by Farris, John
Charmaine tried to raise her head to see him better. But she knew. She felt awkward and shy but not alarmed. Lifting her eyelids was one thing. The rest of her body was not under her control. It floated as if on a current of air. A not-unpleasant sensation.
"Yes," she said. "I know. But how do you change from a dog to a man?"
"Oh, I can do many fascinating things, Charmaine."
"Is this an illusion?"
"No."
"Are you going to finish making love to me?"
He shook his head regretfully. She felt sad for him. "That I'm unable to do. Although I've often wondered what it must be like."
"Why did you come to me as a dog?"
"Two reasons. A barrier was put into place tonight, before I got here. I suspect one of the Caretakers has moved in on Lewis, and is taking precautions. So in order for us to have this conversation, you had to invite me to appear. I thought the best approach would be to show up as one of the little dogs you're familiar with, so you wouldn't be frightened. You're not scared of me now, are you?"
"No. I don't think you want to hurt me."
"That's right. I don't. I love women, Charmaine. I just can't make love to them. Not in the form I'm assuming now. If you'd like, I can come back to you as—something altogether different. But there's no point to our mating. I'm saving myself for someone else."
"Then—what are you going to do with me?"
He looked up at the stars above the walled garden, and smiled.
"Like Frank says, it's a good night to go flying."
"Can we do that?" she wondered, wide-eyed, nerves jumping.
"Of course, Charmaine. Together you and I can accomplish almost anything."
Chapter 39
OCTOBER 25
6:22 A.M.
When Lewis Gruvver woke up with a start after almost eight hours of uninterrupted slumber, the jerking of his body set the unfamiliar hammock in which he lay in a tangle of bedclothes to swaying, which caused his stomach to roll over and expel a jet of soured wine toward his throat. His mouth, as he became more conscious of his body and dizzied heart, was hangover-parched; his eyes felt as if there were grains of gunpowder beneath the lids.
He lay very still for half a minute while the motion of the hammock and his heartbeat settled down. Whose demented idea had that been anyway, to put a hammock instead of a bed in the master suite? Gruvver doubted that many Brazilians slept in hammocks, because, for one thing, the birthrate in that country would be way down. Never mind finessing your stroke, just trying to maintain a workable erection while swaying side to side would be a difficult feat. He tried to imagine himself on his back, as he now was, but with Charmaine astride him, elaborating on a theme from her sonata for meat flute and trying to maintain her balance in spite of the swing and sway of the hammock. The absurdity of the scene he was imagining had him laughing until he choked up a little more of the soured wine. He flung out a hand, discovered that Charmaine wasn't there, asleep with her knees drawn up to her belly, the way he usually found her in the morning.
But she was habitually an early riser; liked her swim or a mile run to get the day started right.
"Charmaine?"
Gruvver relaxed for a couple of minutes, giving her time to stroll in wearing her faded gold Georgia Tech sweats and her ratty softball cap from Woodward Academy, where she'd gone to high school on a partial scholarship. Carrying a cup of coffee that she'd brewed for her Lewie in the villa's kitchen. Perky as hell and already getting in a sly dig at him for passing out on her so early.
He called again; no answer. And suddenly it was time for him to pee, or way past time; so he scooted woozily across the glass floor with fish scattering colorfully beneath his feet (another dumb idea, Gruvver thought, although you could actually watch the fish, reflected in a mirrored ceiling, while scrunched in the tricky hammock, a pastime possibly of interest only to ichthyologists).
Gruvver relieved himself copiously, then undressed and lurched into a cold shower, multiple showerheads massaging him top to bottom with what felt like cactus needles. Stepped out feeling so fine, almost a whole man again instead of a conglomerate of rusty old parts. He put on one of the courtesy robes hanging in the bathroom and a pair of flip-flops and went in search of Charmaine.
Who wasn't hard to find. She was lying full-naked on the pool apron out there in a cold sunless dawning, knees drawn up as was her habit, with everything he cherished and could never get enough of innocently but lewdly exposed. Sound asleep—he assumed, after his initial shock of seeing her like that faded—because a portion of her slender right thumb was caught between her lips and strong white teeth. That sad little reversal to blissful infancy he'd never seen before, in the months they'd been sleeping together.
