A Rose-Red City

Five

For a moment there was no movement, no action, only a whirl of thought. The window was wide to the night and rain, the drape streaming like a flag. The bedclothes were rumpled, the children’s clothes hung wet on the footboard, a teddy bear lay on the floor by the dresser— all stark below the naked light bulb swaying on its cord.

Then Killer shouldered the others back and pulled the door closed— they were too visible through that window.

Jerry had screwed up. He should have heard something, but he had been so caught up in convincing Ariadne that he had not been listening. The first time he had been given a rescue to do and he had screwed up.

Or had he? He had been told to bring clothes for one, not for a mother and two children— perhaps this had been foreseen. Was Ariadne expected to desert her children to go to Mera? What kind of woman would ever do that? He did not think she was that sort of mother, and so the mission was doomed to failure if the children were lost. Realization dawned that he very much wanted Ariadne to come to Mera, he wanted to show it to her, introduce his friends to her, and take her riding and swimming and doing all the million other things that a man and a woman… and that also. Perhaps it was only pity, but perhaps it was the start of love? That was crazy. He had known her barely a couple of hours and only this morning had been admitting that he couldn’t form a stable relationship with a woman. Maybe he hadn’t found the right woman?

But who— or what— had taken the children? Killer?

He had been gone a long time, seeing to the mare. He could have gone round the back of the cottage and… but why? Because he, too, had seen that the children were an extraordinary problem, a break in the pattern? Had he faked a kidnapping?

No— Killer was livid with fury, the scar a brilliant curl above his eye. Killer had screwed up also, he had been outside and so he should have heard or seen something. Killer did not take kindly to failure. Killer never took to failure, ever, on any terms. He was speechless.

To pursue an enemy of unknown essence into a dark night was virtual suicide: anyone or anything might be waiting out there, the children nothing but bait, the Merans the targets. It was a mad risk, insanity, and Jerry was the boss, he held the wand.

“Yes! Let’s go!” he said. He saw the lightning flicker of expressions on Killer’s face— astonishment, doubt, and then a wild joy— and Killer had vaulted the sofa, bad ankle forgotten, and was out the door.

Jerry pulled the other Uzi from the cupboard by the range. “Stay here!” he shouted. “There may be shooting. Sit on the floor or lie down, but don’t go out!” Then he was down the porch steps, instantly drenched by ice water, under the purple glare of the high hissing lamp and an easy shot for a marksman anywhere. He ran for the driveway, tucking the wand in his belt like a sword to leave both hands free for the gun. Puddles shone everywhere; there would be no footprints, but the driveway was certainly the best bet. Then he saw two monstrous red eyes flash ahead of him and a faint white glare on the trees beyond— a car or a truck starting up. It was at least a quarter-mile away, he had no chance of catching it, and it was too far to shoot. With the kids in there he dared not…

Where was Killer? He ran anyway.

Outrun a car? It was hopeless.

Then Killer went by him in thundering explosions of mud and water, the mare’s eyeball and teeth showing huge and white with terror at this accursed burden stretched along her back: a half-naked man riding her with no saddle or bridle, only four centuries of practice in every sort of daredevilry imaginable. He was using the gun as a whip. Horse and rider vanished into the darkness ahead, intermittently visible as a black eclipse of the receding taillights.

Jerry ran. He was out of the yard light’s reach, stumbling and squelching along an unknown muddy track, steering by a vague shadow of himself ahead and those dwindling lights. He saw Ariadne’s canted car appear and dematerialize again as the new vehicle shot past it.

What could Killer do? Even on this mudpit of a road, the car could outrun the horse. If he dismounted she would be gone— and how could he dismount anyway with an injured ankle? He surely daren’t try to shoot from horseback Crack! He had.

The taillights vanished, trees appeared suddenly to one side and then vanished in the unmistakable and expensive noise of car crash. Then there was only silence. Jerry continued to run.

Running in cold rain was a strange sensation and probably quite efficient, but he was gasping and slowed almost to a trot by the time he came within sight of the car, sprawled across a shallow ditch, radiator wrapped around a tree. It was even larger than that monster vehicle Ariadne had been driving. The inside lights showed occupants… stupid to show oneself like that A yellow flash and a flatter Crack! and he remembered the yard light behind him. He hurtled into the ditch and rolled in icy mud.

Stupid yourself, he thought. Well, they weren’t going anywhere, so he paused to catch his breath and wonder where Killer was. The car lights had gone out, and the world was the bottom of a tarpit in a cellar.

Now what did he do? How could he get them out of there? He dared not shoot into the car for fear of hitting the children. If he tried a blast over their heads, they could shoot at his flashes.

