One-Eyed Jack (28 page)

Besides, the assassin might be
willing
to kill his opposite numbers now, but that didn’t mean he was
eager
to. The American thought he still had a use for them, if they could be taken alive. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be there to crawl forward as if blithely into a trap.

He was just pausing to consider his options when he felt someone nudge his thigh. He glanced down, through the triangle made by his upper arm and body and the floor, and smiled when he realized that Jackie had recovered a three-foot pipefitter’s wrench from somewhere and was passing it up. Still sprawled on his belly, heartbeat echoing so loudly he could hear it over the whir of the turbines, the American hefted the wrench in his right hand. It was balanced like a hatchet, all the weight at the outside end, but he’d thrown a hatchet or two in his time—

Gesturing the Russian past him, he hitched himself into a knee-dropped crouch behind the next shaft housing, and swung the wrench experimentally a few times to get the feel of it.

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

He rested one hand on the railing, peeked around the edge of the green-painted shaft housing, and held his breath. The Russian slithered across the long bolted-down tongue of the housing and paused there, while Jackie began edging forward over steel tiles and open floor, keeping the body of the next turbine between himself and the assassin’s suspected position. The widow was opposite now; he’d have a clear shot at her whenever he cared to try.

A hell of a gamble,
the American thought, and readied himself for a long overhand tomahawk-throw as the widow caught the railing on the third turbine with both hands and dragged herself up. Meanwhile, the Russian hoisted himself onto fingertips and toes and set himself against the nearest shaft housing like a sprinter against the blocks.

The vibration through the floor and railing was dizzying; the whole dam thrummed with energy, chained, directed, like the pacing of a beast on a lead. The American took his hand off the railing and shook his head to clear it, then forced himself to watch not the girl, and not his partner, but the narrow space behind the junction box.

Jackie caught up with the American, Stewart dogging his heels. The Englishman must be bringing up the rear, the American thought, but didn’t turn to check. Something moved in the niche, and he raised his arm—

The widow seemed to come out of nowhere, just as the assassin was raising his gun to draw a bead on the American. The American’s attention had been on the target, but she must have run up the railing on the shaft housing, turned a handspring, and come down in position to hook the assassin’s wrist and snap the arm up behind his back.

He didn’t drop the gun. The chatter and zing of bullets loose in the concrete-and-steel powerhouse sent the American ducking into the uncertain shelter of the turbine shaft. He heard someone yelp and hoped it was shock and not trauma. The assassin got off another three-shot burst; the American risked a peek around the housing and saw the widow down on one knee, both hands clutched over the assassin’s as she wrestled him for the gun. She’d gotten the muzzle canted up, over her head, but not far enough up for anybody running to assist her to be safe, and the assassin was still too well-concealed for a tossed wrench to do much good.

Until the widow dropped her weight backward, got one foot up, twisted hard and set it in the assassin’s midsection as she let the sudden shift in balance overset them both. She rolled on her back, the chattering rifle made the axle of a wheel, and kicked out hard with both feet as bullets whined and zinged.

The assassin went one way. The automatic rifle—not an M14, but something more modern—went another, and the widow went a third. The American snapped his arm back and threw, hard, as the assassin came to his feet, his pistol already in his hand, and turned the same second as Stewart lunged across bare steel toward the automatic rifle.

The turn saved him. He snapped off one shot in the same general direction as the widow, and then the hurled wrench struck him high on the shoulder and knocked him sideways. He lost the gun—the American heard it go—and dove after it, narrowly eluding the Russian’s attempt at a scissors takedown.

The Russian fell heavily as the assassin bailed over the railing, vaulted the nearest shaft housing, and pelted down the length of the powerhouse, moving with a hurdler’s grace. Stewart raised the automatic rifle; Jackie jumped over the railing and caught his wrist. “Wait! Ricochets.”

The American didn’t lower the rifle, but he turned to give Jackie a sideways glance and sighed.

Just as the Russian cursed—actually cursed, words the American hadn’t known he
knew
—and dashed the width of the powerhouse. He went to his knees in the shadow of the junction box, swearing, and the American went after, swinging over the railing like an out-of-practice gymnast over a vaulting horse.