When Gruvver picked her up in his arms he was shocked anew. The desert air had him shuddering, it must have been around forty degrees this early, but Charmaine wasn't cold. Her skin felt as warm as if she'd been sunbathing. When he rocked her, gently at first, then more urgently in his arms, she was slow to wake up; not a muscle moved in her smooth slack face. Gruvver carefully pulled her thumb from between her teeth. She apparently had bitten down hard in her sleep and there was blood around the quick of the polished nail. A little smear of blood lay across her front teeth, still with the slightly serrated edges from childhood.
Charmaine's throat muscles bulged as she swallowed. Then she opened her eyes, looked blankly at him for a moment. Recognition came like the light of the sun. She snuggled, touched her lips with the tip of her tongue, smiled.
"Oh, man," she said. "Did I ever have me a dream."
Chapter 40
6:48 A.M.
A limo was waiting for Gulfstream N657GB when it taxied to the corner of McCarran International where private jets were parked during their owners' layovers in Vegas. They had gone through Customs while the jet was refueled in Boston, so there were no formalities to be observed. The drive to Bahla resort took eight minutes in traffic that was beginning to get heavy. It was that hour of the morning that sidles around like a whipped dog after the revels have ended.
They sat close together in the back of the limo with the tingling nerves and taut unsmiling faces of people who had of late spent a lot of time continent-hopping. The sun was rising, revealing more fully to Eden, who had never seen the Las Vegas Strip, the collection of hotels lined up like baubles on the dusty shelf of a curio shop, a slapstick mismatch of entertainment architecture still dripping with light in the blue dawn. Everything else in town looked like an untidy playground. Sand and a dearth of trees.
"Fifty years ago you could have had most of this for eight bucks an acre," the limo driver said.
"Overpriced" Bertie murmured. She had been spoiled since birth by vistas of a grander sort.
"But I understand why my granpap never took the plunge. Granpap was a leery sort of guy."
"That so?" Tom said, and pushed a button to close the blackout divider. They had other, private matters to talk about.
Past the ominous obsidian pyramid of the Luxor at the low end of the Strip, a monument to a culture that didn't know it was doomed—but no culture had ever interpreted the odds correctly—the Lincoln Grayle Theatre, approximately fifteen miles west, was dazzling by first light, a star that refused to dim in spite of the advance of morning.
"There he is," Eden said forebodingly as they approached an outsized billboard near the Strip. Lincoln Grayle, looking down on the lines of traffic waiting for a light to change, was the size of King Kong but slim and sexy in a black turtleneck. In a segment from his show playing on a Jumbotron screen, Grayle gestured with both hands as he guided not one but two levitated female assistants through the Twin Pendulums of Death. A digitized news ticker running along the bottom edge of the billboard announced the reopening of his dinner theatre on Saturday night. The show was sold out, of course. Welcome back, Linc.
"We're about to commit murder, you know—" Eden began, as if they weren't all gloomy enough at this hour.
"Is ridding the earth of an ancient scourge against the law?" Bertie interrupted, her tone uncharacteristically irritable. "He may look like a man, but he's a god who went bad."
"—Or be murdered, which is probably an inadequate way of saying what he'll do to us if we're not very lucky."
"We are lucky," Bertie said. "There's not a slot machine in town that won't cough up its jackpot to us after a couple of spins."
"Like we need the money. Crashing slots isn't luck; it's—"
"What I'm trying to say is, we make our own luck, and we're dealing this game."
"But not as long as Grayle is holding… you-know-who. What are we going to do about it? I don't even know where she is."
"He'll be devoting a lot of his time and attention to Gwen," Tom Sherard said. "So probably she's under house arrest. His house, of course."
"Where does he live?" Eden asked.
