault ceased, and the attacker let him go, his eyes fixing for the first time on Gentle's face.
The expression of pain in his face became something else entirely: in some part horror, in some part awe, but in the greatest part some sentiment for which she knew no word. Gasping for breath, Gentle registered little or none of this but pushed himself up from the wall to relaunch his attack. The assassin was quick, however. He was at the door and out through it before Gentle could iay hands on him. Gentle took a moment to ask if Judith was all right— which she was—then raced in pursuit.
The snow had come again, its veil dropping between Gentle and Pie. The assassin was fast, despite the hurt done him, but Gentle was determined not to let the bastard slip. He chased He across Park Avenue and west on 80th, his heels sliding on the sleet-slickened ground. Twice his quarry threw him backward glances, and on the second occasion seemed to slow his pace, as if he might stop and attempt a truce, but then thought better of it and put on an extra turn of speed. It carried him over Madison towards Central Park. If he reached its sanctuary, Gentle knew, he'd be gone. Throwing every last ounce of energy into the pursuit, Gentle came within snatching distance. But even as he reached for the man he lost his footing. He fell headlong, his arms flailing, and struck the street hard enough to lose consciousness for a few seconds. When he opened his eyes, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth, he expected to see the assassin disappearing into the shadows of the park, but the bizarre Mr. Pie was standing at the curb, looking back at him. He continued to watch as Gentle got up, his face betraying a mournful empathy with Gentle's bruising. Before the chase could begin again he spoke, his voice as soft and melting as the sleet.
"Don't follow me," he said.
"You leave her... the fuck... alone," Gentle gasped, knowing even as he spoke he had no way of enforcing this edict in his present state.
But the man's reply was affirmation. "I will," he said. "But please, I beg you... forget you ever set eyes on me."
As he spoke he began to take a backward step, and for an instant Gentle's dizzied brain almost thought it possible the man would retreat into nothingness: be proved spirit rather than substance.
"Who are you?" he found himself asking.
"Pie 'oh' pah," the man returned, his voice perfectly matched to the soft expellations of those syllables.
"But who?"
"Nobody and nothing," came the second reply, accompanied by a backward step.
He took another and another, each pace putting further layers of sleet between them. Gentle began to follow, but the fall had left him aching in every joint, and he knew the chase was lost before he'd hobbled three yards. He pushed himself on, however, reaching one side of Fifth Avenue as Pie 'oh' pah made the other. The street between them was empty, but the assassin spoke across it as if across a raging river.
"Go back," he said. "Or if you come, be prepared..,." Absurd as it was, Gentle answered as if there were white waters between them. "Prepared for what?" he shouted.
The man shook his head, and even across the street, with the sleet between them, Gentle could see how much despair and confusion there was on his face. He wasn't certain why the expression made his stomach churn, but chum it did. He started to cross the street, plunging a foot into the imaginary flood. The expression on the assassin's face changed: despair gave way to disbelief, and disbelief to a kind of terror, as though this fording was unthinkable, unbearable. With Gentle halfway across the street the man's courage broke. The shaking of the head became a violent fit of denial, and he let out a strange sob, throwing back his head as he did so. Then he retreated, as he had before, stepping away from the object of his terror—Gentle—as though expecting to forfeit his visibility. If there was such magic in the world—and tonight Gentle could believe it—the assassin was not an adept. But his feet could do what magic could not. As Gentle reached the river's other bank Pie 'oh' pah turned and fled, throwing himself over the wall into the park without seeming to care what lay on the other side: anything to be out of Gentle's sight.
There was no purpose in following any further. The cold was already making Gentle's bruised bones ache fiercely, and in such a condition the two'blocks back to Jude's apartment would be a long and painful trek. By the time he made it the sleet had soaked through every layer of his clothing. With his teeth chattering, his mouth bleeding, and his hair flattened to his skull he could not have looked less appealing as he presented himself at the front door. Jude was waiting in the lobby, with the shame-faced doorman. She came to Gentle's aid as soon as he appeared, the exchange between them short and functional: Was he badly hurt? No. Did the man get away? Yes.
"Come upstairs," she said. "You need some medical attention."
There had been too much drama in Jude and Gentle's reunion already tonight for them to add more to it, so there was no gushing forth of sentiment on either side. Jude attended to Gentle with her usual pragmatism. He declined a shower but bathed his face and wounded extremities, delicately sluicing the grit from the palms of his hands. Then he changed into a selection of dry clothes she'd found in Mar-lin's wardrobe, though Gentle was both taller and leaner than the absent lender. As he did so, Jude asked if he wanted to have a doctor examine him. He thanked her but said no, he'd be fine. And so he was, once dry and clean: aching, but fine.
"Did you call the police?" he asked, as he stood at the kitchen door watching her brew Darjeeling.
"It's not worth it," she said. "They already know about this guy from the last time. Maybe I'll get Marlin to call them later."
"This is his second try?" She nodded. "Well, if it's any comfort, I don't think he'll try again."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because he looked about ready to throw himself under a car."