He started to shiver.

Hooves approaching— Killer returning! After the shot, the mare would have gone from mere panic to insanity, yet somehow that incredible character had managed to turn her. But now he was heading back into ambush. He must be warned, and a shot from Jerry’s gun ought to do it… too late…

The brakelights flashed ruby over the expanse of watery road. The mare shrilled in terror, visible for a moment— riderless— and then gone. An instant later she splattered past Jerry, heading home to the barn, if she could continue to keep all four legs unbroken on such a rampage.

Someone in that car had brains, using the brakelights like that. And where was Killer? He might have fallen off the mare a mile down the road and snapped his neck. That did not sound like him, but the next move must obviously be Jerry’s. He rose and started to approach, conscious of thudding heart and cold rain and still-too-fast breathing— but also aware that he was well muddied and invisible as long as he stayed in the ditch.

Something howled in the woods, the sound dying away in a curdling chuckle.

Too damned close; his hair stirred.

If these intruders with the car were human— a reasonable but not certain assumption— then they must also be wondering what that howl was. Surely no one could believe that noise had come from a wild dog? If they were human, how had they found Ariadne? If they weren’t…

If they weren’t, then he was too late to save the kids.

Another howl, long and evil and much, much too close for comfort— and on the other side.

Then a yammering roar ripped the silence of the night. Streams of tracers blazed above the car roof and Jerry’s head, making him dive flat again. A full thirty-two-shot clip, he realized, coming from the trees on the far side. Killer had solved the problem, taken cover in the woods. Probably Jerry would have thought of that himself in a week or two.

Darkness and silence.

That had given the chorus something to think about also.

The interior light came on, then one headlight, glaring off into brown tree trunks.

Surrender!

“Who are you?” That was Killer’s voice, from the far side.

A less distinct shout, from a window. “I am Graham Gillis. These are my children.”

Aha!

“Throw out your gun.”

Jerry crossed, out of Killer’s line of fire. “I’m on this side,” he yelled. Evidently the gun— a gun— had been thrown out, because Killer’s voice shouted, “Then all of you get out on the far side.” Away from the gun, of course.

There were three of them, plus the children; all swaddled anonymously in rain clothes, one very tall and one short, probably a woman. Jerry emerged from the darkness; the whole play was being staged in a dim reflection off the trees. The big one was holding— probably— Alan, and the shapeless huddle next to the small one would be Lacey. Then Killer came hobbling up from the far side, very slowly, bent double, very lame, using his gun as a cane.

He did not wait for Jerry’s decisions this time. “Names?” he barked.

The big one replied. “I am Gillis. This is my wife, and this is my driver, Carlo.”

“Right,” Killer said. “He will carry the girl. Mrs. Gillis, you will carry the baby.”

“And I?” demanded the big man, perhaps wondering if he was to be shot out of hand.

“You’re going to carry me,” Killer said.

“Go to hell!” Gillis snapped, and Killer knocked him down with the gun, then beat him with it until he got up.

“You will carry me,” Killer repeated, and the big man tried to jump him. The gun barrel rammed into his mouth. That was enough argument. Killer was no small burden, but Gillis led the way, staggering like Sinbad under the Old Man of the Sea, who now had the automatic from the car.

Jerry followed behind the procession, carrying both Uzis, wondering what sort of a muck up he would have made without Killer along. They left the car light on, and he walked much of the way backward, expecting to be attacked from the rear at any moment. The gun play had announced their location— if there had been any doubt— but the howling had stopped, and that was not a good sign.

In the comparative safety of the yard light, Jerry handed a gun to Killer, who was standing on the porch watching the rest of the procession file inside and looking mightily pleased with himself. The mud on his face and chest was streaked to a thin gruel by rain, but he had obviously come off the horse hard, with a fine collection of bruises and scrapes. Jerry headed to the barn.

The mare was back in there, steaming and audibly shivering from terror and cold; badly in need of attention that she was not going to get. He shut the door, returned to the cottage, and was surprised to find Killer still on the porch, leaning against a post, his bad foot raised, apparently watching what was going on inside— but leaving himself an uncharacteristically easy target against the light. Probably he was calculating that the next attack would not be from firearms.

“What’s happening?” Jerry demanded.

“Sounds like domestic bliss,” Killer said. He put a hand on Jerry’s shoulder as he was about to go by. “I landed your fish, scion of Howard, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Thanks, Killer.” The grip tightened. “Thanks you say? Thanks? I rode that horse with no bridle. I shot out the chariot wheel from her back. I turned her and got her safely home. Thanks?” The little bastard loved to brag and he had lots to brag about now— a Hollywood stunt man could not have carried all that off in forty takes, and certainly not with a bad ankle. Nobody else could have, not in Mera, not Outside.

