by Tom Doyle
If I didn’t let go now, I never would. “I will report your bravery to the president.” Some of the troopers looked dubious at this, until I added, “Whether the president wants to hear it or not. Officers, take command of your units. Please see to the crowd, commence rescue efforts, and assist with first aid.”
Like infatuated high schoolers with homework, the troopers reluctantly turned their puppy-dog gazes away from me and toward the tasks I’d given them. The terrifying realization sunk in: they would have followed me to the end of the world. With the strange insistent pressure of their regard finally off me, I walked away, filled with dread of a future of such temptations.
* * *
Outside the building, snow fell as thunder rumbled, and Ivan Molfarov of both the Baba Yagas and the Oikumene watched the series of unfortunate events. Earlier, he had delivered an SUV to the American woman and then had tracked her to Independence Square. Seeing her meet her comrades, Ivan had given his report to the Oikumene through a Delphic object that he had borrowed from the Museum of Western and Oriental Art. The Pythia had given him orders: forget about Lieutenant Rezvani and watch Major Endicott. If that American shows signs of abusing the transnational power or misusing Left-Hand magics, kill him.
Ivan was reflecting on how happy he was to have avoided the self-immolation of the Baba Yagas, though he might miss one or two of them, when the Internal Troops and Militia finally assaulted the building. Perhaps this would shorten his watch for the Americans. Then the Ukrainian forces were streaming out, and it appeared they were under Endicott’s command. The Left-Hand glow radiated from him.
If Endicott gave one more craft-impelled order, just one, Ivan would have to kill him on the spot rather than wait for a better opportunity. Otherwise, his power would continue to grow, an exponential explosion of authority over more people, lands. But the American managed to slink away before compelling further obedience.
Damn, thought Ivan. Now more tracking. Maybe Endicott would do him a favor and leave the country, so some other Oikumene member would be stuck shooting him.
* * *
I reached the poet’s house and the SUV. My friends seemed happy to see me, and Grace embraced me right in front of them. That was maybe the least difficult thing I had to explain to the Mortons.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We need to get to Roderick’s house.”
“He may not be there,” said Dale. “What Roman told us about staying home sounded oracular, but in some other direction.”
“Right, maybe it’s just one of his sick games—another murderous goose chase. But we have to eliminate the obvious, and maybe he had to leave sooner than he thought. Either way, we need to see his house.”
“I’m driving,” said Scherie, as Grace was moving toward the driver’s door.
“Shotgun,” said Dale. “This thing have GPS?”
But of course it did. Before anyone could check their notes, Grace reeled off the coordinates. “Eidetic memory,” she said. One more thing about her that would both intimidate me and turn me on.
Grace and I sat in the backseat. She picked the glass out from me, and I thought about what I had done. I had commanded Roderick without invoking or even thinking about God, putting my own will first. That I had done it from incipient love and seeming necessity in no way excused my lapse. Lord, please forgive me. I have committed the sin of Moses, and even aspiring to that guy’s sins is grievous pride.
As if she could read my thoughts, Grace said, “Thank you, Michael, for saving my life.”
“Just one of my gifts.” Lord, please keep me from blushing and saying “aw, shucks.”
I looked out the window at the weather and the very dark clouds. “Feeling moody, Morton?”
Dale turned away from the GPS to face me and, seeming suspicious of the punch line, nodded.
“Me too,” I said.
“Don’t look it,” he said, giving me a once-over inspection and, as usual, making light of things. “You lose weight?” Then, he gave me a soldier’s stare, eye to eye, all humor gone. “Are you OK? You’ve tapped into something serious, and not all of it is good.”
Grace raised a hand, but I interrupted. “Got gut shot in the Chunnel. Somebody here thought I was worth saving. She used some alchemical injection we confiscated from one of Roderick’s special friends.”
Dale nodded. “Yeah, I’d know that touch of black light in your aura anywhere. Hearing any interesting suggestions in your head about—just as an example—killing us all?”
“Yes on interesting suggestions, but the worst of them may not be Left-Hand.”
