Thief of Souls (25 page)

And this time, the redheaded boy showed him an ID that
was blatantly fake, and put a five-dollar chip on number one. When all bets had been placed, the croupier released the ball, it spun around the lip of the roulette wheel, and fell out of orbit, landing in number one. The kid had won. The croupier glanced at his pit boss, who should have already shooed these kids away, but he seemed frozen in place, like a statue.

He gave the kid his winnings, and the kid said, “Let it all ride—this time on number two.”

The swirling breeze around the table was getting denser. The croupier could feel it on the hairs on his forearm. It was more than just that, though, for as he looked on his forearm, he could see the curly hairs there begin to grow thicker, denser, as if they were growing at an unnatural speed. And there was that bald man in the corner. Was it just his imagination, or was that man not quite as bald as he had been just a few minutes ago? What was all this about?

The croupier gave the ball a spin. It orbited four times, and dropped squarely into a pocket.

Number two.

Exclamations of surprise echoed around the table, but not from the boy and his friends. It seemed as though they were expecting to win. The croupier felt the pulsating feeling grow as he gave the boy his winnings, like a presence that was pushing on him, pressing on his heart and lungs, until he could feel his heart and breath match the steady rhythm of that strange pulse . . . . And yet, he realized, it wasn't a bad feeling at all. It felt good in some odd way.
He
felt good, although he couldn't say why. This time he returned the young man's smile when the young man said, “Let it ride on number three.”

By now a small crowd had begun to gather around the table—the kind that always gathers around a winning streak. But more people than usual were gravitating toward this
unusual sequence of events. The croupier let the ball go, it orbited four times, and dropped.

Number three.

The exclamations of surprise exploded from the onlookers. In less than five minutes, this boy had raised his pot from five, to five thousand dollars. The pit boss had taken notice, and the hidden camera above their heads had taken notice as well, for security was zeroing in on the table from across the casino floor.

“Let it ride on number four,” the boy said. Five of the other gamblers around the table moved their chips over next to his. The croupier was sweating now, breathing quickly, accepting the rhythm of the pulsating beat. His own excitement was souring, because he knew he wasn't just witnessing this, whatever it was, he was a part of it. Before security could arrive, he spun the ball and the wheel. Watching intently until it fell . . .

. . . into pocket number four.

A cheer erupted around the table. The black kid turned to the redheaded boy and said, “Very good, Dillon. You could buy a house with that.” And the croupier laughed, because it felt so good to know his name. Dillon. Security guards pushed their way through the throng, getting between Dillon and the table.

“Excuse me,” said one of the four guards, “I'm afraid you'll have to come with us.”

At that, their smiles only grew wider. Dillon looked the man over from head to toe. He sniffed the air around the man as if smelling his cologne, and then he reached up to an old scar that cut diagonally across the guard's forehead. As soon as Dillon touched the scar, it began to bubble and fold, until it was gone.

“What the . . . ?” But before the guard could say anything further, Dillon caught him in his gaze.

“Afghanistan?” asked Dillon.

The man nodded dumbly.

“Helicopter or plane?” asked Dillon.

“Helicopter.”

“I can hear the weight of their deaths in your voice,” Dillon said. And then he whispered,
“But there was nothing you could do. From now on, you'll stop blaming yourself.”

Then the man—who was the toughest guard in the hotel—released his breath with a gust, almost as strong as the swirling cigarette smoke, as if the world had gone from night to day. Then he smiled like a baby. Neither he nor the other guards made a move to eject Dillon and his friends. Instead, they joined the spectators.

“Tory,” Dillon said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “this place reeks of cigarette smoke. Could you clean it up?”

“My pleasure.” She raised her hand in an overtly dramatic gesture toward the swirling wind that now spun with cocktail napkins and cigarette butts, and in an instant the thick, smoky air was crystal-clear. Dillon turned back to the table, and when the croupier looked down, almost everyone had already placed their bets on number five. Dillon looked at his own immense pile of chips.

“Let it ride on five,” he said simply.

