"Now, I haven't gone into the bone yet. Really just scratched the surface. Will you tell me who you were looking for at the Arizona, or will I finish this? I hate leaving a job undone." The Handyman sounded slightly winded-either from his exertions or anticipation.
"Few things, demon, have the power to wrest from these lips the truth," Tommy ranted in a rasp. "Give me your best."
"Once more, I'll ask. You're bound to lose consciousness when I pierce the lung. Who were you looking for at the Arizona?"
I was helpless. Tommy was closed to me.
"I'll tell you who I was looking for. You, you pig. I was looking for you, because I love to eat pig," Tommy's voice was strained. "There's nothing like a pork sandwich!"
The smoker with the glasses hissed from the darkness. "The hell with it. Kill him. We'll question him after Blacktime. If he doesn't value life, maybe death will change his perspective."
Something about the voice was familiar, but it sounded muffled.
Just then, a gun went off somewhere. The smoker leapt to his feet. "Kill him, I'll find out what the hell…" He moved quickly to the door and out. Something flashed under the glasses.
"Okay," said the Handyman as he turned to his tool chest. I heard the sharp rattle of a bit being dropped. "I think a longer bit will do it." Metal grinding against metal. "Right beside the spine, past the shoulder blade, through the lung and into the heart muscle. Then a touch of Blacktime, and we can do it all again. Dear me, and you'll be such a ragged dead thing." He laughed mechanically.
A harsh crack snapped his head around as Tommy tore the back off the chair. He leaped into the air and swung his arms under him, skipping rope style. He whipped the remains of the chair over the Handyman's head. It splintered. The Handyman jabbed the drill at Tommy's gut. Tommy leapt aside like a gibbon; his long arms lashed out and grabbed the Handyman's wrist. They both tumbled to the floor. The Handyman landed on top, freed his arm then rammed the drill at Tommy's head. It screeched against the concrete floor. Tommy lunged upward and clamped his teeth on the Handyman's jaw. The Handyman screamed. I could hear Tommy sucking and chewing at his opponent. The Handyman was off balance with this human bulldog. He punched Tommy's head-screamed as the clown's teeth ripped at gristle and bone. They tumbled across the floor. Tommy lost his grip and they both grappled for the drill. The Handyman's right arm was tangled tight to his side with the extension cord.
Tommy's muscles stood out like rope as his bound hands tore the drill away. He pinned the Handyman's free arm to the floor with a big black boot and stared down at his face. The Handyman had a thin crop of spiky military hair. The scalp beneath it was damp and shiny with sweat. His eyes were wide in a thick-cheeked face. Twisted lips moved mutely over crooked teeth. He looked about sixteen, one of Greasetown's forever teens-a muscle-bound adolescent.
Tommy smiled. "Like playing handyman, do you, Sonny-boy? Now it's my turn. I'll be the handyman and you be the piece of wood." Tommy began talking in an exaggerated instructional voice. "Now, if you plan on reconditioning a face you've got to be willing to accept the size of the job." The drill whirred. The Handyman gasped a garbled plea. "If it's an older face, you should be prepared for some painful costs."
The drill whined shrilly-the Handyman screamed as Tommy set the bit under his cheekbone.
"Remember," Tommy continued. "To hold the drill firmly in hand so that the bit won't bind up and the hole will be clean and true. Remember, clean and true."
The Handyman shrieked. A few sickening, bone-cracking seconds and it was over. Tommy straddled the Handyman's chest looking at the ruin. Smiling, he whispered. "You idiot, the only thing I ever passed in school was shop." The Handyman lay wrapped in Blacktime, the drill jutting grotesquely from his face.
Tommy's eyes were red coals flashing around the room. Another shot rang out. He ran to the door-me in tow-and out. A hallway set in a thin space between cinderblock walls led to the left and right. At both ends stairs ran up. Flickering lights cast strange shadows.
Another gunshot, to the right. Tommy showed teeth and ran to the left-crouching, his bound hands pulled close to his chest. His boots made too much noise and too many echoes as he raced the distance of the hall and up the stairs. I noticed a growing red stain on his back as he slammed into the door and out.
