"Tach?"

"Coming," he replied as Roulette dipped the cloth into the vase on the coffee table and quickly began wiping away the worst of the gore from his face.

"The right side's not too bad," she whispered. "But don't let him see that shiner." The left eye was so badly damaged that it had swollen completely shut.

"I'll be careful," he said in a carefully neutral tone, but his right eye seemed feverishly bright, the gaze intent. She again felt that cloud kiss about the edges of her mind. And she understood, or least hoped or thought she understood. This might be their chance. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and was rewarded by a flash of that sweet smile, somewhat marred now by the split and swollen lip.

Two of their captors took up a position on the wall beside the door, one behind and slightly to the left of Tachyon, gun pressed into the alien's kidneys. Tommy laid a hand on Roulette's right shoulder. The reptilian joker indicated the kitchen with a jerk of the head, and wasp flitted away. The droning of his wings lessened in intensity. Tachyon barely cracked the door, peeped out.

"Hiram."

"What on earth took you so long?"

"I'm entertaining." A subtle stress on the final word.

"You unplugged your phone. We've been trying to get in touch with you for hours."

The joker laid a hand over Tachyon's, trying to force the door shut, but Tachyon threw himself backward, pulling it open. The alien went sprawling, and the portly and impeccably dressed Hiram came w.i.l.l.y-nilly into the room.

"Hey," said a second man as he stepped through the door, then snapped his mouth shut as a gun was thrust into his side. Snake-face quietly closed the door.

"Good G.o.d, Tachyon, what is all this?"

"What does it look like, Hiram?" He scrambled to his feet, and sent a sour look about the room.

Two of the Chinese moved in, and briskly searched the newcomers.

"They're clean."

"What do we do now?" whined Tommy.

"Ssshut up."

The smaller man gave a golliwog's grin, thrust a hand into his pocket, and pointed with his forefinger. "Okay! Everybody freeze, I've got you covered."

Even Tachyon looked disgusted, and someone said, "f.u.c.k off, a.s.shole, I just frisked you down."

The man shrugged, removed his hand, studied the finger for a long moment, then pointed it at the joker and said "Pop!" Snake-face vanished.

Two of the Chinese clutched their heads, and collapsed with a sigh. "Hiram, look look out! out!" bellowed Tachyon.

The big man hesitated for an instant, then belly-flopped between sofa and coffee table as Tommy let go with his .45 right next to Roulette's ear. There was an earsplitting boom boom, and the delicate bowl on the coffee table shattered, sending a cascade of water and blossoms across Hiram's back, and leaving a single gardenia perched forlornly on the curve of his ample rump.

At Tachyon's yell Hiram's companion stepped backward, opened the door, and vanished into the hall. The Chinese immediately behind the alien raised his gun, then formed a snoring puddle on the floor.

Tachyon pivoted to face Tommy. It was a face-off, Tachyon's power versus the jerk of a finger on a trigger. Which would be faster? Roulette seized the empty chair beside her, and slammed it into Tommy's shins. He howled, dropped the gun, and went for her, arms outstretched like a drunk trying to embrace an elusive lover. Roulette danced back, poking at him with the chair.

There was a buzz like a thousand angry bees, and Wasp came blitzing out of the kitchen. Hiram, heaving off the floor like a breaching whale, tightened his fist, and the joker slammed into the floor, wings folding like an origami figure.

Tommy grasped a leg of the chair, and for an instant they played tug-of-war as Roulette tried to keep a grip on her inadequate defense. His free hand groped at his back, and he pulled free a knife. Roulette abandoned her defense of the chair, and ran, screaming. He caught her by the hair, and swung her across his body. She never knew whether he meant to use her as a hostage, or to kill her out of hand, for suddenly his face went slack, and he let out a loud "Ooof." The arm across her chest felt like a steel girder, and they both collapsed in a heap. She struggled free though it felt like he weighed several tons. This was more than her overset nerves could stand. The screams that had been tearing at her throat subsided into hysterical laughter, and de-generated from there into hiccuping sobs.