“Is that all you can say?” Killer demanded wickedly, still squeezing Jerry’s shoulder.

He could say that he thought Killer had come of his own free will and had done what he did because his self-respect had been wounded. But what of Jerry’s self respect, was it not his mission? He could say that he thought Killer had come out of friendship— but his friendship had included diving off a run-away horse into pitch darkness, holding a gun, and onto a sprained ankle; and Jerry Howard could never do that for a friend, even in Mera where he would be risking only a few days’ pain, and most certainly not Outside.

So that got him back to the evaluation he had made a thousand times before: that when you sorted out the diamonds and the dirt inside this Achilles son of Crion and you pushed away the dirt— the masochism and gratuitous cruelty, the bombast and the puerility, the lechery and perversion— you were left with a few precious stones. Very few, but very precious; and in the midst of those, great and shining like the Koh-i-Noor, was the loyalty which promised that Killer would do anything for a friend, anything whatsoever.

So Killer’s friendship was worth a lot more than Jerry Howard’s, and that conclusion was intolerable to him, as Killer had known it would be.

He should have guessed that one day it would become inevitable. “You’re a good friend to me, Achilles,” he said hoarsely. “And when we get safely back to Mera— you and me and Ariadne and her kids— I’ll show you how good a friend I can be to you.” Killer’s eyes widened. “A promise, Citizen Howard?”

“A promise,” Jerry said bravely. “Anything you want.”

Killer had not expected quite that much. He sighed blissfully. “And the pretty lady will be grateful also,” he said. “What a happy little fellow I am going to be.”

“You bastard!” Jerry’s anger blazed. “You keep your horrible hands off her.” Then he saw he had fallen into another trap— Killer was looking up at him with infinite devilry dancing in his eyes. If anything was more fun than seduction for Killer, it was seducing another man’s woman and letting him know it.

“So?” Killer said. “My cold friend Jerry has at last found himself a lady he cares for? Truly the Oracle knew what it was doing.” Jerry was too mad to argue; Killer’s pursuit of Ariadne would be utterly implacable if he thought that Jerry cared.

“But that’s her business,” he growled. “Let’s go in.”

“Do let me lean on you, dear boy,” Killer said in an affected tone… but Jerry had never known him to ask for help before.

“You really mushed that ankle this time?”

Killer chuckled. “Oh, I saved the ankle pretty well,” he said. “Trouble is, I broke the other leg doing it.” Jerry put an arm around him and helped him into the cabin.

The little place seemed very full of people, and Alan was having a screaming tantrum, not helping matters at all. A big pile of leaky raincoats and slickers dribbled by the entrance, and the room smelled stuffily of wet people. Jerry deposited Killer on the sofa, then slammed the door, and shot the bolt.

“Over there!” he ordered, waving his gun. “Take the wooden chairs and put your backs against the wall. Ariadne, you can sit in the big chair if you want.” He had the gun; he was obeyed. Then he took stock. In the center, Killer was sitting on the sofa with gun handy and his legs up, facing the captives at the end of the room, but in a good position to cover the main door at his side.

Ariadne had slumped down in the big floral armchair behind Killer’s head, but it had been turned so that she also was facing the prisoners. Obviously she did not feel that she belonged with them, but she did not seem to be associating with Jerry and Killer, either; she was a third party of one now, shrunken and dejected.

The newcomers sat in a row between the range and the kitchen counter with its bowl of dirty dishes— a bad first impression for visitors! There were no windows within easy reach, and the table was in front to discourage sudden jumpings.

Gillis, in the middle, loomed even larger than Jerry had expected— as tall as he, and as thick as Killer— a swarthy, fortyish, heavyset man. His black wavy hair was going thin in front, his black eyes were glaring furiously from under heavy brows. His lips were swollen and bloody, and he had a bad bruise where Killer had gunwhipped him. The blue pinstripe suit looked strange to Jerry, but that must be what a successful businessman wore these days, for it was undoubtedly a good piece of tailoring, with very narrow lapels and no cuffs on the pants. A necktie, for Heaven’s sake— hadn’t the world got rid of those yet? Gillis was studying his captors carefully, probably just realizing that Jerry was in charge now, that Killer was the action man and would not be the negotiator, if there was negotiating to be done. He looked to be an arrogant, domineering man.

Having both parents present to compare, Jerry could see that Lacey’s straight blond locks came from her mother and Alan’s dark curls from Daddy. Yet Lacey was probably going to be tall, as her father was, and Alan shortish like Ariadne, and he was surely going to inherit his father’s bull shoulders… . But Jerry was badly out of practice at evaluating children.

