Finally, after deciding on what appeared to be an intriguing destination, the old woman wandered off. Chalmers watched her go, wondering what the hell was wrong with her, and when he looked back he slammed his fist in the dirt. Damn, he'd missed a chance. Someone had been moving around inside the house.
Michael.
Maggie's brother grew restless. He started complaining of claustrophobia, going on and on about how much he hated feeling caged. Rourke could almost see the current wriggling in his aura; felt an emotional charge pulsating and demanding release.
"Damn," Michael shouted, "I'm bananas already! Is this ever gonna let up?"
He jumped to his feet and went to the window.
The first bullet hit him in the shoulder and spun him around. Maggie screamed when he threw himself on the carpet. A lamp exploded as the shot that was meant to finish Michael blew it off the table. The room was plunged into darkness, with only the kitchen light still burning.
Michael cursed and pulled a pistol from his belt. He'd tucked it under his shirt, behind his back, to keep it out of sight. Rourke wanted, very badly, to know why.
"Oh, shit," Michael whispered, his lips white with pain. "I didn't think they'd find me here."
Rourke grabbed his rifle and crawled across the floor. Maggie, still near the fireplace, started to go to Michael's side. Her brother stopped her in her tracks. "Stay right there," he said. "Away from the windows."
Peter examined the injured shoulder. The large, blue puncture looked serious. He tore away a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around the wound. "There. Now talk, Michael," he growled. "What the hell have you gotten us into?"
Michael winced. "This can't be happening, man. There's no way anybody could have traced me here. I not only covered my tracks, I left them believing I was dead."
"Michael, tell me."
"Let me put it this way. Some of the people I've worked for play rough. They eat a lot of pasta, look like they were born with a broken nose — you know the type. Anyhow, I tapdanced and usually steered clear of the serious shit. I figured the less I knew, the easier it would be to split. Wrong. Turns out nobody gets to walk. These guys are rigid as hell about that, it's their code of honor. But I wanted out, Rourke."
Peter felt his face stiffen. "And so you came to visit your goddamned sister?"
Michael snarled back. "Give me a fuckin' break! I never mentioned I had one, much less where she was."
"Then what happened?"
"I was looking after Nicky Perelli's mistress in Vegas. Cushy gig, right? Well, some asshole got to her, and carved her up but good. Left her open like a Thanksgiving turkey. I almost had him, but he got away. That left me in some real deep shit."
Carved her up, Rourke thought. Jesus, that's what happened to Dee Jennings. He frowned. "And?"
"I bribed a cop in Vegas and a junkie morgue attendant. They fixed it so a John Doe drowning wound up with my wallet and a positive I.D. In short, I'm stone dead for all they know."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Maggie sagged, as if she'd been drained of something vital that could never be replaced. Her disappointment hurt Michael as much as the wound in his shoulder. He glanced at Rourke, hoping for support, but Peter was gearing up for a look outside.
[now]
He raised his head, probed, then dropped to one knee. Another bullet shattered the rest of the window directly above him. Rourke curled into a ball until the shower of broken glass stopped falling. Wind began to whip the patterned curtains around and more moisture drifted in to fog the already gloomy room.
"I'm sorry, you guys," Michael was saying. "I never dreamed I'd drag you two into this. I was sick of it, Maggie. I just wanted to walk away."
Rourke gripped his rifle. He probed again. Strange, he thought, there's some kind of interference. It's like snow on a rolling picture tube. Still, he managed to learn a little.
"There are two of them," he announced. "They have... protection, I guess. A barrier of some sort. It keeps me from reading any more than that."
Michael turned to Maggie, his mouth hanging open.
"Christ, you mean he's for real?"
"He's for real, Michael."
Rourke skulled again, but ran into the same jamming technique. An advanced gift was at work. He'd never felt anything quite like it before, not even when he was a kid and competing with others like himself. Only a master talent could have constructed this elaborate a defense.
