Hall swept the covers off and stood. Mary turned in the bed and watched him, but she remained silent.
He felt relief and he felt a calmness, like he was floating in a warm bath. He moved to the closet, and with a final look at the gap beneath the door, opened it and took his uniform from where it hung on the back.
“You’re leaving? I thought you said you would stay the night.”
Hall paused only a moment, then slipped the jacket off the hanger.
“Sorry,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t press any further. He heard her move on the bed, but he didn’t turn around. He thought he should perhaps say goodbye, say it properly, explain everything, but knew that she could be watching, listening. He had to act now, quickly.
Dressed, he picked his cap off the dresser and turned back to Mary. She looked at him with wide eyes that glistened wetly in the dark, and he thought of the blue light that spun in the eyes of Evelyn McHale. And he thought of how he would be free at last.
He said goodbye, said he loved her, and closed the bedroom door behind him.
As Mary turned over, in the gap between the bottom of the closet door and the thick carpet, a blue light shone.
FORTY-ONE
It was cooler in the holding cell, which was a relief. Gone were the bag and the shackles, allowing Nimrod some small comfort, at least.
He couldn’t sleep. He paced the cell, a space hardly more than twelve feet by ten, his eyes on the cement floor, watching the toes of his boots. They were scuffed, and the boots — knee-high riding boots, his particular favorites brought with him from England thirty or more years ago — needed a clean, a wax and polish. He paused in his pacing and examined the toes of the left. The leather was thin, worn. Maybe he needed a new pair. If he ever left the cell.
He began to pace again. How many hours he had been kept locked up, he wasn’t sure, but dawn was just a couple hours away.
He knew his arrest and incarceration was most likely illegal, the charges certainly fabricated, the whole charade engineered to remove him cleanly and without fuss. Rather than a straightforward disappearance, the accusations of Communist leanings and his subsequent public confession would be used to shut him and the Department down, allowing Atoms for Peace to step in and take over the whole operation, lock, stock and barrel. Controlling New York, controlling the Fissure. The Director would have what she apparently needed to enact her terrifying plan: access to the Fissure, unimpeded.
Nimrod paused as someone walked past his cell. The door had a small square window, which was shut, but the relatively thin metal of the cover allowed sound to penetrate the cell admirably. Although he hadn’t been able to see anything through the black bag when he’d been brought in, he imagined the corridors outside the cell swarming with MPs.
Nimrod chewed on a thumbnail. He had to see the President. While it was clear the Director had got to him, the President was a good man and an old friend. And even if he was dazzled by the wonders that Atoms for Peace — the very organization the President had created — could offer him and the country, he would listen, Nimrod was sure of it. Nimrod’s position within the hierarchy of government was unique; his influence spread far and wide. He could not be ignored.
However, time was running out. They would remove him quickly. He doubted there would be a military tribunal — on paper, certainly, records could be created, a transcript composed. But Nimrod knew that the next journey would be to the gas chamber or the electric chair, whichever was available in DC for the federal death penalty.
More footsteps outside. Their volume increased; then they stopped. Nimrod turned. Either it was time to be fed, or this was it. The Department would be no more; he would be executed while federal agents and MPs massed at the Empire State Building, arrested all agents, consigned every file in the office to sealed secure document boxes for burial in the Nevada desert.
Keys in the door, loud, taking forever. Nimrod thought of the old days, the freedom of flying his airship across the polar skies.
The door was opened by an MP, who smartly stepped back to allow an officer in. The door remained open as General Hall ventured inside the cell and removed his hat. Beyond, Nimrod could see two MPs waiting outside in profile, each staring at the other’s nose.
Hall saluted, and Nimrod found himself doing the same.
“Captain Nimrod, I’m here to ask you one question and one question only. I hope you’ll answer me truthfully and that you won’t take much time about it, because time is the one damned thing that the whole world is running out of. Do you understand me?”
Nimrod could swear the General spoke with a slight slur, but he couldn’t smell a thing on the man’s breath. He looked Hall up and down, remembering the officer was responsible for the most terrible of weapons the United States had at its disposal. General Hall talking about time running out didn’t fill Nimrod with confidence.
Nimrod’s mustache rolled above his upper lip. “Is that the question, or is there another one coming?”
General Hall’s right eye twitched, the nervous tic so severe it almost closed his eye entirely.
“What?” Hall’s voice was high, fast. Something was playing on his mind.
Nimrod looked Hall in the eye. “Are you working with Evelyn McHale?”
The General flinched as though Nimrod had slapped him, and Nimrod could see his eyes fill with tears.
Then the General smiled widely, like a used car salesman who has found his mark, like a lover over a conquest, like a killer with his finger on the trigger. Nimrod had seen that smile before. The smile of the insane.
“I… met her. She…”
The General closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. Nimrod watched as the general shook his head like he was punch drunk. Then the officer sucked in a wet breath and spoke.
“Can you stop her?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
Nimrod frowned. “Are you feeling quite well, general?”
Hall’s eyes snapped opened and with his free hand he grabbed Nimrod’s lapel.