The second man was much younger, about Killer’s nominal age. Carlo was a swarthy, hollow-chested youth with long brown hair all mussed by rain and a hard day. A curious mixture of races showed there in the high cheekbones and narrow features combined with thick lips. He was not unlike Luis, who had come from twenty-first Venezuela; but Luis was a jovial, easygoing type, and this kid wore a very resentful stare that looked as though it might be his normal expression. His black leather coat could contain all sorts of curiosities, but the jeans were too tight for anything but himself. With a weapon he might be dangerous, but even Jerry could snap him if he was unarmed.

Then there was the woman— the second Mrs. Gillis, presumably, but certainly young enough to be his daughter. Taller than Ariadne, she had fairer hair than her predecessor’s honey color, and her figure was fuller— a great deal fuller, if those were real— and the straining sweater was pink cashmere. Perhaps it was not fair to judge a person’s intelligence on first sight, especially at gunpoint, but Jerry had a strong suspicion that the second Mrs. Gillis had not been chosen for brains; her qualifications were more the sort that Killer would appreciate. She wore tailored pants in lime green, all splattered with mud now, and those made Jerry think of lady golfers. Perhaps that was formal dress these days.

Jerry could read rage on Gillis, contempt and wariness from Carlo— not fear from a kid his age? The woman was scared, of course, but even so there was an insipid vagueness about the round, doll-like face.

The most interesting thing about the second Mrs. Gillis, though, was that she was clutching the screaming Alan, while Lacey was standing close, with an arm around her, staring at her mother across the room.

Gillis was a rooster; he would start blustering at any moment. Carlo— a donkey, stubborn and likely to kick. The woman— a dove, perhaps, good for cooing and not much else. Ariadne, he had thought of as a canary, small and golden and full of song Jerry made sure that Killer had his eyes on the visitors and then looked at Ariadne, whose pearly gray Meran cape and pants made her seem much more properly dressed to him. The haunted look that he had noticed when she first arrived was redoubled now. She was hunching her shoulders and hugging her arms around herself, making herself smaller than ever, and staring nowhere with haggard eyes. He remembered the flash of hope that had come with belief in Mera. Now it had gone, and he longed to know what those delicate features would look like when it returned, when he had her safely out of this mess. He suspected that they would fill with a very sparkly sort of fun and humor, for there had been hints of humor, even in her troubles.

Like small people. The storks bring them— feeble in itself, but a good attempt under the circumstances. Certainly she had nothing to laugh at now, with her children so obviously clutching at The Other Woman. This was going to be an interesting session.

He had just finished his survey, then, when Alan stopped his wailing. “There, there,” and, “Tush, tush, tush,” muttered the girl, rocking him. She might be a dumb blond and might look more like the teenage babysitter from next door than a mother, but she wasn’t doing a bad job with Awful Alan.

Jerry wandered over to Ariadne’s chair and laid his Uzi on the floor, then collected the pistol from Killer and headed back to the edge of the table, facing his captives and staying out of Killer’s line of fire. He pulled the wand out of his belt— but of course they would not be able to see that.

He was bone tired, but also jittery with tension, a nasty combination, and he wished he could feel as calmly relaxed as Killer seemed to be, broken leg or not. Killer had much, much more experience in this sort of thing, of course, and it was a long time since J. Howard had exercised command.

Carry on, Squadron Leader!

It wouldn’t hurt to let them see that he was nervous— they might heed his warnings more— but if he started to fall apart, then all was lost. He must keep control. He braced himself and tried to put authority into his voice.

“I give the orders,” he said. “My name is Jerry Howard. My friend affects the name of Killer.” Carlo’s lip curled and Gillis’ brows dropped. “He has earned it! The first order is this: Until morning, no one leaves, the door stays closed, as do the windows. You are not even to touch the drapes, or look out. Is that absolutely clear? I shall shoot anyone who touches a curtain.”

“You would shoot a child for looking out a window?” demanded Gillis.

Jerry waved the automatic. “I might have no choice; we are in a very dangerous situation. I will explain, but you are not going to believe me. That doesn’t matter. You only have to believe that I believe, because I have the gun. There is evil out there.” He expected a smart-aleck reply from the Carlo kid, but he didn’t get one. “You heard those howls in the woods?”

“What the hell were those?” demanded Gillis.

Jerry shrugged. He was quite sure that he had heard wolves earlier, but by the end they had been something else, and he suspected hyenas— a much nastier killer than the lion, which had had a better press. But talking about hyenas in North Dakota, or wherever these people thought they were, wasn’t going to get him very far. The main thing was that the foe had recognized the Uzis’ firepower and held back— which meant that something bigger was on its way.