"We're dealing with a whole lot more than two maniacs out to shoot somebody, Michael. We're also up against whatever killed my dog tonight. A force that brought us all here. It's been destroying this entire town, bit by bit, for months."
"I'm not sure I understand."
Rourke straightened up. "For instance, you'd better not take it for granted that they're just after you. It might be me. I'm beginning to get the feeling there's a price on my head."
"I'm lost. Why?"
"Consider what I just described," Peter said. "Now, why would an abnormally strong psychic, for lack of a better word, bother to build a complicated ectoplasmic shield to keep you out? You haven't the slightest glimmer of E.S.P., as far as I can tell."
Michael grimaced. "Yeah, but you're a whole different story. I get your point. So it's the both of us?"
All of us, Rourke thought, but he dipped his head casually. He didn't want to alarm Maggie any more than necessary. "That's my guess, yeah. I don't know why."
"Are you good with that? The rifle?"
"I'm good, Michael. I'm also scared enough to be ruthless, if that's what you're wondering."
Michael Moore smiled. "Yeah, you read minds all right. In a situation like this, my friend, to hell with fair play and the Ten Commandments. We go for broke. We didn't start it, but the fact is we're at war."
Yeah. [compression: A grotesque bulge in the coiled intestine of present time] You don't know the half of it, Michael. I'm in the middle of this. I've somehow gotten my ass into two wars at once. There's a different kind of assault coming soon, I can feel it. It wants to erode my confidence.
Christ, maybe I'm better than I ever realized. Why else would someone go to this much trouble to pick me off? He kept his thoughts private.
"Hey Pete, I mean it. We're in a war."
"I know that, Michael. I heard you."
"Okay, stay here. I'll get a chair and set myself up to guard the back door. Maggie, you just lie flat and cover your head. They'll be coming in after us sooner or later."
Peter crawled to one side of the window and stood up. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, hoping to improve his night vision. Michael crawled across the floor, grunting from the pain in his shoulder. He went into the kitchen and out of sight.
Maggie began to talk to herself. Rourke cringed when he heard the words. "I'm dirty," she mumbled. "I'll never be clean again."
He clenched his teeth. One enemy at a time.
Peter considered for a moment. The first shot had come in high, the second maybe a foot lower. The man was probably on the porch across the street; shooting up, at an angle. Rourke risked another look. The expected bullet hummed by, but this time he saw a little ball of flame. It was across the street and level with the porch, as he'd guessed. He took a deep breath, whirled and whipped the rifle to his shoulder. He fired once, straight and true. Maggie shrieked at the CRAAAAAAK of the shot.
Peter sensed fear. He'd flushed the man out, but he was still alive. Rourke went flat against the wall, his face wet with rain, hands blue and clumsy from the cold [such a fucking coward, always have been] Those voices again. In his head, in Maggie's [wanna little rainbow, wanna little?] No!
Rourke blocked, shoved back with everything he had. He fired again, as much to drown out those whispers as to hit anything. It wants me dead. I must be good, have talents I've never used, latent abilities that could help Maggie and Michael.
But how the hell —
Something nicked his ear and struck the wall behind him with a dull thw
aaaack. Maggie had crossed the room to collapse in the rocking chair. She started rocking back and forth before the fireplace, her hands wrapped around her knees. Rocking and humming in an anxious, girlish falsetto. Rourke ached for her. He put steel in his voice.
"Maggie!"
She rocked and hummed and rocked and hummed. Her sanity was standing on the edge of a cliff, tottering and about to go over. This thing would not stop until it had them all dead or insane.
"Damn you, Maggie, answer me this minute!"
She located herself and regained control. The short jaunt to nowhere wound up straightening her out; it scared Maggie just enough to stiffen her resolve. She composed herself, back in the room where she belonged.
"Can I help, Pete?"
"Yes. By lying down and not getting shot. Maggie, please give me one less thing to worry about. It could end up meaning a hell of a lot to all three of us."
