A second later, her mind was jolted by a revelation that was more powerful than the sound of that last note.
She knew, all at once and with total certainty, that no band had ever played that final note. Her ears had never actually heard it. That single, delicious, saving note had come from within her own mind, from within her own soul. It had come from some deep place in consciousness, blossoming from need to hear it, created by some part of essential self in which beauty dwelled and thrived despite the ugliness in life.
Of all the skills and knowledge she possessed, that one quality had saved her. She had danced herself out of hell. Beauty—understanding of beauty had brought her through the fire.
She was alive. She felt whole. Strong. Free of pain.
Rain rose to her feet and looked around. The other dancers backed away from her, clearing the center space. Some of them nodded to her. She knew which ones they were. They were the Invited. They were the ones who had dreamed the Fire Zone into being. She, in turned, bowed to them. A dancer’s curtsy. Not perfect, but perfect enough.
Rain looked at the crowd.
“Where is my son?”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
It took Monk two hours to do everything he needed in Brooklyn and get to the hospital. At least he thought that’s how long it took. His dashboard clock seemed to have stopped at 11:59.
“What time is it?” he said aloud. Neither of the ghosts answered him.
But Gay Bob said, “Almost midnight.”
“What I thought,” said Monk as he pulled into the turnaround in front of the hospital.
They all got out. Monk, a tall mixed-race woman named Yo-Yo Jablonski, a fat guy they called Straight Bob, and a big bruiser of a man called Gay Bob. Each of them held a small silver windup pocket watch in their hands. They looked at the hospital. The two ghosts stood to one side, both wearing expressions of doubt.
There were sirens blaring and people screaming.
“What exactly are we doing here?” asked Straight Bob.
“Saving the world,” said Monk. Only half meaning it.
Above them, the sky was filled with rain and thunder and nightbirds.
“Come on,” said Monk, “we’re running out of time.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
The other dancers once more moved back and there, in the center of the dance floor, was a sight that tore a cry from Rain.
Dylan was there. So was Caster Bootey.
Doctor Nine stood there, still smiling.
In front of him, squatting on the floor, brought to terrible reality, was the Box of Rain.
Real.
Iron bound and wrapped in heavy chains, stained with a decade of bitter tears and innocent blood.
Waiting for her.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
Monk Addison rode an elevator with three drug addicts and two ghosts. The addicts could not see the ghosts, but they knew they were there. He’d told them. The three members of the Cracked World Society crowded into one corner, looking frightened and confused.
These were the three people who were closest to Rain. Each of them had been given a windup pocket watch. Monk understood what the clocks were, why they had been created, though he did not yet understand how to activate them. He had a theory, though. If he was right, they had a chance, however slim, of surviving the next few minutes. If he was wrong, there were going to be a lot more ghosts.
He wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he died. Would the ghosts who haunted him be released? Or would he join their ranks as souls trapped forever in a world of pain and sorrow? No one with whom he’d ever shared his secrets, not even the mystics who had offered him sanctuary all those years ago, had a clue.
The teenage ghost seemed able to read his emotions, and he mocked him, laughed at him. Mr. Hoto was no longer weeping, but he stood apart, watching and praying. The elevator dinged, and they stepped out onto the ICU floor.
And stepped into madness.
As they exited the car, they heard a scream and they turned to see Dylan—a younger version of the teenager who stood beside Monk—come tearing down the hallway. And staggering behind him was Rain Thomas.
Which was not possible, because when Monk had called for a report on the young woman, it was clear she was critically injured. Broken legs, internal damage. There was no way this was happening.
He reached out to touch her shoulder, to catch her, to warn her of what was happening. But as his fingers closed around her arm, Rain passed straight through them. It made him jerk backward, scared out of his mind, and for a moment, he did not know if she was a ghost or he was.
Yo-Yo and the two Bobs called out her name, and they tried to catch her, too. Rain did not see them, but she threw a confused look behind her, missed her footing, fell, scrambled up again, and kept running.
Which is when the doors blew open at the end of the hall and a big fucking Cadillac came roaring forward.