Tom had researched Grayle's living standard. "House in Hawaii, penthouse in New York. His main residence is on the southeast slope of Mount Charleston at an elevation of six thousand feet. Access strictly limited. There's a gated private road, which is patrolled. The house was featured on a segment of the Travel Channel a few months ago. It has the design and opulence one would expect of someone with Grayle's celebrity and resources. Needless to say he'll be well protected up there."
"Think he'll have us over for brunch?"
"I shouldn't have to go inside to find out if Gwen is there." He checked his watch. "I'll be leaving in about an hour, as soon as I've had breakfast and changed into something more suitable for climbing around on a mountain."
"You mean we," Bertie attempted to correct him. "You and Eden have your deal; rescuing Gwen is mine."
"Tom, you're simply not up to clambering around on rocky slopes in unfamiliar country."
"Couldn't agree more. I'd be a fool to try. But I've been provided with some expert help. Someone who knows Mount Charleston well, all eleven thousand feet of it."
"Who have you been talking to?" Bertie asked.
"Our old friend Senator Buck Hannafin. His son-in-law is an Army general, in charge of the United States Special Operations Command. Rangers, SEALS, Delta Force, tough guys all. I'm getting the loan of one of the Army's Special Forces officers, a light Colonel who grew up in southern Nevada."
"Suppose my dpg is at Grayle's place? Then what?"
"The Colonel and I will go in and retrieve her."
"While he's there?" Eden said. "Tom, I don't think so."
"That's where you come in, Eden. If we need to effect entry, it will be up to you to lure him away from home base. That won't be until late today. Meantime the two of you can get some rest. Don't leave the hotel grounds until you hear from me."
Chapter 41
9:35 A.M.
Tom Sherard met the loan-out from Special Operations, who was currently on leave, in one of the parking lots at the ski and snowboard center high on Mount Charleston. The temperature at seven thousand feet on this late October day was barely into the fifties, the sun almost too bright for the naked eye to bear.
She was leaning against the side of a dusty maroon Toyota Tundra off-roader, watching Sherard climb slowly out of his rented SUV and limp toward her, right hand on the gold lion's-head walking stick. Her expression betrayed misgivings, although he couldn't read her eyes behind the amber lenses of her mountaineer's glasses. She wore her thick dark hair cut appropriately short for her profession, a dark blue headband, a camo vest over a black sweater.
"Tom Sherard?"
"Yes."
"I'm Courtney Shyla. Nobody told me you had a bad leg."
"Knee. I'll manage."
"How did it happen?"
"I was shot."
She didn't say anything to that, but took off her glasses for a few moments to blow some dust off the lenses. Making up her mind about him. Her eyes matched the color of her headband. True-blue eyes, a firm, possibly stubborn jaw. Mid-thirties, he guessed. He wondered about some of the places she'd been to lately. Afghanistan. Iraq. The terrorist training camps in Yemen or the North African desert.
She made up her mind, gave him a slight nod. "Looks like a stout-enough stick you've got there."
"It has—unusual properties."
"You're looking at about a three-mile hike down to the magician's place. Trails most of the way. Once we get there, we'll have cover some three hundred feet above the house, with our backs to the sun."
"You've been there already?"
"Seven o'clock this morning." She picked up the backpack at her feet, unzipped a compartment, showed him footage that she had shot with her camcorder. "The subject was described to me as being about five-nine or -ten, early twenties, red hair—"
"More of a strawberry blond, with red streaks."
Courtney shook her head. "I didn't see her, but it's one hell of a house. Three levels cantilevered over a gorge. As I said, I got there early. Some Hispanic servants were up and around. And the magician was out jogging. Running, I should say, and on steep terrain. He's got powerful legs and a lot of stamina. I got a good look at him. He came within eight feet of me."
"And didn't see you?"
Courtney smiled confidently. "If I don't want to be seen—" She turned and lifted another backpack out of the bed of her truck. "Yours. I was told no one goes tango uniform, and the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of my actions, et cetera, if I stub my toes. Objective is to exfiltrate the subject and leave no tracks. What kind of physical condition is she in?"