Lightning rent the black sky over an alleyway; I looked up. We were behind the Arizona. Tommy was off again. He sprinted madly through torn garbage bags and heaps of newspaper. The clown bolted between rusted trashcans, rats scurried. We were on the street in front of the hotel. Tommy looked left and right, the Chrysler was gone. All at once, rain fell from the sky like an airborne lake making a landing. More lightning.
Tommy's back was a crimson smear of rain and blood. His breath came in gasps. He panted Elmo's name. I tried to take over, but Tommy was unreceptive. He ran; I followed. More lightning. He dodged between parked cars, knocked over a dead prostitute taking shelter from the rain in a doorway.
"Stupid motherfucker!" she screeched from a puddle-yellow satin dress soaked-her dead wares damp. "You mother…"
Tommy ran wildly, apparently without a goal in mind. He just wanted to be anywhere away from the Arizona. I followed, rain passing through my substance without effort. More lightning. I hated lightning. I was too exposed.
Headlights, Tommy threw himself into the gutter behind a truck. I floated at the level of the passenger window. I recognized the engine. It rattled, the whole car rattled. Tommy leapt up so fast he passed through me. He ran for the street. The Chrysler bore down on him, and then slid through the rain to a halt. Tommy tore the passenger door open and jumped in.
Elmo's face was stretched with disbelief. "Sorry, Boss…" His eyes scanned Tommy's body. "I-I just missed you, they must'a been waitin'. I tried to break you out!" He reached for the plastic bindings at the clown's wrists
"Forget that! Drive!" Tommy screamed. "Drive!" His fists beat the dashboard. "Drive!"
Elmo's face was perplexed. His hands jittered over the wheel. "Where?"
"Mother of God Cathedral, where the hell do you think?" A sob shook his bloody shoulders.
If Elmo was going to question this odd destination, he let the query die on his tongue. The Chrysler lurched ahead.
"Faster," Tommy muttered. "Faster." He scratched around under the seat and found a pint bottle about half full. He drank from it. His eyes flashed to his waist, slid along the skipping rope belt. "My gun?"
"Take mine, Boss." Elmo pulled it from his shoulder holster with his right hand.
Tommy hugged the gat to his chest. "We'll end it now-sanctuary or bust," he mumbled. "We'll end it now." He glared at his bindings, and scowling tried to work them loose.
I'd have to wait to take over. Tommy's mind was a mess of contradiction and madness.
I had a lot of questions to ask Elmo, like: What did he see? Whom did he see? And who put the bullet holes in his chest?
Chapter 41
The Mother of God Cathedral was piled high into the flickering darkness of the storm. The lightning briefly illuminated the many stained-glass windows like half remembered dreams. A stone angel, sword in hand, flew over the enormous arched doors. His eyes were set with grim purpose. The vigilance on his features increased my curiosity. What was he guarding? What could be important enough to get an angel so worked up?
Tommy ordered Elmo to stay in the car. He flew out and up the steps. The rain was slowly scrubbing the paint from his cheeks. I looked back to where Elmo waited at the curb and saw his face jammed into the acute angle of the windshield, eyes wide. I tried to think of the day. Thursday, no, Friday now. How long did the Handyman have me before I woke up? It couldn't have been more than an hour. Things were happening too fast.
Tommy dropped to his knees in the shadow of the gigantic angel. "Uriel, oh Uriel." He suddenly twisted into a knot like he'd swallowed a fishhook. "Uriel," he sobbed, "let me in, let me in."
I didn't recognize the name. Through the incessant splatter of rain a
nd grumbling sky I heard a shoe scuff pavement. Behind Tommy to the left was a man. He had the unmistakable broad beam of middle age. He was dressed in black. The collar of his long damp coat was tucked under his ear lobes and his hat was low, deepening his eyes. He hugged a briefcase and a paper bag that was oily and dark with rain. He moved quickly toward Tommy. The clown heard him and swung around with his gun at the ready. "No, dark one!" he barked.
The man flinched, and in the action sent enough strain to his wet grocery bag to tear it to pieces. Fruit bounced off his feet, and a jar of pickles smashed-its contents rolled and bounced away like legless frogs.
"I mean no harm." the stranger blurted; his voice as taut as wire.
"What do you want?" Tommy's was slurring noticeably, growing weak.
"I thought you needed my help." He took a hesitant step forward.
"I want in, I think it's time to go." Tommy began to wilt.