“Just answer the damn question, Nimrod!”
Nimrod glanced down at the hand gripping his jacket. Then, slowly, he uncurled the General’s fingers himself. Out in the corridor, the two MPs were ignoring a conversation well above their pay grade.
“Perhaps,” said Nimrod, keeping his voice calm, quiet, not because of the MPs outside, but because he could see Hall was fighting against her. He had seen it many times; contact with the Director of Atoms for Peace could break a mind. General Hall had been changed, and he would not be the same again. The only question now was what form Hall’s madness would take, whether he could hold out just long enough.
The General muttered something, and his eyes closed again as he nodded furiously like a child. And then he blinked and straightened up, the model officer. He snapped a salute and Nimrod could see it in his eyes, the spinning blue of eternity, the light of the Fissure.
The General called to the MPs over his shoulder. Nimrod heard their boots snap on the cement floor and the pair marched in.
General Hall looked Nimrod up and down. “Take the prisoner to helipad five. Transport is waiting.”
One of the MPs glanced at his companion, doubt passing over his face. The other’s eyes flicked between the General and Nimrod. But for both of them, years of military life had ingrained the chain of command.
“Sir,” said the first MP, before taking Nimrod by the arm and pulling him towards the cell door. The reluctant MP paused a moment, almost as though he was waiting for a second order from the General, one that fit their earlier instructions regarding the prisoner.
The General smiled, and Nimrod saw the corners of his mouth flecked with white foam.
“Where are we going, General Hall?”
“New York, of course. Sergeant, secure your prisoner. Let’s roll.”
They were alone together in the helicopter. General Hall was a fine pilot, and Nimrod sat next to him in the cockpit, headphone
s on, watching the officer at the controls. The flight from DC to Manhattan took an hour and a half, and during that time the General remained silent except for the required radio communications.
If Nimrod’s removal from the holding cells had been unauthorized, nobody appeared to have noticed, at least not while General Hall and the two MPs led him, unchained, un-bagged, through the facility. There were several checkpoints and guarded doorways, but at each the personnel on duty merely saluted and let the General through without delay, without a glance at his charge.
At the helicopter, the General dismissed the MPs and invited Nimrod into the cockpit. Nimrod supposed that, by now, the MPs would have reported the General’s activity to their superiors and all hell would be breaking loose in the office of someone important, but there was nothing on the radio except air traffic, and as the lights of Manhattan crept into view, they hadn’t yet been approached by any aircraft sent to apprehend them.
Nimrod didn’t speak, not daring to distract the General, knowing the officer was concentrating not only on the complex task of flying the helicopter but on fighting against her influence, an influence spreading inside him like a cancer.
But as they flew over Manhattan, towards the Empire State Building, Nimrod judged the time was right.
“Why did you release me, General? You were at the committee meeting. I’m a Communist spy according to the US Government, and what you are doing is most certainly treason. We’re both for the gas chamber now.”
“You still don’t see it, do you?” said the General, his voice bursting with static, the microphone on his headset too close to his lips. “She’s going to destroy us, destroy everything.”
Nimrod sighed. “And you think I can stop her?”
The General pulled the helicopter around into a tight turn, forcing Nimrod against him. Nimrod saw they were now coming in to approach one of the helipads on the Empire State Building.
“Who else is there? You’re the only one she fears. There has to be a reason for that.”
Nimrod looked at him and frowned. “And what about you? She will be watching. She may fear me, but you, well, you’ve interfered. You won’t be able to escape her.”
The General shook his head as he eased the chopper closer, preparing to set down.
“That’s all taken care of, don’t worry. Your job is to stop her. She’s going to destroy not just this world, but all of them. I think you know what I mean.”
Nimrod’s eyes went wide. “So that’s why she wants access to the Fissure-”
The General looked at him for the first time in the flight. “Yes. She’s getting ready to send an army through. That army will destroy everything. Everything. She’s got to be stopped.”
As soon as he spoke, the General winced, his shoulders hunched, and the helicopter wobbled as it hovered. Then he shook his head and nodded, and returned his attention to their destination. The helicopter bobbed in the wind, then slid sideways in the air and touched down on the helipad that protruded on the west side of the setback at the Empire State Building’s eighty-first floor.
Nimrod wondered how far they were going to get once inside the building. A handful of personnel were at the helipad, the usual staff and three of the department’s agents, two attempting to smoke in the stiff wind.
Nimrod released his harness and swung himself out of the helicopter. He turned to talk to the General, but the General was still sitting where he was, hands on the controls.
“General?” Nimrod had to yell over the noise of the rotors.
Hall flicked a switch and they began to wind down. Then he turned to Nimrod and shook his head. “Go, and do what needs to be done. My fate is elsewhere.”
Nimrod waited, but the General didn’t move. Arguing with the man was pointless, Nimrod knew that.
“As you like,” said Nimrod, but he said it quietly and he wasn’t sure if the General heard.
Turning on his heel, head instinctively bowed against the slowing blades of the helicopter seven feet above him, Nimrod jogged across the helipad, gesturing to the three waiting agents to join him inside.