"Good, the last time I saw her."
Courtney unzipped another bulkier compartment and let him have a look inside.
"Taser gun. You have one in your pack. They handle like an oversized .45. Close range. Aim and pull the trigger. Done any shooting?"
"Now and then," he said, semi-amused by her assumption of vast superiority in tactical matters.
"By the way, you don't have to answer this, but is the subject related to you?"
"Rather poor relation, I'd call her."
"Anything else I should know about?" Courtney said, shrugging into her backpack. Sherard did the same. "Is Grayle the badass I've heard he can be?"
"Worse than anything you may have heard. We want to avoid a run-in with Mr. Lincoln Grayle, no matter what."
"Like I said, he was less than eight feet from me. He never had a clue."
"Let's hope he didn't, Courtney. And let me caution you: you may see things before the day is done that are well beyond the realm of your experiences. You could find yourself questioning your sanity."
She laughed heartily. "Are you a magician too? You've got the patter, but you don't look the type, Tom." She glanced at his bad knee. "Let me guess. Grayle was responsible for that wound?"
"No. Actually he owes me one. I'm sure it's still fresh in his mind."
"You shot Lincoln Grayle? This is getting interesting. He didn't look shot when I saw him. Picture of health, and so good-looking."
"You can wound him, Courtney, but you can't kill him." She looked hard at him for a few moments.
"O-kay. Guess I'd head back home right now, if you hadn't been vouched for by some terrific people I really trust."
"I appreciate that vote of confidence," Sherard said sardonically.
"So just what do you mean, he can't be killed? Like, he's a living legend sort of thing? Because we all die. Have to. Otherwise in a few years there'd be gridlock in the supermarkets. Who the hell is Lincoln Grayle to beat the odds?"
They had left the parking lot and were on a wooded trail through moss-covered boulders, birds flicking through streaks of sunlight.
"Grayle is Deus inversus. The Dark Side of God. In other words—"
"Tom, I'll bet you're a lot of fun at parties, but could you just cut the shit? Sounds like you're saying Grayle is the devil."
"Most of us are either god or devil, Courtney. But watch out for those who are a combination of both."
Sherard held up his walking stick, gripping it below t
he lion's head. Might as well find out now, he thought, if Courtney Shyla had the real stuff. Imperishable grit in her soul.
"Courtney? Have a look at this."
She glanced at the lion's head. The jaws opened wide in an unheard snarl. Tom relaxed his grip. "Simba," he said softly. "Fetch." The stick flew from his hand, streaking up into trees beside the trail they were on. There was a flurry within the filigreed, reddened aspens, birds shrieking. Courtney's mouth was ajar; he could almost look down her throat. When the lion's-head stick came back to him like an arrow there was a feathery jewel of a cedar waxwing in its severe metal mouth. Tom took the stout stick in hand.
"Release," he said.
The fright-paralyzed bird dropped from the lion's jaws onto packed-down pine needles. After several seconds its wings began beating feebly. Then the waxwing recovered its wits and ability to fly and swooped off into shadows.
Courtney turned and walked away from the trail to a rock outcropping, sat there with knees apart, her head down. The westerner's alert toughness, that touch of renegade moll, had vanished. She made a fist and pounded rhythmically on one thigh, hard enough so that Sherard was afraid she'd injure herself.
"Oh! Jesus!" she said, shaking her head vehemently.
"You can go home now, if you want," Sherard said coolly.
She stopped beating up on herself. Raised her head, posture hardening.
"Damn you!"
"I know."
"I haven't freaked so bad since I was ten years old."
"I believe that."
"Who are you?"
"I like to think I'm one of the good guys, Courtney. Right now some other good guys who are dear to me need all the help we can give them. If you're strong enough"
Courtney filled her lungs. Her lower lip was turning white between her teeth. Finally she eased the bite, pushed herself away from the rock, nodded tautly.
"That's what I'm here for. Just don't pull any more of your magic or witchcraft or whatever the hell it was on me. I like it here in the real world. Wherever you come from, I don't think I could live there."