"You're injured, let me help you." The priest moved another step. "You can come in."
Tommy's gun drooped. "I'm fine. There's no need for alarm. Nothing to see here. The show's over." He raised himself to one trembling leg, tried to get the other under him but failed. He sprawled over the spattering puddles, the gun sliding from his grasp. An epileptic spasm shook him as he made a last desperate attempt to rise. He failed. Tommy was unconscious in the rain.
The man hurried over, knelt by him. I could see his eyes study Tommy's form from boots to hair. He touched the plastic bindings on his wrists, shook his head. "Dear Father," he muttered. His arms slipped under Tommy and with great effort lifted him. "Another castaway. Such a storm, Holy Father. What else will it wash up?"
I floated along overhead. The fellow took Tommy into the cathedral through a nondescript side door, then down a long, ornately paneled hallway. He stopped beside a door recessed in the wall. He had to lean Tommy's weight against the frame to struggle for the key. The door opened, the man turned on the light and then dropped Tommy on a large bed.
"My Goodness," he muttered rubbing at his back. He produced a penknife from his pocket, easily released the clown's hands. Then he stripped Tommy of his clothes. "What in Heaven?"
He stared at the wound on Tommy's head and shoulder, clicked his tongue then left momentarily. He returned with a small, metal box emblazoned with a Red Cross. He paused and studied a number of quarter-sized pockmarks that ran across Tommy's chest. "Hmm, this is strange," he murmured, then gently bathed and bound the new wounds. The vicious tear in his shoulder still oozed blood.
I was amazed. I couldn't remember the scars on Tommy's chest, and yet now that I'd seen them they raised a grim indeterminate specter in my mind. Perplexed, I watched the fellow produce a large cloth and soak it in alcohol. He worked it over Tommy's face. The makeup already streaked with blood and rain came away easily. I watched as the face appeared for the first time. It was strange. Almost boyish around the eyes, yet lines of age and the rough skin of maturity covered his cheeks. Again I asked myself, "Why the makeup?" Christ, he didn't even have a hair lip. Then, the strangest thing happened. The priest smiled with recognition.
"Of course!" He nodded, resting a palm on Tommy's cheek. "You again. The scars." Fingertips like butterflies lit on them briefly. That was all he said. But it was the most profound thing I'd heard all night. With Tommy's wounds tended the priest gingerly slid him beneath the covers. The clown's black hair made a dark halo on the pillow.
"Sleep," said the Priest. He left us then, and I heard him retrace his footsteps. I thought he would go to retrieve his briefcase and groceries, perhaps he would see Elmo, ask him questions.
I had to think before I let my hallucinogenic trance take over. I was weary of existing-bone tired without any bones. Who had been waiting for me at the Arizona? What the hell did they want me for? I suddenly remembered the charm on the Handyman's wrist. The ankh circling a swastika. The Twelve Stars? And I'd seen it before in Adrian's office.
My thoughts returned to the spectator. I couldn't forget the image of the glasses staring at me while the Handyman worked. The reflection of a cigarette calmly smoked while hidden eyes watched my torment. The voice had been too familiar. What had happened to Van Reydner? Who shot Elmo? If questions were currency, I'd be a rich man.
The door opened. The priest walked in. New moisture dripped from his hat, he took it off, and placed it on the floor beside him. He pulled a chair to the bedside.
"I spoke with your friend, Mr. Wildclown. The dead fellow. He was beside himself with worry." He smiled, knowing his words were going unheard. He continued nonetheless, for his own comfort if not Tommy's. "I sent him home, told him to return in the morning. To bring you some fresh clothing." he sighed, pressed his hand to the clown's forehead. It was flushed with fever.
"Oh dear." The priest picked up his hat then set it and his coat over a chair in the far corner. Returning to the bedside, he produced an apple from his pocket and tried to get comfortable in his chair. He pulled the peeling from the fruit with his teeth, and then placed the long strips on a circular side table under an antique lamp. I decided to take advantage of the peace to release my psychic trauma through my strange dreams.
Transition.