“Oh?” said Dale.
“I’ve been able to tap the local spiritual power wherever I go, but when I do, my brain wants to play Caesar and take over the world.”
“So that’s how you stopped Roderick’s meat puppet,” said Scherie as she took a right turn. “And that’s how you ordered those Ukrainians around.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it doesn’t want to stop there.”
An awkward silence followed. Then, with subject-changing desperation, Scherie said, “So, you took the Chunnel train?”
“No, we bicycled through the service tube,” said Grace.
“No shit?” said Dale.
“You wouldn’t have liked it,” I said.
“Damn straight,” said Dale, shuddering.
“The Morton taphephobia?” asked Grace.
“How do you know about that?” asked Dale, with an indignant glance at me.
“Everyone knows about that,” said Grace. An underground and underwater tunnel wouldn’t go well with the Morton fear of live burial.
Scherie made a turn into the woods of Babi Yar Park, and everyone was quiet again. The GPS showed us approaching the coordinates Roman had given us, but I couldn’t see a house. “I see the way,” said Grace, and then I saw it too—a narrow, gravel-paved way through the bare trees.
Dale asked, “Break into any traps lately?”
“Stop here,” I said. Scherie stopped. “Scherie, when I give the word, you’ll turn onto that gravel and drive as close to Roderick’s house as you can. When we stop, we exit the vehicle and hit Roderick’s door. I’m point this time. Mortons, you’re on cover, traps, and corners. Grace, make sure no one’s on our tail. Understood?”
“Yessir,” said the Mortons. “Yes,” said Grace.
“Good. Scherie, go.” We turned into the driveway for Roderick’s house. A flurry of overgrown branches whipped against the windshield, and in seconds we stopped at the driveway’s end in front of a closed garage and ten yards from the front door. “Move out!” I said.
* * *
Ivan tracked the Americans to Babi Yar, and he knew where they must be heading. A bad sign. He stopped his car well away from the residence of the abomination, then popped its trunk and removed his rifle. For the Americans, their moving in stealth made it difficult for them to notice him, even amidst the bare trees and brush of the parkland.
The SUV was in front of the abomination’s house. No sign of conflict—they had gone in willingly and unopposed. From everything Ivan had seen, the Pythia’s wishes were clear. If Endicott emerged from that evil house unscathed, Ivan would kill him.
* * *
We went for the door double time. It was hanging open, as obvious a mockery as anything yet that Roderick had done. Still, we didn’t break discipline. We entered and progressively cleared the floor: living room, kitchen, and, through the open way between the bookcases, the bedroom. Scherie took point on the last. “Some clothes here, some knives, some nasty-looking goop. A laptop computer near the bed—seems to be fried. Some weird décor to check out on a second pass. But I don’t see a woman.”
That was fine with me. After seeing Roman, I hadn’t been looking forward to witnessing what had happened to the woman he had asked us to retrieve.
With the floor cleared, Grace shut the front door, then crossed the room to check the view out back. “We’ve got spiritual company.”
I went back to look while Dale and Scherie continued to cover the floor. A ragtag line of smiling and waving ghosts stood outside in the woods. Some of them might have followed us, or followed me, from the Baba Yagas’ building. Maybe they’d be helpful, so I would wait to dismiss them. Only a handful of these spirits resembled the dead of the Second World War that might have resided at Babi Yar: the hundred thousand that the Nazis had killed here.
On a hunch, I sent Grace to cover the front of the house again and called Dale to the window. I told him what I wasn’t seeing, and he breathed out with relief. “Good. That’s all I see too. Most of them must have moved on, leaving just a bad feeling. I thought he might be doing something serious here.”
“What?”
“Something I saw in Japan,” said Dale, “at Yasukuni. I’ll explain it later.”
The thought of any Morton, even Dale, going anywhere near that decaying doomsday machine disturbed me, but I stuck to the business at hand. We checked the small finished attic and the unfinished basement. We found some computer equipment in the living room and kitchen, but as with the laptop in the bedroom, electrical kill switches had been pushed on each hard drive and interesting chip array. The place smelled of lemon and hospital antiseptics, as if biological messes had to be frequently cleaned, but nothing invited further investigation, and no glow of Left-Hand craft anywhere.
