Jack's pulse started to slow but he kept the Glock trained on her. What the hell was she doing here? And what had she done-spilled a bottle of perfume all over herself?
"Something wrong, lady?" he said.
She moved, shifting her body and turning to look at him. The movement made Jack realize that this was one hell of a big lady. And then it was all clear.
Kusum's touch: Jack had disguised himself as an old woman when he’d worked for Kusum, and now...he didn't even have to see the malevolent yellow eyes glowering at him from under the hat and wig to know that he’d spoken to the Mother rakosh.
"Ho-ly shit!"
In a single, swift, fluid motion accompanied by a hiss of rage and the tearing of the fabric of her dress, the Mother rakosh reared up to her full height and flowed toward him, fangs glinting, talons extended, triumph gleaming in her eyes.
Jack's tongue stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth, but he stood his ground. With a methodical coolness that amazed even him, he aimed the first round at the upper left corner of the Mother's chest. The silenced Glock jumped in his hands, rubbing against his wounded palm, making a muted phut! when he pulled the trigger. The .40 caliber slug jolted her—Jack could imagine the lead projectile breaking open, releasing its hidden birdshot, sending it tearing in all directions through her lungs—but her momentum carried her forward. He wasn't sure where her heart would be so he placed three more rounds at the corners of an imaginary square in relation to the first, now oozing a stream of very dark blood...
The Mother stiffened and lurched as each slug cut into her, finally coming to a staggering halt a few feet in front of him. Jack watched her in shock. The very fact that she was still standing was testimony to an amazing vitality—she should have gone down with the first shot. But Jack was confident: She was dead on her feet. He knew the stopping power of those .40 caliber pre-frag hollowpoints. The hydrostatic shock and vascular collapse caused by just one properly placed round would stop just about anything. The Mother rakosh had taken four.
Jack wanted to put an end to this. He took careful aim and pumped another round dead center into the Mother's chest.
She spread her arms and lurched back against the newel post at the head of the stairs, cracking it with her weight. The hat and wig slipped from her head but she didn't topple over. Instead, she made a half turn and slumped over the banister. Jack waited for her final collapse.
And waited.
The Mother did not collapse. She took a few deep gasps, then straightened and faced him, her eyes as bright as ever. Jack stood rooted to the floor, watching her. Impossible! She was dead! Dead five times over! He’d seen the holes in her chest, the black blood! Her lungs should be jelly!
With a loud, drawn-out hiss, she lunged toward him. By pure reflex rather than conscious effort, Jack dodged away. Where to go? He didn't want to get trapped in his apartment, and the way down to the street was blocked. The roof was his only option..
He was already on the stairs taking them two at a time when he made the decision. His pistol was no good. Kolabati's words came back to him.
…fire and iron...fire and iron...
Without slowing or breaking stride, he dropped the Glock on the steps, glancing behind him as he did. The Mother rakosh was a flight below, gliding up the stairs after him, the remains of her dress hanging in tatters from her neck and arms. The contrast of her smooth, utterly silent ascent to his pounding climb was almost as unnerving as the murderous look in her eyes.
Jack increased his effort to the limit and managed to widen the gap between himself and the Mother. But only briefly. Instead of weakening, the Mother seemed to gain strength and speed with the exertion. By the time Jack reached the final steps up to the roof, she’d closed to within half a flight.
Jack didn't bother with the latch on the roof door. It had never worked well anyway and fumbling with it would only lose him precious seconds. He rammed it with his shoulder, burst through, and hit the roof on the run.
The Manhattan skyline soared around him. From its star-filled height the setting moon etched the details of the roof like a high-contrast black and white photo—pale white light on upper surfaces, inky shadows below. Vents, chimneys, aerials, storage sheds, the garden, the flagpole, the emergency generator—a familiar obstacle course. Perhaps that familiarity could be worked to his advantage. He knew he could not outrun the Mother.
Perhaps—just perhaps—he could outmaneuver her.