” ‘What the hell’ is the correct question,” he said. “The supernatural is loose here, tonight.” Gillis snorted. “What kind of a shakedown is this? You got the kids back. What else are you after?”

“Shut up!” said Jerry. “We only wanted to restore Ariadne’s children to her, and the only reason I am keeping the rest of you here now is that it is too damned dangerous to throw you out in the rain. If we’re all alive in the morning, then you are free to go. I know you don’t believe in ghoulies and ghosties, but by morning you will.” Their expressions said that no, they wouldn’t.

He shrugged. “Perhaps I can demonstrate a little, because I am going to search you. Mrs. Gillis’ purse, if you please?” The big man scowled and lifted his wife’s handbag from the floor. Jerry edged cautiously around the table and reached out with the wand, hooking the handles and pulling it from Gillis’ hand. The three newcomers gasped simultaneously, for it must be seeming to float of its own accord. Jerry swung it around, walked over, and laid it in Ariadne’s lap, seeing Killer grinning hideously at the juvenile prank.

“Just check for weapons,” Jerry said. He noticed that little Lacey did not seem surprised, so she could see the wand and therefore had believed what Killer had told her. It was ironic that those who did not believe in faerie and Mera would see magic, while those who did believe would not.

“Nothing,” Ariadne said in a dull voice. Her pallor was incredible, and she must surely be reaching a breaking point. He returned the purse on the end of the wand, dropping it at its owner’s feet.

“Your jacket, Mr. Gillis?” Jerry said. “Stand up and remove it slowly, please.” The big man folded his arms. “Look, Howard, if that’s your real name, you’re in big trouble. I have legal custody of those children, so you are abetting a kidnapping. Your accomplice fired on our automobile and then used automatic weapons. You’re holding us here at gunpoint, and federal— ”

“Your jacket!”

“How much is she paying you?”

“She— Mrs. Gillis— isn’t paying me anything,” Jerry said. “Where I come from and where I’m going, money is of no use at all.”

“True, because you’re going to jail.”

Jerry smiled. “Nice try, but not so. Now, your jacket or I shall have to unchain Killer again. Keep your hands in view, Carlo!”

Warily Gillis rose and removed his jacket. Again Jerry fished for it with the end of the wand, and the big man watched carefully, trying to understand the trickery. There was nothing of interest in the pockets except a little flat thing with numbered buttons that looked like some sort of calculating machine, and Jerry quietly pocketed that out of general interest… It probably wouldn’t work in Mera, though. No, the curiosity was the shoulder holster now revealed on Gillis; the automatic had been his. Did respectable businessmen go around armed in this time frame? Not a rooster, then, a gander— less noisy, but vicious.

Jerry tossed him the coat, made him stand up and turn around, carefully ran the end of the wand up and down his legs; he detected no suspicious bumps.

So far, so good.

“Now, Mr.— is it Mr. Carlo, or is that your first name?”

“Excretion of an unclean animal!” Carlo snapped.

There was a puzzled silence, broken by a snigger from Killer. Jerry grinned to himself; in whatever language that obscenity had been phrased, the wand had translated it literally. Carlo bit his lip and seemed to shrink slightly, puzzled and shocked.

“Your jacket.”

Stubbornly Carlo mouthed something, but silently. Jerry began to tense. “Killer? Can you part his hair at this distance without pushing his eyes apart?”

“Three times out of ten,” said Killer, aiming the Uzi.

This was a bluff, because if the cottage was truly faerie then it was likely bulletproof, and there could be ricochets, and violence itself was dangerous. But the bluff worked, and the leather coat yielded a professional-looking switchblade. A driver? Not a donkey, a weasel— sneaky and dangerous. Jerry demanded that he remove his boots and throw them over and then checked him with the tip of the wand before deciding that he had now disarmed his captives. The second Mrs. Gillis was obviously concealing nothing on her person except possibly foam rubber.

He went and sat down wearily on the arm of Ariadne’s chair. The prisoners were disarmed and also shaken by his party trick with the wand. To his eyes, the wand was brilliant white now, making the icebox look gray Killer had noticed and was grinning. Killer grinning always meant trouble for someone, even if only himself. The forces were building.

“Now,” Jerry said, “I shall try to explain the precautions— ”

Two sets of heavy boots came thumping up the porch steps, then stamped on the porch itself as though to shake off mud. A massive fist knocked imperiously.

“Open up!” boomed a deep male voice. “This is the FBI. We have you surrounded— come out with your hands up.”