"Hush, hush." Gentle hands stroked her hair, wiped away the tears, held her close. "You're quite safe now. It's all over." She laid her head on Tachyon's shoulder, and drew a shaky breath.

"What the devil is going on here?" Hiram exploded in aggrieved accents.

Tachyon righted a chair, eased Roulette into it. "Hiram, my deepest thanks, yours was a timely arrival."

"Who are these men?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know. They wanted a book."

Worchester's brown eyes goggled, and he stared suspiciously at his friend as if suspecting inebriation.

Hiram's companion thrust his head around the door. "Should we call the police?"

Tachyon stepped to meet him, extended a hand. "My thanks to you as well, but what did you do to . . . ?"He made a helpless gesture at the s.p.a.ce that a few seconds before had contained Snake-face.

The man in the brown suit shrugged. "I'm a projecting teleport. Point my fingers, and pop, they're gone."

"Where? Where has he gone?"

"The men's room at Freakers."

"The men's room at-"

He shrugged. "I can only send people to some place I know."

"Wish you had known the Tombs."

"Oh, I do, but . . ." He shuffled his feet, stared at the ceiling, glanced at Hiram, looked back to Tachyon. "I already sent one guy there today, and the cops are p.i.s.sed. I didn't want any more trouble."

"So we've lost him, and I'll never know what book."

"I'd say that's the least of our worries today," Hiram said.

"Why?"

"If certain people would show more responsibility, and not unplug their phones, they wouldn't have to ask."

"Don't be testy."

"Tachyon, I've had a rather difficult day . . ."

"I've had better myself."

They stared in silence at each other, then Worchester sighed, and ran a hand across his bald pate, and smoothed down his full beard. Tachyon smiled, and said in a softer tone, "Shall we try again?" He tightened the belt on his robe, seated himself on the arm of the sofa. "Now, what brought you here?"

"Excuse me, but what about these . . . these . . . goons?" asked Roulette.

"You needn't worry, they will sleep for a good many hours."

"And him?" She pointed at the wasp.

"He weighs about six hundred pounds," Hiram answered. "I doubt he'll go anywhere."

"Oh," she said faintly.

"The Astronomer's raging through the city," Hiram said. "I was afraid he might have gotten to you already. You know about the Howler, of course. Kid Dinosaur's dead, too, torn to pieces at Jetboy's Tomb, and the Turtle was attacked and reportedly crashed into the Hudson. He hasn't been seen since."

Worchester caught the slight doctor as he swayed, and eased him onto the couch. "Brandy," he snapped, and Roulette forced tension back into her weak knees, and obeyed. "I apologize for putting it so baldly, but there's no good way to deliver news like that."

"I cannot believe . . . the Turtle Turtle, you say? And that child!" Tachyon covered his face with his hands.

In a few brutal words Worchester appraised them of the events at the Tomb.

Roulette didn't notice when Hiram lifted the gla.s.s from her slack fingers. She was seeing a pointed-faced kid, cute despite the wash of pimples across his chin, teasing his elders. She wondered what his dreams and goals had been, and she felt anguish for his parents. A sound that was both an agonized cry and a sob tore from her, and she went down into darkness.

Unfortunately it was not empty. Within waited the twisted body of her her child, and the burning eyes of her master. child, and the burning eyes of her master.

Fortunato got as far as a middle-aged woman guarding the entrance to the NBC sound stages. He could see the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza through the huge window to his right. He couldn't get any sense of Peregrine being in the building, but she was an ace and it was possible she could block him somehow.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we simply can't give out that kind of information about our performers."

Fortunato locked eyes with her. "Page her," he said.

Her hand moved involuntarily to the phone, then hesitated. "She's not in the building. Letterman's doing her show tonight."

"Tell me where she is."

The woman shook her head. Her tightly permed red hair followed her every move. "I can't." She looked like she was about to cry. "She had some important dinner to go to tonight. That's why she's not here for the taping."

"All right," Fortunato said. "Thank you. You've been very helpful." The woman smiled tentatively.