The view was spectacular. Manhattan glowed in the night, a thousand million jewels in the damp air. And beyond, New Jersey on one side, Long Island the other, and seven million people between. The wind had died down, even up here, nearly nine hundred feet from the street below.
Nobody had stopped him. The helicopter was hardly discrete, and there were few people on top of the building; those who were there knew who he was, or at least recognized his rank.
Nobody had stopped him as he walked to the edge of the helipad and jumped the railing until he was standing on the edge of the setback, the lip of forever, arms outstretched, toes of his immaculate black shoes poking out over the edge. The stonework was clean, like new, too high for most birds to settle, although plenty would be flying overhead during the day. General Hall shuffled a little to his left, and raised his chin to the breeze.
Then he opened his eyes, and he could see forever. No, more than that, he could see beyond, to worlds unknown, to the Fissure, to the Empire State, to lands yet undiscovered.
And he could see her. He smiled and blinked, and watched as the glowing blue woman hovered in the air six feet out over the edge, nothing but endless air beneath her feet. So, she’d come, despite the fact that this was the Empire State Building, the place of her death and the place of her birth. It pained her to be here, he knew.
Their eyes met. He smiled; she didn’t.
“You’re too late,” he said. His heart soared, and his head felt like it was filled with helium. He felt like he could do anything in the world. He felt like he could fly.
The Ghost of Gotham said nothing, but floated backwards, slowly, her blue glow fading, her expression flat. But her eyes… oh, there was such light there, light that was blue and spun like diamonds. She knew. She knew.
General Hall closed his eyes, and held his breath, and jumped.
The Director watched him fall, and then she was gone.
FORTY-TWO
The floor was cold and smooth. Rad could feel it against his cheek, against his hands. With his chest pressed to it, the cold had seeped into his skin like damp in an old house. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the floor was white, streaked with black veins. Marble. He closed his eyes again and wished he would die so the buzz-saw vibration in his head would leave him in peace. Even with his eyes closed, the darkness spun around him. Stretched out on the hard floor, he felt like he was tied to a gyroscope set on high, the ground rolling and bucking as it attempted to throw its unwanted occupant off.
Then the buzzing died a little, and Rad felt his chest tighten with adrenaline as he remembered what the feeling meant. He’d experienced it before, only that time he’d been wearing a mask to help alleviate the worst of the symptoms.
Rad opened his eyes, gritting his teeth against the nausea, and pulled his chin across the floor to look up.
They were in New York.
There were boots nearby, tall with black pants tucked into them. From somewhere above a voice came, annoyed, impatient.
“Hey, buddy, wake up!”
Rad blinked, but when his eyes reopened there were more of the black boots. He’d passed out, maybe only for a second, he couldn’t tell. He tried a breath. It was OK, but it made his head spin. Crossing into the Origin without a mask… damn, it hurt. He wasn’t going to be much use for anything for a while, that much he did know.
Carson. Dammit. Which also meant…
Rad turned his head, ignoring the way his cheek tugged on the cold floor. Next to him was another prone form, a long bundle of green winter coat topped with long brown hair. Special Agent Jennifer Jones, out for the count, her golden mask facing away. The men around them — the police — were in for quite a surprise if they hadn’t seen her already.
Two hands under his armpits and Rad was on his knees. He sagged between the officers as the world spun, his breathing rasped, his eyeballs two red-hot coals. He
felt the tears stream down his face. He blinked to clear his vision.
They were in Grand Central, back on the main concourse. It looked the same, although there were features not present in Carson’s version — a big, long kiosk not quite in the center of the space, and signs with arrows. Grand Central in New York City was clearly in full use.
The middle of the space seemed to be sectioned off by police tape reaching right to the wide sweeping stairs that rose up on either side of the concourse. Beyond the tape more cops corralled people — lots of people, in hats and coats, holding newspapers and briefcases and umbrellas; people talking to each other, talking to cops who shook their heads, people craning to look and see what the commotion was; men and woman and children holding hands.
Then Rad closed his eyes and let himself hang between the cops, the sensory overload threatening to pummel him into unconsciousness again.
He could guess what had happened. He and Jennifer had popped into existence right in the middle of the concourse, right in the middle of all the people who were now crowding around the police line.
That would have been quite a surprise for the good people of Manhattan.
“Hey, hey,” said a voice. Rad opened his eyes and found a scowling policeman clicking his fingers in his face. Rad flinched, each snap like being hit on the back of the head with a rubber mallet.
The officer backed away, and one of his colleagues leaned in for a pow-wow.
“Are they drunk?”
“Or worse.”
“Call said they’d just appeared out of thin air.”
“Call also said my mother is the Queen of England. Come on.”
Rad opened his eyes. The police reapplied their grip, and he was on his feet.
“And her.”
Rad struggled to stay alert. He watched as more cops tiptoed towards Jennifer, each of them with one hand on his gun. After shaking her gingerly, satisfied that she wasn’t going to leap up and knife them, they holstered their weapons and rolled her over.
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