I wrestled a burning corpse, crushed its head against the asphalt with my armored fist. A gloved hand grabbed my shoulder yanked me to my feet. An Authority Inspector, face hidden by shadow barked orders at me. "Stop fucking around." The stranger pointed to the approaching mob of dead. "I ordered you to open fire. OPEN FIRE!" I raised a rifle-it was different. No auto-shotgun. Blue fire primed the nozzle. A flame thrower. "Open Fire!" The Inspector's voice bellowed. "Open Fire!" I pulled the trigger. Flame leapt out and consumed the first six dead men it touched. A shriek rang out.
Transition.
I walked along the street again. Neon colored the puddles blood red. I felt a tightness in my chest, looked down, and saw many gaping holes.
"Hey, Dick." It was Tommy's voice. I looked up. He stood about five feet from me. The gun in his hand still smoked.
"I shot you. You know the rules of the game."
I tried to speak, but the effort brought blood to my mouth. I coughed. Blood foamed from the wounds in my chest.
I felt my legs weaken. I took a faltering step forward. The night air chilled the blood on my legs. My socks were oily with it; they slid inside my shoes.
"Die, goddamn it!"
With enormous effort, I reached out. My arms had become wood, but they caught and held fast to Tommy's neck-fingers like roots. He screamed and clawed at my wrists. I could feel my fingers penetrate his flesh, burrowing inward. Suddenly the gun went off and I felt a sickening thud of pain. Again the gun roared. I dropped, but my hands held fast. Tommy screamed. There was a flash of light.
Transition.
Tommy screamed. He leapt up from the bed below me. The priest was right there, forcing him back with a gentle hand to each shoulder.
"It's here!" Tommy shrieked. His eyes scanned the room. "It's here!"
"You're all right. Please, Mr. Wildclown. You're fine there's no one here. Settle!" The Priest strove to hold him still. "You'll injure yourself the more."
"Can't you feel it? Waiting. Watching!" Tommy continued his frantic scan of the room. "It's gray, it's gray and dark. Oh God!"
"Please, lie still. Here." He quickly poured a large shot of brandy from a bottle he must have procured while I dreamt. "Here."
Tommy snatched the glass from him and poured it down his throat. He handed it back to the priest. "Ghosts, all around us." The clown muttered, as the priest refilled his glass. "The dead."
"True, my son," the priest said quietly. He watched Tommy empty the second glass. "These are trying times. But you must remember that the Lord does these things for a reason. It is up to us to gain the wisdom to understand that purpose."
"The ghosts. The angel, Uriel." Tommy lay back on his pillow. "He would know. He could help me escape."
The priest's brow wrinkled. "Uriel? He who protects the Garden?
"
"I want to go there," Tommy muttered. "That's the only escape. Forgiveness for all."
"Sleep, my son." The priest tucked Tommy's covers around his ears. "Try to rest. You are overwrought now. Sleep."
"Get Uriel," Tommy muttered. "He'll know what to do."
"Yes," the priest said quietly. "But rest for now."
"I'm tired," Tommy worked his lips then fell asleep.
I watched the priest shake his head and cross himself. He picked up a book from the bedside table, sat down and leafed through it. I could tell he wasn't interested in what he read by the glances he'd throw at Tommy with the turn of each page. "Dear Lord," he mumbled, then after a few seconds of staring; he turned to the book to take his reading more seriously.
I floated overhead trying to recall my own strange dream, but the images flitted away from me like sparrows from a belled cat. Ghosts, I thought. Spooks. I was taken up by a hallucination of utter blackness. It was beautiful.
Chapter 42
I woke up before Tommy, and for a few seconds watched him snore on the pillows below. The Priest sat slumped in his chair. I wondered what had put the driven look on his face. Whatever had happened-the Change-it hadn't been easy on the faithful. Greasetown sure looked like damnation to me and I only used the Bible to flatten cockroaches. What would the Change be like for a believer?
I tried to content myself by floating close to the rough stucco ceiling. I wasn't sure, but I got the feeling it had been shaped and textured into an apostle or something. For a religion that warned against idolatry, they sure had a lot of idols. I couldn't blame them. The human race needed idols-made idols of everything. I had read in an old magazine that at one point in history, however briefly, people had idolized and bought the musical recordings of talking and singing raisins. Was I going to fault the Christians for the odd saint? I looked down again and pondered. Tommy was exerting more and more influence during my possessions, a development that gave me pause to wonder. Was I losing my ability to overpower him? Not a pleasant prospect for someone who was little more than a puff of wind. I was in no position to be giving anything away.
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