“But . . . there's a five-thousand limit to this table,” said the croupier, apologizing as best he could.

“That's all right,” said Dillon. “Five thousand on five, then.” He spun the wheel and let the ball go. When the ball went down, he paid Dillon and everyone else their winnings, without even looking to see where the ball had landed.

T
HE TABLE WAS SHUT
down less than five minutes later, and so Dillon and his four friends left, the swirling wind, suddenly
blowing straight through the doors at the end of the casino, like a carpet of wind to carry them out. They marched out of the hotel with dozens of people following them toward the green cathedral of the MGM Grand, and straight for the blackjack tables.

F
OUR HOURS LATER, WITH
a parade of two hundred people behind them, they marched into the lobby of the Mirage. They had made their way down the strip, having broken the bank in half a dozen hotels. They had taken everything from the Bellagio's craps tables. They had tapped out the slots at Bally's. They had emptied the vaults of Caesar's Palace, by way of baccarat. And finally they pirated Treasure Island in a game called pai-gau, which none of them had ever heard of before.

Now, Dillon and his co-conspirators stood in the hotel's lobby, where a giant tank filled with sharks and Caribbean exotics graced the reception area.

Dillon tapped the glass of the giant shark tank three times with a gambling chip.

A few minutes later, as a strange vibration built in the walls around them, they met a representative of the March of Dimes charity. With the cameras of three local news stations in his face, Dillon held out an extremely heavy sack to the woman's shaky hands.

“I would like to present the March of Dimes with a three-million-dollar donation, as a personal gift.”

“Who shall I say it's from?” the woman asked timidly.

“You can say it's from Dillon Cole,” he instructed. “Dillon Cole, and the surviving Shards of the Scorpion Star.”

And then he turned to the cameras. “Tomorrow,” he said, “there's going to be a disaster. But don't worry.” And he smiled. “I've got everything under control.”

The vibration in the walls then became a high-pitched whine that ended with the crash of glass as the shark tank shattered. Hotel staff dove over the reception desk to escape the falling glass, and when they looked again, the shark tank seemed entirely unharmed. Except for the fact that its glass face was lying in ruins on the floor.

All eyes turned to Dillon for an explanation for this marvel, but he and his friends had disappeared in the confusion.

In a town where magicians made things vanish daily onstage, smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand were nothing new. The manager was ready to laugh at this interesting trick . . . until a small nurse shark poked its nose out of the water-wall, tore the pen from his breast pocket, then swam off with it to the back of the tank.

“I
F THE IDEA WAS TO DRAW ATTENTION TO OURSELVES,” SAID
Lourdes, pleased with the outcome of the day, “I think we did a good job.”

They were twenty miles out of Las Vegas; eleven buses with no posted destination driving southeast on Boulder Highway. The lead bus was a well-appointed coach—a traveling hotel suite, really, done up in oak and leather and filled with all the creature comforts that one could cram into a bus. It was reserved for the five shards.

“Shouldn't we each have our own buses?” said Tory. “After all this is Las Vegas—it's not like less is more.”

“If we could arrange for buses, why not planes?” suggested Michael. “Really jazz up the show!”

“When we need planes, we'll get planes,” said Dillon. “Right now buses are more than enough.”

Tory swiveled in her leather chair. “Cleopatra did not ride around in a bus.”

“Oh,” said Winston with a smirk, “is that who you are now?”

“Don't get snotty—I was only using her for comparison.”

“And besides, if anyone's Cleopatra, it's me,” said Lourdes.

“History says she was as ugly as sin,” said Winston. “Maybe you're right.”

“Drop dead.”

Just past Boulder City, Dillon instructed the driver to pull off the road, into the desert. There the eleven buses formed a
circle, like an old-fashioned wagon train, around a campsite that Okoya, who had gone on ahead, was already in the process of setting up. Dillon was the only shard who felt the need to go out there. Truth was, the others were famished from their day at the casinos. More than famished—they felt vacant. It was a feeling that gave Tory the urge to rub her arms compulsively, as if trying to shed some invisible layer of grime. The hunger made Winston feel a sense of futility in all he did. It made Michael acutely aware of the absence of love in his heart, and for Lourdes, that hunger reawakened her hopeless longing for Michael. Surely a nice all-you-can-eat buffet could have been fit into their Las Vegas schedule—but the very thought sickened them, for their hunger was not for that sort of food.

