by Clive Barker
"Have you lost him?" Tesla said.
"I told you: enough!"
"He's not dead?"
"No, he's . . . he's riding the waves."
"Surfing on Quiddity?" she said.
"Doing his damnedest."
"And the Iad?"
"Are behind him. I was right, the tide has changed. They're coming."
"Describe what you saw," she said.
"I told you. They're vast."
"That's all?"
"Like mountains, moving. Mountains covered in locusts, or fleas. Big and small. I don't know. None of it makes much sense."
"Well we just have to close the schism as quickly as we can. Mountains I can take. But let's keep the fleas out, huh?"
Hotchkiss was at the front door when they got down there. Grillo had already spoken to him about the Trinity, and he had a better idea than asking Abernethy.
"There's a book store in the Mall," he said. "Do you want me to go look up Trinities there?"
"It can't hurt," Tesla said. "If the Trinity scared Kissoon, maybe it'll scare his paymasters. Where's Grillo?"
"Out looking for a car. He'll take you up the Hill. That's where you're both going?" He glanced in Jaffe's direction, repugnance on his face.
"That's where we're going," Tesla said. "And that's where we'll stay. So you know where to find us."
"Right to the end?" Hotchkiss said, not taking his eyes off Jaffe.
"Right to the end."
Grillo had found and hot-wired a car that had been left in the motel lot.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" she asked him as they drove up towards the Hill. The Jaff sat slumped on the back seat, his eyes closed.
"I did a piece, way back in my investigative phase—"
"On car thieves?"
"That's right. I picked up a few tricks of the trade, and I've never forgotten them. I'm a mine of useless information Always something new out of Grillo."
"But nothing about Trinity?"
"You keep coming back to that."
"Desperation," she said. "We haven't got much else to hold on to."
"Maybe it's something to do with what D'Amour said, about the Savior."
"A last-minute intervention from on high?" Tesla said. "I'm not going to hold my breath waiting."
"Shit."
"Problem?"
"Up ahead."
A crevasse had opened up at the intersection they were approaching. It was across both street and sidewalk. There was no way past it up the Hill.
"We'll have to try another way," Grillo said. He put the car into reverse, backed up, and took a cross-street for three blocks. There was evidence of the Grove's growing instability on every side. Lampposts and trees felled, sidewalks buckled, water running from fractured pipes.
"It's all going to blow," Tesla said.
"Ain't that the truth."
The next street he tried gave them clear access to the Hill, and they headed up. As they began the ascent Tesla caught sight of a second car, coming off the feed road from the freeway. It wasn't a police car, unless the local cops had taken up driving Volkswagens and painting them fluorescent yellow.
"Foolhardy," she said.
"What is?"
"Somebody coming back into town."
"Probably a salvage operation," Grillo said. "People taking what they can, while they can."
"Yep."
The color of the car, so garishly inappropriate, lingered with her for a little while. She wasn't sure why; perhaps because it was so very West Hollywood, and she doubted she'd ever see her apartment in North Huntley Drive again.
"Looks like we've got a welcome committee," Grillo said.
"Perfect movie moment," Tesla said. "Step on it, driver."
"Lousy dialogue."
"Just drive."
Grillo swerved to avoid collision with the patrol car, put his foot on the accelerator, and was past the vehicle before its driver had a chance to block him.
"There'll be more at the top," he said.
Tesla looked back at the car they'd left behind. There was no attempt to give chase. Its driver would simply be alerting the rest of the unit.
"Do whatever you've got to do," Tesla told Grillo.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning trash 'em if they get in our way. We've got no time to make nice."
"The house is going to be crawling with cops," he warned.
"I doubt it," she said. "I think they'll be keeping their distance."
She was right. As they came in sight of Coney Eye it was apparent that the patrolmen had decided this whole mess was beyond them. The cars were parked well down from the gate, the men themselves standing a good way behind their vehicles. Most were just staring up at the house, but there was a contingent of four officers waiting at a barricade that had been set up, blocking the Hill.
"You want me to drive straight through?" Grillo said.
' Damn right!"
He put his foot down. Two of the quartet ahead went for their guns; the other two threw themselves aside. Grillo rammed the barricade at speed. The wood splintered and broke, a piece shattering the windshield. He thought he heard a shot in the confusion but as he was still driving, assumed it hadn't killed him. The car struck one of the patrol vehicles a glancing blow, its back end slewing around and striking another, before Grillo regained control and headed it for the open gates of Buddy Vance's house. Engine revved, they roared up the driveway.
"Nobody's following," Tesla said.
"I don't fucking blame them," Grillo replied. As they reached the bend in the driveway he put on the brakes. "This is near enough," he said. "Jesus. Will you look at that?"
"I'm looking."
The facade of the house resembled a cake that had been left out all night in a heavy rain, the whole thing softened and thrown out of whack. There were no straight lines in the door frames, no right angles in the windows—even those at the very top of the house. The power Jaffe had unleashed here had sucked everything towards its maw, distorting the bricks, the tiles, the panes of glass; the whole house tending towards the schism. When Tesla and Grillo had staggered out through the doorway the place had been a maelstrom, but the hole, once opened, seemed to be pacified. There was no sign of further violence. There was no doubting the proximity of the schism, however. When they stepped from the car they felt its energies in the air. It made the hair on the back of their necks stand up straight, and their guts shudder. It was as quiet as the eye of a hurricane. A tremulous calm just begging to be broken.