“Whatever Uncle Roderick was up to, it must have been either online or in the Baba Yagas’ basement,” said Dale.
“You’re forgetting something,” said Scherie. “Roman’s friend, Lara. I wonder how many other guests Roderick had here? Let’s take one more look at the bedroom. He has a table in there that…”
As if in reply, from the bedroom, a creak of hinges and a thud. Anything or anyone Roderick left for us couldn’t be good. “Mortons, stay on cover,” I said. “Grace, you’re with me.”
Before we could react, a woman in a sepulchral dress stood between the bookcases. She was tall, pale, and thin—Roderick’s type. Her eyes took in our weapons, pointed at and beyond her. Then, with unearthly calm and hyperprecision, she spoke. “Dobrý den. I am Lara. How are you?”
Behind her, the “table” that Scherie had seen was open, revealing itself to be a coffin. Grace was appalled. “Did he put you in there?”
“Who?” asked Lara.
“Roderick Morton.”
“No,” said Lara. “I just wanted to see what it was like.” She was staring past us now. “Are you Mortons? I have messages for Mortons.” Ignoring our guns, she walked past us toward Dale and Scherie.
“Hold up,” I said, belatedly. Lara stopped, but perhaps it was only because she had gotten to where she wanted to be.
“Where is he?” asked Dale.
“Roderick?”
“Yes!” shouted Dale.
Lara closed her eyes. “He said he does not stay because, like you, he hates the ‘storm the fortress’ part.”
Dale and Scherie glanced at each other with real concern. “How could he fucking know that?” said Scherie.
“Also,” continued Lara, “he said, ask them, do you know that you lose yet?”
“Lose how?” I asked.
“He said you have sinned against him, but you are in the wrong fucking country, and besides, he’ll kill you all.”
Grace tutted. “He knows I’m with you. That’s old Kit Marlowe’s words he’s butchering.”
“He also said we should have stayed at home,” said Dale. “When he’s not lying, he has the farseer’s taste for riddles and inside jokes. He was being literal.”
I finally got it. “God help us. He’s gone back to America. But where, and why?”
Lara interrupted me, eyes staring at a blank spot of wall. “Someone here. She says she is not whore; she is Ukrainian. You must go, but please, tell her to go first.”
Scherie turned in the direction Lara was pointing. I saw nothing, but Scherie said, “Oh. Please, leave this awful place. Go!”
A small flash of craft, and Scherie’s head and shoulders slumped. Lara focused her flat affect on her. “She is gone. I go with you.”
“Yes,” agreed Scherie. “You’re coming with us.” She raised her eyes and looked around at her husband, me, and Grace to see if we’d contradict her.
I wasn’t going to be the one to say no. Scherie must have seen something that made her trust this woman’s allegiance against the Left Hand. But the woman was certainly creepy, and I hoped we could soon drop her off someplace safe.
We hustled outside to the SUV. Trailing us, Lara blinked her eyes in the daylight, puzzled as an owl. “What is Ivan doing here?”
A moving blind spot in the trees. “Down.” I instinctively moved to cover Grace. A rifle flash, and my world burst into light and pain.
Then, like mercy, darkness.
PART VI
LOOK HOMEWARD, KILLER ANGELS
America is not a young land.
—William S. Burroughs
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
With the instant reflexes of emotion and training, Grace responded to the rifle shot by dropping to Michael’s side and getting to work. She felt for a pulse, and finding none, she straddled Michael and put her hands to his chest. Needing direct words, she spoke in English. “Pump. Pump.” She worried about the continuing threat from the sniper, but only because it might interfere with this necessary, heart-shattering task.
As if in answer, Dale said, “Help him. I’ll cover you.”
Like a nemesis at an assassination, Lara pointed toward the brush and trees. “Ivan is there. You come out, Ivan. These people are nice.”