Jack had decided on his course of action during his first few running strides across the roof. He dodged around two of the chimneys, ran diagonally across an open area to the edge, and then turned to wait, making sure he was easily visible from the door. He didn't want the Mother to lose too much of her momentum looking for him.
A second later she appeared. She spotted him immediately and charged in his direction, a moon-limned shadow readying for the kill. Neil the anarchist's flagpole blocked her path. She took a passing sidearm swipe at it and shattered the shaft so that it swung crazily in the air and toppled to the roof. She came to the generator next—and leaped over it.
And now was nothing between Jack and the Mother rakosh. She lowered into a crouch and hurtled toward him. Sweating, trembling, Jack kept his eyes on the taloned hands aiming for his throat. He was sure there were worse ways to die, but at this moment he could not think of one. His thoughts were fixed on what he had to do to survive this encounter—and the knowledge that what he planned might prove just as fatal as standing here and waiting for those talons to reach him.
He’d pressed the backs of his knees against the upper edge of the low, foot-wide parapet that ran along the rim of the roof. As soon as the Mother had appeared he’d knelt atop the parapet. And now as she charged, he straightened up with his knees balanced on the outermost edge of the parapet, his feet poised over the empty alley five stories below, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The rough concrete dug into his kneecaps but he ignored the pain. Had to concentrate completely on what he was about to do.
The Mother became a black juggernaut, gaining momentum at an astonishing rate as she crossed the final thirty feet separating them. Jack did not move. It strained his will to the limits to kneel there and wait as certain death rushed toward him. Tension gathered in his throat until he thought he would choke. All his instincts screamed for flight. But he had to hold his place until the right instant. Making his move too soon would be as deadly as not moving at all.
And so he waited until the outstretched talons were within five feet of him—then leaned back and allowed his knees to slip off the edge of the parapet. As he fell toward the floor of the alley, he grabbed the edge of the parapet, hoping he hadn’t dropped too soon, praying his grip would hold. .
As the front of his body slammed against the brick sidewall, Jack sensed furious motion above him. The Mother rakosh's claws had sunk into empty air instead of his flesh. The momentum she’d built up was carrying her over the edge and into the beginning of a long fall to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a huge shadow sail over and behind him, saw frantically windmilling arms and legs. Then came a blow to the rear of his left shoulder and a searing, tearing sensation across his back that made him cry out.
The blow jerked Jack's left hand free of the roof edge, leaving him hanging by his right. Gasping with pain and clawing desperately for a new grip on the parapet, he couldn’t resist a quick look down to see the plummeting form of the Mother rakosh impact with the floor of the alley. He found exquisite satisfaction in the faint, dull thud that rose from below. He didn't care how tough she was, that fall broke her neck and most of the rest of the bones in her body.
Fighting the agony that stabbed through his left shoulder blade every time he raised his arm, Jack inched his left hand back up to the top of the parapet, then slowly, painfully, pulled himself back up to the roof.
He lay stretched out atop the parapet, breathing hard, waiting for the fire on his back to go out. In her wild flailings to save hers
elf from falling, one of the Mother's talons—whether on a hand or a foot, Jack couldn't say—must have caught his back. His shirt felt warm and sticky against his back. He gently reached around and touched his rib cage. Wet. He held his hand up before his face—it glistened darkly in the moonlight.
Wearily, he raised himself to a sitting position with his legs straddling the parapet. He took one last look down into the alley, wondering if he could see the Mother. All was dark. He went to swing his outer leg over onto the roof and stopped—
Something moved down there. A darker blot rustled within the shadows of the alley.
He held his breath. Someone heard the thump of the Mother's fall and come to investigate, right? Hoped so. Hoped that was all it was.
More movement...along the wall...moving upward...and a scraping sound, like claws on brick...
Something climbing the wall toward him. Didn't need a flashlight to know what it was.
The Mother was returning.