Tesla glanced through the car window at their passenger. Jaffe, sensing her scrutiny, opened his eyes. The fear in him was perfectly plain. However much skill he'd had at concealing his feelings in the past—and she suspected he'd had much—he was beyond such pretenses now.
"Do you want to come see?" she said.
He didn't leap at the offer, so she left him where he was. She had a duty to perform before they actually ventured inside, and she could give him time to work up his courage while she performed it. She headed back the way they'd come, until she emerged from behind the line of palms that bordered the driveway. The cops had followed as far as the gate, but no further. It occurred to her that it wasn't simply fear that kept them from following, but orders from their superiors. She didn't dare hope the cavalry would be rolling up the Hill in the next few minutes, but perhaps they were mustering, and these footsoldiers had been instructed to keep their distance until the full force arrived. They were certainly nervous. She emerged with her hands up, to face a row of levelled muzzles.
"This property's off-limits," somebody shouted from below. "Come back down with your hands in the air. All of you."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Tesla replied. "Just keep it off-limits, will you? We've got business here. Who's in charge?" she asked, feeling like a visitor from space, asking to be taken to their leader.
A man in a well-cut suit stepped into view from behind one of the vehicles. He was not, she guessed, a policeman. More likely FBI.
<
br /> "I'm in charge," he said.
"Are you getting back-up?" she asked.
"Who are you?" he demanded to know.
"Are you getting back-up?" she said again. "You're going to need more than a few patrol cars, believe me. There's going to be a major invasion starting from this house."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just get the Hill surrounded. And seal the Grove. We're not going to get a second chance."
"I'm only going to ask one more time—" the leader began, but she cut him off short, slipping out of sight before he could finish his demands.
"You're good at that," Grillo said.
"You know what practice makes," she said.
"They could have shot you," Grillo observed.
"But they didn't," she said, returning to the car and opening the door. "Shall we?" she said to Jaffe. He ignored her invitation at first. "The sooner we start the sooner we finish," she said. Sighing, he got out. "I want you to stay here," she told Grillo. "If any of them make a move, holler."
"You just don't want me inside," he said.
"That too."
"Do you have any clue what you're going to do in there?"
"We're going to make like a couple of critics," Tesla said. "We're going to fuck the Art."
Hotchkiss had been an avid reader in his younger days, but Carolyn's death had killed his taste for fiction. Why bother to read thrillers written by men who'd never heard gunfire? They were all lies. Not just the novels. These books, too, he thought, as he dug through the shelves in the Mormon Book Store. Volumes of stuff about revelation and God's work on earth. There were a few that listed Trinity in their index, but the reference was always in passing, and illuminated nothing. The only satisfaction he got from the search was the pleasure of throwing the place into disarray, tossing the books aside. Their pat certitudes disgusted him. If he'd had the time he might have set a match to the lot.
As he moved deeper into the shop he saw a bright yellow Volkswagen turn into the lot. Two men stepped out. They couldn't have looked more unalike. One was dressed in a dusty ragbag of ill-fitting garments, and had—even from a distance—a face ugly enough to make a mother weep. His companion was a tanned Adonis by comparison, dressed in peacock casuals. Neither, Hotchkiss judged, knew where they were, nor the danger they were in being here. They looked around at the empty lot in bewilderment. Hotchkiss went to the door.
"You guys should get out of here," he called across to them.
The peacock looked in his direction.
"This is Palomo Grove?"
"Yeah."
"What happened? Was there a 'quake?"
"It's coming," Hotchkiss said. "Listen, just do yourselves a favor. Get the fuck out of here."
The ugly one spoke now, his face looking more misshapen the closer he got.
"Tesla Bombeck," he said.
"What about her?" Hotchkiss said.
"I have to see her. My name's Raul."
"She's up the Hill," Hotchkiss said. He'd heard Tesla mention the name Raul when speaking to Grillo; he didn't recall in what context.
"I've come to help her," Raul said.
"And you?" Hotchkiss asked the Adonis.
"Ron," came the reply. "I'm just the chauffeur," he shrugged. "Hey, if you want me out of here I'm happy to go."
"It's up to you," Hotchkiss said, returning into the store. "It's not safe here. That's all I'm saying."
"I hear you," Ron said.
Raul had lost interest in the conversation, and was scanning the stores. He seemed to be sniffing as he did so.
"What do you want me to do?" Ron called over to him.
The man looked back at his friend.
"Go home," he said.
"You don't want me to take you up to find Tesla?" Ron replied.
"I'll find her myself."
"It's a long walk, man."
Raul cast a glance in Hotchkiss's direction. "We'll work something out," he said.
Hotchkiss didn't volunteer for duty, but went back to his search, paying only half an ear's attention to the conversation that continued in the lot.
"Are you sure you don't want us to go find Tesla? I thought this was urgent?"
"It was. It is. I just . . . need to spend a little time here first."