"I don't think that'd do him much harm," she said, and went on to tell him about the incident in the Village, finishing up with the assassin's miraculous recovery.
"He should be dead," she said. "His face was smashed up... it was a wonder he could even stand. Do you want sugar or milk?"
"Maybe a dash of Scotch. Does Marlin drink?"
"He's not a connoisseur like you."
Gentle laughed. "Is that how you describe me? The alcoholic Gentle?"
"No. To tell the truth, I don't really describe you at all," she said, slightly abashed. "I mean I'm sure I've mentioned you to Marlin in passing, but you're... I don't know... you're a guilty secret."
This echo of Kite Hill brought his hirer to mind. "Have you spoken to Estabrook?" he said.
"Why should I do that?"
"He's been trying to contact you."
"I don't want to talk to him."
She put his tea down on the table in the living room, sought out the Scotch, and set it beside the cup.
"Help yourself," she said.
"You're not having a dram?"
"Tea, but no whisky. My brain's crazed enough as it is." She crossed back to the window, taking her tea. "There's so much I don't understand about all of this," she said. "To start with, why are you here?"
"I hate to sound melodramatic, but I really think you should sit down before we have this discussion."
"Just tell me what's going on," she said, her voice tainted with accusation. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Just a few hours."
"I thought I saw you following me a couple of days ago."
"Not me. I was in London until this morning."
She looked puzzled at this. "So what do you know about this man who's trying to kill me?"
"He said his name was Pie 'oh' pah."
"I don't give a fuck what his name is," she said, her show of detachment finally dropping away. "Who is he? Why does he want to hurt me?"
"Because he was hired."
"He was what?"
"He was hired. By Estabrook."
Tea slopped from her cup as a shudder passed through her. "To kill me?" she said. "He hired someone to kill me? I don't believe you. That's crazy."
"He's obsessed with you, Jude. It's his way of making sure you don't belong to anybody else."
She drew the cup up to her face, both hands clutched around it, the knuckles so white it was a wonder the china didn't crack like an egg. She sipped, her face obscured. Then, the same denial, but more flatly: "I don't believe you."
"He's been trying to speak to you to warn you. He hired this man, then changed his mind."
"How do you know all of-this?" Again, the accusation.
"He sent me to stop it."
"Hired you too?"
It wasn't pleasant to hear it from her lips, but yes, he said, he was just another hireling. It was as though Estabrook had set two dogs on Judith's heels—one bringing death, the other life—and let fate decide which caught up with her first.
"Maybe I will have some booze," she said, and crossed to the table to pick up the bottle.
He stood to pour for her but his motion was enough to stop her in her tracks, and he realized she was afraid of him. He handed her the bottle at arm's length. She didn't.take it.
"I think maybe you should go," she said. "Marlin'll be home soon. I don't want you here...."
He understood her nervousness but felt ill treated by this change of tone. As he'd hobbled back through the sleet a tiny part of him had hoped her gratitude would include an embrace, or at least a few words that would let him know she felt something for him. But he was tarred with Esta-brook's guilt. He wasn't her champion, he was her enemy's agent.
"If that's what you want," he said.
"It's what I want."
"Just one request? If you tell the police about Estabrook, will you keep me out of it?"
"Why? Are you back at the old business with Klein?"
"Let's not get into why. Just pretend you never saw
me.
She shrugged. "I suppose I can do that."
"Thank you," he said. "Where did you put my clothes?"
"They won't be dry. Why don't you just keep the stuff you're wearing?"
"Better not," he said, unable to resist a tiny jab. "You never know what Marlin might think."
She didn't rise to the remark, but let him go and change. The clothes had been left on the heated towel rack in the bathroom, which had taken some of the chill off them, but insinuating himself into their dampness was almost enough to make him retract his jibe and wear the absent lover's clothes. Almost, but not quite. Changed, he returned to the living room to find her standing at the window again, as if watching for the assassin's return.
"What did you say his name was?" she said.
"Something like Pie 'oh' pah."
"What language is that? Arabic?"
"I don't know."
"Well, did you tell him Estabrook had changed his mind? Did you tell him to leave me alone?"
"I didn't get a chance," he said, lamely.
"So he could still come back and try again?"
"Like I said, I don't think he will."
"He's tried twice. Maybe he's out there thinking, Third time lucky. There's something... unnatural about him, Gentle. How the hell could he heal so fast?"
"Maybe he wasn't as badly hurt as he looked." She didn't seem convinced. "A name like that... he shouldn't be difficult to trace."
"I don't know, I think men like him... they're almost invisible."
"Marlin'H know what to do." "Good for Marlin."
She drew a deep breath. "I should thank you, though," she said, her tone as far from gratitude as it was possible to get.
"Don't bother," he replied. "I'm just a hired hand. I was only doing it for the money."