He landed beside his partner, the steel decking slick under shoes and knees, trying not to see the Russian’s hands scarlet to the wrists—blood opaque as milk, his cheek and hair streaked with red where he’d pushed strands out of his face—bent over the widow and breathing into her open mouth.

The American felt for a pulse, felt for the heartbeat, straddled the widow’s slim hips as his partner breathed for her and knotted the fingers of one hand through the other. He pressed his fists against her breast—

“No,” he said, when he’d meant to begin counting, because his hands found the wound when they meant to find her ribcage, and he felt the sticky seep of blood and he knew. No chance.

Not a chance in hell.

“No,” he said, and put a bloody hand on his partner’s shoulder, and when his partner would have shaken him off, he grabbed and
pulled
. “No good,” he said. “No, no good. Come on, it’s over—”

The Russian slapped his hand away.

“God
damn
it,” the American swore, and grabbed his partner by the shoulder, and yanked, and the Russian staggered back so hard he overbalanced and fell on his ass. “It’s
over
.”

“No,” the Russian said, but looked at him, and when he nodded, closed his eyes. He put a bloody hand down on the steel, pushed himself to a crouch, left a stark print in sticky red behind. The widow lay sprawled, eyes open, one hand up as if to wave goodbye. The Russian looked for a moment, and then he wiped his bloody mouth on his bloody hand and turned away. “Give me that pistol,” he said, and looked up to find himself staring into the Englishman’s eyes.

“No,” the Englishman said, checking the magazine with practiced hands, though he never carried a weapon. He counted the load, smashed the clip back into the Walther’s grip, and chambered a round. “No,” he said, as Stewart mutely extended the captured rifle toward the Russian, “this gun is mine.”

“Come on,” Stewart said, and laid a hand on the Russian’s elbow. The Russian looked up, dazed. “Don’t waste it.
Come on
.”

One-Eyed Jack and the Rag-Tag Band.

Las Vegas. Summer, 2002.

We went into the Colorado downstream of the powerhouse, having recollected the legends and dragged them back in our proper time. Well, mine and Stewart’s proper time. This was the new Colorado, tamed, stripped of its ancient mysteries; the only weapon left to its old treacherous soul was drought. But here, below the dam, the water was cold enough to be dangerous, turbid with perfidious undertows.

It washed the widow’s blood away. Not much of a sacrifice to appease the river’s lapping tongue, but all we had to offer. We swam, or stayed afloat, and let the current push us. There wasn’t much by way of white water here, fortunately, and we dragged ourselves out at Ringbolt Rapids, wheezing.

I wasn’t sure if I was more worried about Tribute, the Russian, or the Englishman. I mean sure, the vampire was chained up behind running water in some sort of temple hidden in the belly of Hoover Dam, but he could pretty much take care of himself. The Russian was almost affectless—face emotionless as he straightened his soaked shirt-cuffs and tightened his tie, socks squelching in his shoes. And the Englishman very carefully made sure his hat was tilted just right on his head, and then set about checking that the action on the assassin’s Walther was only wet, and not fouled. He handled the gun with professional distaste, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth down.

It didn’t reassure me.

The John Henrys dissolving into view on the riverbank were slightly better news. Doc wasn’t coughing, for once, but his eyes burned fever-bright and I could see the pebbled river bank through his shoes. He stepped forward. John Henry stayed back; still happy to let Doc do the talking.

Stewart slung an arm around my waist, as if I needed help standing up straight, and maybe I did. It was good to lean on his solid warmth, anyway. So, all right, I barely knew her, and the spies were using us as much as we were using them. So that’s how the game is played. Every time I looked over at the Russian, his drenched suit coat hanging on him like a tattered scarecrow draped over a cross made of sticks, my gut twisted.

I gave Stewart an extra squeeze, and turned my attention on Doc. “What’s up?”

He rolled his dead eyes. Yeah, I guess even a ghost has heard that one plenty.

“John got a few words in with Tribute,” he said. “He says it’s not just Angel and the Mage. He says the ghost of Bugsy’s in on it too. And Bugsy’s probably a little ghost, but he’s one of the angry ones. Unless he’s a legend.”

“If Bugsy’s a legend, that’s ungood,” Stewart said. Characteristic, that knack for understatement. “’Cause he can probably track our ghosts same as we can track his.”