She worked her way closer and did as he'd asked. Rourke raised no objection. As long as she was lying down, one spot was as safe as another. Besides, Maggie never failed to give him strength, and he needed every ounce he could muster. He had two battles to fight, and each would drain a different part of him. Losing either meant a death sentence for Maggie, her brother and countless others.
Rourke froze. How clever he was, this little man. His foe. What a subtle thing he'd done by sending a gunman. He'd caused Rourke to think of bullets, instead of talents; rifles, instead of minds. He was very advanced, far better than Peter. He knew exactly what Rourke was capable of, and he wasn't taking any chances. Why give him even a few hours within which to develop? Pin him down with gunfire, and arrange things so that he's with his lover. That should make him frantic to protect her, and much less concerned with the conflict going on outside. This nightmare about to explode into the world.
He's worried, Rourke thought. He thinks I have the potential to become a genuine threat. Hell, what if he's right? He skulled: There was logic here, the outline of some geometric pattern, but the parts kept overlapping and misleading his talent.
Maybe I'm not good enough.
Maybe you're not. But you can be, or he wouldn't have gone through all these machinations just to deceive you. [you're better than you think you are, pinky. why else would he be afraid?] Yes.
Rourke fired at a vague ripple in the ocean of ink, then flattened against the wall. He steadied his breathing and closed his eyes. It was time for a crash course in pushing the limits. His stomach tightened. If he lost his way, he might never find his body again.
But if I don't try, he thought, we're all dead.
GO!
Rourke probed up, then out: He tried to spread thin, slide under the doorway onto a plane he'd often sensed but never reached and [...] touched a fresh spectrum, a dimension incredibly vast, wider than he'd ever dreamed possible. Alien ELF and EHF pulsations, colors, id forms. Peter tested himself. He re-arranged mass and density, even dared to skip along the fabric layering the corridors of time. He did foolish things and brave things and […] He'd broken through to another somewhere. On the very first try, flying blind.
I see, now. Jesus, I didn't know. He opened his eyes again. He felt a little dizzy, but excited. Good. Terrific, in fact. Charged with new energy and self confidence.
Maggie had just given Rourke a concerned look. "Peter? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Remember, don't listen to it. Don't let it have any power."
"I'm fine, now," Maggie said. She relaxed and faced the fire. I believe I will marry that woman, Peter thought. I can't think of anything else I'd rather do with the next forty or fifty years.
Now, for a way around that shield...
Meanwhile, Michael Moore was parked in a kitchen chair. He kept his bleary eyes fixed on the back door.
Remember the Alamo, as it were. That guy they'd found in his nightshirt, all shot to pieces. Jim Bowie? Not sure. Gawd, he thought, I'm a bundle of hurt. The pain stabbed through him again, and he had to clamp down on his lower lip to keep from crying out.
Moore, you're a total fuck-up.
Total? That number with the stiff and the cop wasn't too shabby. It didn't even cost me much. Yeah, well now they're out there, schmuck. You are likely to buy the farm. I'd call that a tall price.
No shit, you really think it's curtains?
It do seem like it 'bout over, massah. Oh, lawdy... Swing low, sweet chariot.
Optimistic bastard, aren't you? Big help.
Oh, no.
What?
Dumb fucking question.
What?
How about the fact that I'm fading in and out like a wino and bleeding all over this fucking table? Sitting here having a real knock-down, drag-out debate... with myself?
We always were a little strange.
'Fraid so, stallion. Give some thought to stuff we ought to apologize for, will you? We'd best have that handy from here on out.
Glimpse of light, reflected by metal: Heads up! Don't lose him, don't even blink. Ready? Here he comes. A quick, darting movement through the pools of shadow: Tall fellow, "Z" pattern, in a rut and doesn't know it. Thinks he's on television.
Michael fired, right through the back door. He heard a grunt of surprise and pain. He fired again, keying off the sound this time. Bingo! Stood him right up, boy. He was large, light-haired, outlined by the flickering street lamps. Michael put two in the chest and blew him away like a target in a shooting gallery.
"One down, Rourke. A big guy with red hair. Stay by the front, and be careful!"
"Got it."