From the shadows of a doorway on 79th Street, Pie 'oh' pah watched John Furie Zacharias emerge from the apartment building, pull the collar of his jacket up around his bare nape, and scan the street north and south, looking for a cab. It was many years since the assassin's eyes had taken the pleasure they did now, seeing him. In the time between, the world had changed in so many ways. But this man looked unchanged. He was a constant, freed from alteration by his own forgetfulness; always new to himself, and therefore ageless. Pie envied him. For Gentle time was a vapor, dissolving hurt and self-knowledge. For Pie it was a sack into which each day, each hour, dropped another stone, bending the spine until it creaked. Nor, until tonight, had he dared entertain any hope of release. But here, walking away down Park Avenue, was a man in whose power it lay to make whole all broken things, even Pie's wounded spirit. Indeed, especially that. Whether it was chance or the covert workings of the Unbeheld that had brought them together this way, there was surely significance in their reunion.
Minutes before, terrified by the scale of what was unfolding, Pie had attempted to drive Gentle away and, having failed, had fled. Now such fear seemed stupid. What was there to be afraid of? Change? That would be welcome. Revelation? The same. Death? What did an assassin care for death? If it came, it came; it was no reason to turn from opportunity. He shuddered. It was cold here in the doorway; cold in the century too. Especially for a soul like his, that loved the melting season, when the rise of sap and sun made all things seem possible. Until now, he'd given up hope that such a burgeoning time would ever come again. He'd been obliged to commit too many crimes in this joyless world. He'd broken too many hearts. So had they both, most likely. But what if they were obliged to seek that elusive spring for the good of those they'd orphaned and anguished? What if it was their duty to hope? Then his denying of this near reunion, his fleeing from it, was just another crime to be laid at his feet. Had these lonely years made him a coward? Never.
Clearing his tears, he left the doorstep and pursued the disappearing figure, daring to believe as he went that there might yet be another spring, and a summer of reconciliations to follow.
8
WHEN HE GOT BACK TO THE HOTEL, Gentle's first instinct was to call Jude. She'd made her feelings towards him abundantly clear, of course, and common sense decreed that he leave this little drama to fizzle out, but he'd glimpsed too many enigmas tonight to be able to shrug off his unease and walk away. Though the streets of this city were solid, their buildings numbered and named, though the avenues were bright enough even at night to banish ambiguity, he still felt as though he was on the margin of some unknown land, in danger of crossing into it without realizing he was even doing so. And if he went, might Jude not also follow? Determined though she was to divide her life from his, the obscure suspicion remained in him that their fates were interwoven.
He had no logical explanation for this. The feeling was a mystery, and mysteries weren't his specialty. They were the stuff of after-dinner conversation, when—mellowed by brandy and candlelight—people confessed to fascinations they wouldn't have broached an hour earlier. Under such influence he'd heard rationalists confess their devotion to tabloid astrologies; heard atheists lay claim to heavenly visitations; heard tales of psychic siblings and prophetic deathbed pronouncements. They'd all been amusing enough, in their way. But this was something different. This was happening to him, and it made him afraid.
He finally gave in to his unease. He located Martin's number and called the apartment. The lover boy picked up.
He sounded agitated and became more so when Gentle identified himself.
"I don't know what your goddamn game is," he said.
"It's no game," Gentle told him.
"You just keep away from this apartment—"
"I've no intention—"
"—because if I see
your face, I swear—"
"Can I speak to Jude?"
"Judith's not—"
"I'm on the other line," Jude said.
"Judith, put down the phone! You don't want to be talking with this scum."
"Calm down, Marlin."
"You heard her, Mervin. Calm down."
Marlin slammed down the receiver.
"Suspicious, is he?" Gentle said.
"He thinks this is all your doing."
"So you told him about Estabrook?"
"No, not yet."
"You're just going to blame the hired hand, is that it?"
"Look, I'm sorry about some of the things I said. I wasn't thinking straight. If it hadn't been for you maybe I'd be dead by now."
"No maybe about it," Gentle said. "Our friend Pie meant business."
"He meant something," she replied. "But I'm not sure it was murder."
"He was trying to smother you, Jude."
"Was he? Or was he just trying to hush me? He had such a strange look—"
"I think we should talk about this face to face," Gentle said. "Why don't you slip away from lover boy for a late-night drink? I can pick you up right outside your building. You'll be quite safe."
"I don't think that's such a good idea. I've got packing to do. I've decided to go back to London tomorrow."
"Was that planned?"
"No. I'd just feel more secure if I was at home."
"Is Mervin going with you?"
"It's Marlin. And no, he isn't."
"More fool him."
"Look, I'd better go. Thanks for thinking of me."
"It's no hardship," he said. "And if you get lonely between now and tomorrow morning—"
"I won't."
"You never know. I'm at the Omni. Room one-oh-three. There's a double bed."
"You'll have plenty of room, then."
"I'll be thinking of you," he said. He paused, then added, "I'm glad I saw you."
"I'm glad you're glad."
"Does that mean you're not?"
"It means I've got packing to do. Good night, Gentle."