Tory peered out of the window, where the busloads of followers poured forth, pitching tents, and setting up camp, in preparation for tomorrow's main event. “What we do now is crucial,” Dillon had said. “We can't afford to make mistakes.” Of course, no one but the Shards and Okoya knew what the event would be, and as for the Big Show itself, Dillon was in charge of that. They would all be handed their parts when the time came, but for now, they didn't feel a burning need for dress rehearsals.

As the bus driver left, Okoya stepped in carrying a sack of goodies.

“While you were all working,” said Okoya, “I found some things I thought you might appreciate.”

As he reached into the bag, Tory snuck a peek. “Ooh! Is that a new skin lotion?” she asked, practically growing fangs at the thought. “I'd kill for a good lotion!”

“Would you?” Okoya said. He pulled out the container of lotion, but put it down, out of Tory's reach. Tory leaned over to get it, but Okoya held her back. “Patience,” was all he said.

He reached into the bag again, and produced a cake, with a deceptive white creme frosting, that gave way to dark chocolate and a glistening cherry filling when he cut it. “For you, Lourdes.”

“Black Forest!” she exclaimed, holding her hands forward like an anxious Oliver Twist. “I love Black Forest.”

Okoya handed her the slice of cake, and she dug her hand into it, without waiting for a fork. Then he reached in and came up with a magazine. “They were selling some . . . uh . . .
interesting
magazines on the strip,” he said to Winston. “There are some pictures in here that are not to be believed. Have a look, Winston. You might learn something.” He gave Winston a wink and tossed him the magazine.

“Me next,” insisted Tory.

Okoya ignored her, and pulled out a new iPod for Michael. “Top of the line, and I've tuned the radio app to a fantastic station I've found—you're going to love it!”

He handed the device to Michael, and although Michael felt his own Pavlovian urge to slip into a comfortable beat, he didn't put the headphones on just yet. Instead he watched. By now Tory was rubbing her hands in front of her like a fly as Okoya reached for the bottle of lotion. Okoya took his time, spilling a drop of the lotion onto his index finger. “It's fragranced with the essence of ten different kinds of rose, and guaranteed to make you feel as fresh as the day you were born.” He held it toward Tory.

“You said you would kill for it,” said Okoya. “Did you mean what you said?”

She kept her eyes glued on the viscous pink liquid dripping down his finger. “Definitely.”

Then Okoya reached to a compartment in the bus's kitchenette, peering inside, and retrieved a crystalline ice bucket.
Inside was a silver ice pick. Instead of giving Tory a dollop of lotion, he gave her the ice pick.

“Kill Winston,” he said. “And you can have the whole bottle.”

Tory stood immobile with the pick in her hand, giggling at the thought.

“Go on,” prompted Okoya. “You want your lotion, don't you?”

Tory looked at the sharp end of the ice pick, and found herself turning it toward Winston's chest. Lourdes filled her mouth with cake and eyed Tory, but made no move to intervene. Winston spread his arms, pushing his chest forward.

“C'mon,” he said with a grin. “Right here—right through the heart!”

Perhaps it was because Michael had not yet plugged into his music, or just that he had dredged up a moment of clarity, but whatever the reason, in the midst of everyone else's laughter, Michael realized that Tory was pulling her hand back, like a gun hammer cocking itself. She was actually going to do it!

Michael dropped his iPod and lurched forward as Tory began her downward arc. He firmly grasped her wrist, and the pick stopped an inch from Winston's chest.

“Tory—what are you doing?!”

Tory turned to Michael as if he had done something wholly inappropriate.

“The lotion,” she said simply. “I want the lotion. For my skin.”

“You almost stabbed Winston!”