Maggie winced at her brother's casual attitude. One down, Michael? That's all, it's that easy for you? No, she thought. I'm way out of line. What the hell gives me the right to judge? I'm not clean, never will be. Not inside where it counts.
[...something about the man out there, part of a pattern...]
Rourke gripped the rifle. His palms were slippery with sweat. He swung, fired and ducked. A sliver of glass stung his cheek. It left a tiny, dripping red ditch just below his right eye.
[...the man outside connects to me, then michael…what else?...]
Maggie steeled herself. Her brother was in trouble and needed her. Rourke needed her. She remembered taking that fall with the cops, facing their guns for the sake of her brother, doing his time. She located her own strength and nodded grimly. I can do this, she thought. Called: "Pete?"
"Yes?"
"If the back way is clear, I can run and find Gladys. Call for help, bring back some kind of first aid for Mike."
"Forget it, Maggie."
"It doesn't really care about me, Pete."
Yes, it does, he thought. It wants all of us, and in a particular order. But why?
"No, Maggie," he said. "Don't be a fucking fool. Please listen to me."
Maggie, nerves frayed, swore inaudibly. "You can't stay here and play guns all night, can you? Then it wins by default!"
Rourke ducked as splinters of wood sprayed his face. He spun and fired three times, rapidly. His talent awoke […this man. the thing dee and michael...]
"Damn it Maggie, please just sit over there," he snapped. "I can't afford to be worrying about you. Not now."
[...there is a pattern...]
Maggie stepped back quietly, out of his line of sight. She hesitated, sensing the evil that lay coiled and waiting, then scrambled towards the kitchen door. Stopped, checked. Pete had turned away. I don't need any man to look after me, damn it. I won't let my brother die.
She bolted, her mind whispering: first street, on the left, brown and white house, won't take long. Rourke caught the motion from the corner of his eye. Too late. He screamed: "Michael, stop her!"
Maggie burst through the kitchen door, a blur of clothing and wild eyes. She was gone before Michael, now weakening, could react.
"Shit," Rourke hissed. And then it came to him, all in a rush. […666 hundred years of pain, first the thunder and the lightning…] He understood, knew exactly how it had all started. Yes, he man lurking outsi
de was after all three of them, but for very different reasons. He had sparked Rourke's coming home to Two Trees, for this killer had murdered Dee Jennings, as well as Michael's female client in Las Vegas. Now he was here to slaughter them all. He worked for the little man with the talent, the one creating all of this chaos. Probably had worked for him all along. He was, first and foremost, a ruthless killer of women.
And now Maggie was out there with him.
Alone.
18
JASON
Dog had taken command of the elements. The climax was near. The rest was not up to him. Jason accepted this. He had begun to understand his place in the scheme of things, how much he did not — could not — know. And if he was indeed insane, there was now ample evidence that his insanity had real, true power.
Jason knew he was again a conduit, with a crucial function: Supervise and relay. He would feed the emotional stimulus through to The Beast in timed pulsations, until a critical mass was reached. An enormous backflow of power sufficient to blow open The Gate. This was his assignment — and, of course, to defend against White. But there appeared to be little to worry about, he'd already seen to that.
Jason crossed his arms and left the hardwood floor.
Levitating, he released his id and allowed it to become one with the black web of violence closing in on Two Trees.
So glorious. He was everywhere, all at once, helping to tie the loose ends together.
19
BATES
When Glenn Bates regained his senses, he found himself kneeling by the bed with his hands over his ears. His throat felt raw and strained. He'd been screaming Ngo's name, over and over again.
The room was torn to pieces. All of the glass in the liquor cabinet had been smashed, and most of the furniture was broken. Bates felt as if he'd been thrown through the blades of a high-speed fan.
I'm crazy.
My God, I've really gone crazy.
A padded thump... Outside. Bates knew that sound. He'd made it himself, a million times, whenever he came home a little drunk and forgot about that loose board on the front steps. Shoulders, bumping into wood.
Night of the Beast Page 29