“Thought of that,” Doc said, and spat blood. “Not sure what we can do about it, though, ’specially as they’ve got a Mage.”

“Running water,” I said, and Stewart looked at me. Hey, you don’t get to be a hundred something and genius of Las Vegas without learning a little about magic.

“We can’t spend all our time in a canoe,” he countered.

The American stepped forward, obviously following at least the audible half of the conversation. I held up one hand, and he hesitated, not too patiently, and then nodded, removed himself from the circle, and went after his partner.

“But you can get in to see Tribute. That’s good, that means we can talk to him. Do you think one of you could kind of . . . hang around and watch his back? Come get us if anything changes, or if there’s any news?” Doc nodded. I sighed, and rolled my shoulders back, and stretched my neck. “We’ve got to get back to town, Doc. We’ve got to figure out what’s going on with these guys, and put a stop to it once and for all.”

“Well, we found out about the secret heart of Hoover,” Stewart said. “That’s something. And we found out there’s a ghost-dam that’s just as real as the real dam, and that John Henry can put a dent in it if he gets a chance to swing his hammer a bit.”

“And we found out where they’re keeping Tribute.”

“Until they move him.” Stewart looked at me, bright-eyed, and glanced over at the spies.

I followed his gaze. The American had his hand on the Russian’s shoulder, next to the strap of the assassin’s machine gun, and if I strained hard enough I could just hear him talking, over the babble of the river. The Russian’s head was down, his hair draggled in his face like a wet collie’s. He turned the Russian so the Russian had to look at him—although the Russian didn’t look up until the American physically took charge of him.

“How like you to take me swimming in my clothes. Alas, suit coat. I knew it, Horatio. A garment of infinite jest—”

The Russian’s frown didn’t shift, but he didn’t step back, and I saw his shoulders rise and fall on a deep, conscious breath. “How come I’m relegated to Horatio?”

The American smiled. Even I could see it for sympathy, although his voice stayed teasing. “You’d rather be Hamlet? Poisoned, stabbed, and betrayed?”

“I’m not sure either of us taking on a role as Hamlet is wise, at this juncture.” The Russian rubbed his face, looked down, and pulled himself together. Literally: it looked like a marionette straightening when skilled hands picked up the crosspieces and the limb joints settled into one another swinging. He turned, and stared his partner in the eye. “Besides, don’t you see us in a more contemporary role?”

“Contemporary?” Deadpan, the consummate straightman.

“Frick and Frack?”

The American started laughing. “Partner mine, I don’t think they’re contemporary any more—” and Stewart nudged me, and I glanced at him, and took a breath that smelled like his hair, dripping swampwater in the sunlight, and let my shoulders ease.

“You notice anything about that?” he asked, leaning his shoulder on mine.

“They need each other?”

“They could be our evil twins, Jack-Jackie.”

I squinted. Well, not quite—not really—but I saw what he meant. “Opposite numbers. Hang
on
a second.” I glanced down at him again, and he frowned at me, and I looked back at the spies, and at the John Henrys standing side by side—“Sets of two. It’s all sets of two. Except the assassin, but he’s trying to be a set of two with Angel—”

“The Mage and Bugsy, yeah. But—”

“Tribute,” we both said at once, and I grinned hard enough that my cheeks hurt, even though I didn’t know what it meant. “Twin cities, twin destinies. Los Angeles and Las Vegas. L.A. didn’t
really
hit its stride as a city until the nineteen forties. After World War Two.”

“After Bugsy came to Vegas,” Stewart said. “Tribute said as much at the California. Remember?”

We stared at each other for a few long seconds, and Stewart said, slowly, “You know—”

“Yes?”

“Elvis had a stillborn twin. Jesse Garon Presley.”

“Shit,” I said, and looked over at Doc. “Doc, get back to Tribute, would you please?”

“My pleasure.” The ghost touched the brim of his hat. “Where can I find you if I need you, and I think I will?”

“I don’t,” I started to say, and Stewart stepped in between us. “We’ll be at the old Kiel Ranch.”

“Stewart?”

“Enough ghosts there to fuzz up anybody’s sensors,” he said, with a vague, dismissive gesture. “And there’s a ground-fed pond out there too.”