22
Groaning with disbelief and dismay—not possible…but it was happening!—he swung his legs onto the roof and staggered away from the edge. What was he going to do? No use running-despite the lead he had, the Mother would surely catch up with him.
Fire and iron....fire and iron...
The words burned across his brain as he raced around the roof in search of some sort of weapon. No iron up here. Everything was aluminum, tin, plastic, wood. If only he could find a crowbar or even a piece of rusted iron railing—something, anything to swing at her head as she poked it up over the edge.
Nothing. The only thing that even remotely resembled a weapon was the broken remnant of the flagpole. It wasn't iron and it wasn't fire...but with its sharp, splintered lower end, it might serve as a twelve-foot spear.
He lifted it by its top end—by the ball at the tip—and hefted it. It wobbled like a vaulting pole and the oscillations caused waves of pain in his back.
Heavy, crude, unwieldy…but it was all he had.
Jack put it down and loped over to the edge of the roof. The Mother was no more than a dozen feet below and climbing fast.
Not fair! he thought as he ran back to where the pole lay. He’d as good as killed her twice in ten minutes, yet here he was hurt and bleeding and she was climbing a brick wall as if nothing had happened.
He picked up the pole by the balled end and levered it to a horizontal position. Groaning with the pain, he pointed the splintered end toward the spot where he expected the Mother to appear and began to run. His left arm began to lose strength as he ran. As the point sank toward the roof surface he clenched his teeth and forced it upward.
Have to keep it up...go for the throat...
Again, he knew timing would be critical: if the Mother gained the roof too soon, she’d dodge him; too late and he’d miss her.
He saw one three-fingered hand slip over the edge of the parapet, then another. He adjusted his direction to the area above and between those hands.
"Come on!" he screamed at her as he increased his speed. "Keep coming!"
His voice sounded hysterical but he couldn't let that bother him now. Had to keep that goddamned point up and ram it right through her—
Her head appeared and then she was pulling herself up onto the parapet. Too fast! She was too fast! He couldn't control the wavering point, couldn't lift it high enough! He was going to miss his target!
With a cry of rage and desperation, Jack put every pound of his body and every remaining ounce of strength left to him behind a final thrust against the balled end of the pole. Despite all his effort, the point never reached the level of the Mother's throat. Instead, it rammed into her chest with a force that nearly dislocated Jack's right shoulder. But Jack didn't let up—with his eyes squeezed shut he followed through with barely a break in his stride, keeping all his weight behind the makeshift spear. A moment of resistance to the spear's path, followed by a sensation of breaking free, then it was yanked out of his hands and he fell to his knees.
When he looked up, his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the Mother still there—
No...wait....she was on the other side of the parapet. But that couldn't be. She'd have to be standing in mid-air. When Jack forced himself to his feet, he understood.
The miniature flagpole had pierced the Mother rakosh through the center of her chest. The sharpened end of the pole had exited through her back and come to rest on the parapet of the neighboring building across the alley; the balled end lay directly in front of Jack.
He had her. Finally, he had her.
But the Mother wasn't dead. She twisted on her skewer and hissed and slashed her talons at Jack in futile rage as he stood and panted a mere six feet from her. She couldn’t reach him.
After his relief and awe faded, Jack's first impulse was to push his end of the pole off the edge and let her fall to the ground again, but he checked himself. He had the Mother rakosh where he wanted her—neutralized. He could leave her there until he found a way to deal with her. Meanwhile, she was no danger to him or anyone else.
And then she began to move toward him.
Jack took a quick, faltering step back and almost fell.
Still coming for him! His jaw dropped as he watched her reach forward with both hands and grip the pole that skewered her, then pull herself forward, pushing the pole through her chest to bring herself closer and closer to Jack.
How could he fight a creature that didn't feel pain? That wouldn't die?
He began swearing, cursing incoherently. He ran around the roof picking up pebbles, bits of litter, an aluminum can, hurling them at her. Why the hell not? About as effective as anything else he’d done to her. When he came to the emergency generator, he picked up one of the two-gallon metal cans of diesel oil and went to hurl that at her—
—and stopped.