Scherie went to her knees beside Grace. With a finger’s touch, Scherie stopped the bleeding, but the bullet had blown out part of Michael’s skull. His right eye was destroyed, just part of the mess that had slashed out with the bullet. Even this craft newcomer could see that it was hopeless. Healers didn’t replace eyes, or brains. The best American healers had tried to save Lincoln and Kennedy, but no one could save the victim of such a brain-damaging head shot.
“Pump. Pump.” Grace kept the heart going. But each beat of Michael’s heart required renewed craft. This could only go on so long, and what for?
An exorcist like Scherie could see a soul’s departure. With brutal gentleness, she asked, “Isn’t it time to stop?”
Grace looked at her. “Not yet.”
“When?”
“You want to help your husband? Then go.” Pump. “But I’m not leaving Michael, not yet.” Pump. “I think we’re supposed to keep saving each other’s lives for at least a few minutes longer.” Pump.
Scherie quietly stood up and left Grace alone with Michael.
Grace added physical pushes to her tiring craft. The Left-Hand power from the injection moved under her hands like serpents desperately seeking some life to extend, and finding none. Would he become a meat puppet for Roderick? No, she’d see to that. For the first time in many years, Grace’s eyes blurred not from artifice, but sorrow.
Good-bye, Michael. So much for the feeling that maybe this was a merciful universe, and that all those years of spiritual service to the Crown had some reward besides more service. Good-bye.
Pump, goddamn you!
Good-bye—but not just yet.
* * *
I was floating free in a dark void. Then in the distance, a small bright dot. I drifted toward it, or it came toward me, and the dot grew into a tunnel of light. Well, it was a bit clichéd and non-biblical besides, but that didn’t make it untrue. As I had tried to do my whole life, I moved toward the light and God’s grace.
There, waiting for me in the luminescence, was the figure of a familiar young woman, dressed this time in the frumpy officewear of 1990s Washington, D.C. “Mom!” Like a small, lost boy, I ran toward her, arms wide, and hugged her. She felt warm and alive, not like any ghost. Surely this was a sign that this was her true soul and not an earthly echo.
“Mikey,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Here it was, the culmination of my earthly life. “Will you take me to Heaven?” I asked.
“Not yet. We have to talk first.”
Oh God, please, this couldn’t be. “No! I am not having a near-death experience! It’s New Age hippie nonsense, and I can’t even be sure it’s really happening. I’m either dead or I’m not. Either way, let’s get going.”
“Call it what you like, Mikey, but right now you’re stuck in between. I’m so sorry.”
A near-death experience was bad, but upsetting my mom was worse. I took a deep breath of the aether. “OK,” I said. “Let’s talk. I’m not positive, but I think I was shot in the head.”
“Yes. My poor baby.”
“Mortally wounded.”
“Yes. You’re clinically dead. Anyone else would simply be deceased.”
“Then what’s the holdup?”
“Too much synergy. Your new power, your recent Left-Hand alterations, and your Endicott stubbornness have combined to hold the final death at bay. If you will it, you can go back.”
I thought about my friends, and the things I still needed to do for my country and the world. I thought about Grace. Yes, as I saw my Christian duty and my heart’s desire, I should go back. But when the path of duty had been clear, my mother hadn’t been the type for long discussions. “OK, Mom, what’s the catch?”
“Sweetie, you’ve been badly hurt. You’ve lost an eye.”
Oh. That was unexpectedly hard, and even in my disembodied state, I wondered what Grace would think.
“And,” my mother continued, “that may be just the first of many hurts, not all of them physical.”
Not all of them physical. Those words brought a mental itch into full view. “Mom, if I come back after a fatal head wound, that’s like the Antichrist of Revelation.”
Mom’s hands went to her hips in indignation. “Michael Gabriel Endicott, are you calling me the mother of the Beast?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I didn’t think so. So don’t make me a liar. I suspect that for some reason, God’s plan may require that an Endicott be humbled.”
“God’s plan seems to have a lot of that lately—not that I’m complaining.”