"I can wait. I don't mind."
"I told you, no."
"You don't want me to take you back? I thought maybe we could hang out tonight. You know, go to a few bars
"Another time, maybe."
"Tomorrow?"
"Just another time."
"I get it. This is thanks but no thanks, right?"
"If you say so."
"You're fucking weird, man. First you come on to me. Now you don't want to know. Well, fuck you. I can get my dick sucked plenty of places."
Hotchkiss glanced round to see the Adonis stalking back to his car. The other man was already out of sight. Pleased to have the distraction over with he went back to searching the shelves. The section of books on Motherhood didn't look too promising, but he began to make his way through it anyhow. It was, as he'd anticipated, all pap and platitudes. There was nothing in the pages that made reference, even obliquely, to any Trinity. Only talk of motherhood as a divine calling, woman in partnership with God, bringing new life into the world, her greatest and most noble task. And for the offspring, trite advice. "Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right."
He dutifully went through every title, throwing the volumes aside when they proved useless, until he'd exhausted the shelves. There were only two sections remaining to be searched. Neither of them seemed too promising. He stood up and stretched, looking out towards the sun-beaten lot. A sickening sense of foreboding was churning in his guts. The sun was shining, but for how long?
Beyond the lot—a long way beyond—he caught sight of the yellow Beetle, making its way out of the Grove towards the freeway. He didn't envy the Adonis his liberty. He had no wish to get in a car and drive. As places to die went, the Grove was as good as any: comfortable, familiar, empty. If he died screaming, nobody would hear his cowardice. If he died silently, nobody would mourn him. Let the Adonis go. He presumably had his life to live, somewhere. And it would be brief. If they failed in their endeavors here in the Grove— and the night beyond this world broke through—it would be very brief. If they succeeded (small hope) it would still be brief.
And always better in the ending than the beginning, the interval between being what it was.
If the exterior of Coney Eye had been the eye of a hurricane, the interior was a glint in that eye. A sharper stillness, which made Tesla alive to every tic in her cheek and temple, every small raggedness in her breath. With Jaffe following in after her she crossed the hallway towards the lounge where he'd committed his crime against nature. The evidence of that crime was everywhere around them, but cold now, the distortions set like so much melted wax.
She stepped through into the room itself. The schism was still in place: the entire environment pulled towards a hole no more than six feet across. It was quiescent. There was no visible sign that it was trying to make itself any wider. If and when the Iad reached the threshold of the Cosm, they'd have to step over it one by one, unless, with this lesion begun, they could simply hack it open till it gaped.
"It doesn't look too dangerous," she said to Jaffe. "We've got a chance if we move quickly."
"I don't know how to seal it."
"Try. You knew how to open it."
"That was instinct."
"And what do your instincts tell you now?"
"That I haven't got the power left in me," he said. He raised his broken hands. "I ate it up and spat it out."
"It was all in your hands?"
"I think so."
She remembered the night at the Mall: the Jaff passing poison into Fletcher's system from fingers which seemed to be sweating potency. Now those same hands were decaying wreckage. And yet she couldn't bring herself to believe power was a matter of anato
my. Kissoon had been no demigod, but his scrawny body was a reservoir of the direst suits. Will was the key to authority, and Jaffe seemed to have none left.
"So you can't do it," she said simply.
"No."
"Then maybe I can."
He narrowed his eyes. "I doubt that," he said, with the faintest trace of condescension in his tone. She pretended not to have noticed.
"I can try," she said. "The Nuncio got into me too, remember? You're not the only God in the squad."
This remark bore the fruit it had been planted to produce.
"You?" he said. "You've not a hope in hell." He looked down at his hands, then back up at the schism. "I'm the one who opened it. I'm the only one who ever dared do that. And I'm the only one who can seal it up again."
He walked past her towards the schism, that same lightness in his step as she'd noticed when they were climbing out of the caves. It allowed him to negotiate the uneven floor with relative ease. It was only when he came within a yard or two of the hole that his pace slowed. Then he stopped completely.
"What is it?" she said.
"Come look for yourself."
She started across the room towards him. It wasn't simply the visible world that was twisted and dragged towards the hole, she realized; so was the invisible. The air, and the minute particles of dust and dirt it carried, was hauled out of true. Space itself was knotted up, its convolutions pliable enough to be pressed through but only with the greatest difficulty. The effect got stronger the closer to the hole she went. Her body, already bruised and battered within an inch of its Lazarite life, was barely equal to the challenge. But she persevered. And step by step she achieved her goal, coming close enough to the hole to see down its throat. The sight was not easy to take. The world she'd assumed all her life to be complete and comprehensible was here undone utterly. It was a distress she'd not felt since childhood when somebody (she'd forgotten who) had taught her the trick of looking at infinity by putting two mirrors face to face, each staring into the other's reflection. She'd been twelve, thirteen at most, and completely spooked by the idea of this emptiness echoing emptiness, back and forth, back and forth, until they reached the limits of light. For years after she'd remembered that moment, confronted with a physical representation of something her mind revolted at. Here was the same process. The schism, defying her every idea about the way the world was. Reality as a comparative science.