Oil. Fire!
He finally had a weapon—if it wasn’t too late.
The Mother had pulled herself almost to within reach of the roof edge. He twisted at the metal cap but it wouldn't budge—rusted shut. In desperation he slammed the edge of the cap twice against the generator and tried again. Pain shot through the earlier wound in his palm, but he kept up the pressure. Finally it came loose and he was up and scrambling across the roof, unscrewing the cap as he moved, thanking the faulty power grip for the last blackout. Without it, he and the other tenants wouldn't have chipped in for an emergency generator.
Oil sloshed over his bandaged hand as the cap came off. Jack didn't hesitate. He leaped onto the parapet and splashed the oil over the slowly advancing rakosh. She hissed furiously and slashed at him but Jack remained just out of reach. By the time the can was empty, the air around them reeked of diesel fuel. The Mother pulled herself closer and Jack had to drop back to the roof to avoid her talons.
He wiped his hands on his shirt and reached into his pocket for the lighter. After an instant of panic when he thought his pocket was empty, his fingers closed on it. He held it up and thumbed the little lever, praying the oil on his hand hadn't got to the flint. It sparked, the flame shot up—and Jack smiled. For the first time since the Mother had shaken off the damage of five hollowpoint rounds in the chest, Jack thought he might survive the night.
He thrust the lighter forward but the Mother saw the flame and ripped the air with her talons. He felt the breeze as they passed within inches of his face. She wouldn’t let him near her. He couldn't toss the lighter at her and expect an explosion of flame. Diesel fuel needed more than that to start it.
Then he noticed that the pole was slick with the oil. He crouched next to the parapet and reached up to the ball at its end. The Mother's talons raked by, millimeters away from his hair, but he steeled himself to hold his position as he played the flame of the lighter against the oil on the ball. For an agonizing moment, nothing happened.
And then it caught. He watched raptly as a smoky-yellow flame—one of the loveliest sights he’d ever seen—grew and spread acros
s the ball. From there it crept along the upper surface of the pole, straight toward the Mother. She tried to back away but was caught. The flames leaped onto her chest and fanned out over her torso. Within seconds she was completely engulfed.
Weak with relief, Jack watched with horrid fascination as the Mother's movements became spasmodic, wild, frenzied. He lost sight of her amid the flames and black smoke that poured skyward from her burning body. He heard sobbing—was it her? No... his own voice. Reaction to the pain and the terror and the exertion was setting in. Was it over? Was it finally over?
He steadied himself and watched her burn. He could find no pity for her…the most murderous engine of destruction ever imagined. A killing machine that would go on—
A low moan rose from within the conflagration. He thought he heard something that sounded like "Spa fon!"
And then she was still. As her flaming body slumped forward, the pole cracked and broke. The Mother rakosh spun to the floor of the alley trailing smoke and flame like the loser in an aerial dogfight. And this time when she hit the ground she stayed there. Jack watched for a long time. The flames lit the beach scene painted on the alley's opposite wall, giving it a sunset look.
The Mother rakosh continued to burn. And she didn't move. He watched until he was sure she would never move again.
23
Jack locked his apartment door and sank to the floor behind it, reveling in the air-conditioned cool. He’d stumbled down from the roof in a daze, but had remembered to pick up his Glock on the way. Weak…every cell in his body cried out in pain and fatigue. Needed rest, and probably needed a doctor for his gashed back. But no time for any of that. Had to finish off Kusum tonight.
He pulled himself to his feet and went to the bedroom. Kolabati was still asleep. Next stop, the phone. He didn't know if Abe had called while he was up on the roof. He doubted it; the prolonged ringing would have awakened Kolabati. He dialed the number of the shop.
After three rings, a cautious, "Yes?"
The Tomb (Repairman Jack) Page 36