Fortunato leaned his head against the elevator doors as he dropped back down to street level. They still hadn't found the Turtle's body. Peregrine's apartment was empty. n.o.body had seen Jumpin' Jack Flash in weeks.

The game had been going on for seventeen years, and now it was down to the last twelve hours. He's beating the s.h.i.t out of me, Fortunato thought. The only time I ever hurt him was when I broke that f.u.c.king machine and stopped TIAMAT.

He was exhausted. Up all night with the Mirror of Hathor, chasing around uselessly ever since. You have to turn it around, he told himself. Strike back at him, hurt him.

He wanted it so bad he could taste it.

But how could he even find someone that he couldn't see?

How?

CHAPTER 13.

6:00 p.m. p.m.

Spector decided to go ahead and hit the Gambiones for Latham and his Shadow Fist friends. He had to operate on the a.s.sumption that he'd find a way to keep the Astronomer from killing him. If he could manage that, his new connections might mean some big jobs in the very near future.

He didn't like spending money on clothes, but there was no way he could go into the Haiphong Lily with blood spattered all over his suit. He'd decided on this clothing store because it didn't look like much from the outside. It didn't look like much from the inside, either. There were no fancy dressing rooms and too much dust on the floor. It was his kind of place. Spector slid a dark brown coat off the rack and pulled it on. He walked over to the mirror and winced. He looked like a man in a fudgsicle.

"Can I help you, sir?" The clerk was short with tufts of curly red hair on the sides of his head and a white cloth tape measure draped around his neck.

Spector struggled out of the coat; his arm was still bothering him. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to him. "I need a suit. Brown's not my color. Got anything in gray?"

The clerk walked over to the rack and started poking though the suits. He was muttering to himself and shaking his head.

Spector made sure no one was looking, then pulled a few hundred-dollar bills out of his brown envelope.

The little man turned around, holding an ash-gray suit. "Mm. This has possibilities, I think. Is this yours?" He pointed to Spector's old coat, which was lying on a straight-back chair. The clerk looked close and ran his hands over the material. "What's this all over? Bloodstains?"

"It's fake blood. I was down in Jokertown earlier. Pretty wild down there." Spector took the gray jacket and put it on. It was a little large, but fit him well in the shoulders. "I'll take it."

"What? Don't you want to try on the pants?" The clerk blinked and stood up straight.

"That's why I've got a belt. How much is it?" He draped the pants over his good arm.

"With alterations, two hundred and fifty dollars. Nice material, though. Worth every penny. You can't get workmanship like this often anymore."

"I don't need any alterations," Spector said. The clerk opened his mouth to speak, but Spector raised a finger. "I've got an aunt in Jersey who loves to do this kind of stuff. So how much?"

"Two-twenty."

Spector handed him the money and picked up his other coat, feeling for the envelope to make sure it was still there. He looked in the mirror again. Not bad, he thought. You may be the best dressed killer at the Haiphong Lily tonight. He dropped his old pants and stepped into the new ones. They were big on him, but he'd manage.

The clerk returned with Spector's receipt and change. "Here you go, sir. Let us know if you change your mind about those alterations. I can promise you the finest fit in town."

Spector took the money and thrust it into his pocket. "Sure." The bell over the doorway tinkled as he opened it to step outside. "An angel just got his wings." He cleaned out the pockets of his old suit as he walked down the street, then dumped it into the first trash can he saw.

The alligator had a waking dream-or at least as much of a dream as reptiles have.

He was no longer here in the tunnel deep below the pulsating city. He was someplace else, somewhere warmer and lighter, where the water was hospitable and frequently full of live, darting food. The reptile ghosted along the bayou, most of his body concealed below the surface, with nostrils and orbital ridges protruding up out of the water and cutting small wakes.

After a time, he entered a place where the trees seemed to grow upside down, their gnarled roots twisting in dense wooden knots above the water. Above him, the canopy of interlaced branches blocked most of the sun. Shadows increasingly dappled his back as he slid along.

Sounds came to him, amplified by the water. He recognized the patterns-food, though food that sometimes could injure him if he were incautious. He homed in on the vibrations.