They all screamed and flattened against the wall. Teenage Dylan laughed his jackal laugh.
However, Mr. Hoto stepped out into the path of the car and stood there. His face had been filled with despair and sadness before, but now he set his chin and held out his hands as if he could somehow stop the car.
It hit him.
It hit him real damn hard, smashing him backward.
Monk saw Hoto’s thin arms break and collapse like a ruptured accordion, but something else happened at the same moment. The car slowed. The wheels spun on the linoleum floor, kicking up clouds of smoke. The driver kept stamping on the gas, but the car’s speed was reduced to a fraction because Hoto was still there. Pushing back. His arms were smashed, his chest crushed, but he pushed back. His head still hung sideways on its broken neck, but he pushed back.
“What’s happening?” demanded Yo-Yo.
“A tough fucking little ghost is what’s happening,” said Monk, filled with wonder. “Holy shit.”
The hospital staff were yelling, looking wildly around, seeing damage happen around them as something tore at the walls and shattered equipment, but it was clear to Monk that none of them saw the car.
“This is nuts,” he said. Then he saw teenage Dylan bolt to the left and go running up the hall toward an ICU room whose door stood open.
“Shit,” Monk growled and pelted after him. He heard the others following.
They reached Rain’s room, and there she was. Monk jumped forward to position himself between the feral teen and the woman who was nearly lost in a maze of splints, bandages, and tubes.
“Oh, God!” cried Yo-Yo, covering her mouth with both hands. “Rain!”
The others flew toward her, surrounding the bed, touching her with tentative fingers to convince themselves of her reality. Gay Bob bent to study the monitors.
“Christ, her blood pressure is really low.”
“So’s her pulse,” said Straight Bob.
“Is she in a coma?” asked Yo-Yo.
“I think so,” said Straight Bob.
“She’s dying, you assholes,” said Dylan, but only Monk heard him. “The doctor is winning. He’s killing her right now, and you can’t do anything to stop it.”
“Shut up,” said Monk. Straight Bob cut him a look, then followed the line of Monk’s gaze and shivered.
“Which ghost?” he asked.
“Little dickhead.”
“Hey,” said the ghost, “fuck you.”
For some reason, that made Monk smile. He went and leaned over Rain. “Hold on, sister. We got you.”
“How exactly do we have her?” asked Gay Bob. “What are we here to do?”
“We’re too late to do anything,” complained Straight Bob, and Yo-Yo nodded.
Monk looked at them and he grinned. “No,” he said, “the clock hasn’t struck midnight yet.”
It was a phrase he’d pulled from Dylan’s mind. It had also been echoing in Mr. Hoto’s thoughts. Midnight had nothing to do with the time in any physical clock. Not the be
dside clock or Monk’s cell phone clock. Midnight was the moment when the greatest chance for hope died. It was almost here, the seconds ticking away differently from ordinary time.
“You guys all have your clocks?” They did; they showed him the tiny windup timepieces. Monk nodded. Then he pointed to what they saw as the emptiness at the foot of Rain’s bed. “Dylan is right there. You can’t see him because he’s dead. But here’s the thing—he won’t be dead for three years. If we don’t stop Doctor Nine, if we can’t save Rain, then at midnight, the version of Dylan who is still alive somewhere in the world is going to break. He’ll have failed to save his mother and save himself and maybe save the world. His hope will die, and from then on, he’ll be a husk of a person, dead in every way that matters. From one moment after midnight, Dylan will begin sliding into darkness. He’ll fall for three years, and during that time, he will be Doctor Nine’s lapdog, his fetch dog. Then he’ll bottom out and hang himself outside of the apartment of the man, a former Tibetan monk, who had failed to properly warn Rain and in fact helped convince her to give up her baby. That’s the long-story-short version of this. But here’s the kicker: Dylan—the real one—took a big risk. He created these clocks. They don’t just tell time; they store it.”
Straight Bob looked at his, turning it over to study the face and the back. “What’s that even mean?”
“Each of you has lost time recently,” said Monk. “Rain lost a whole day.”
“She lost Friday,” said Yo-Yo.
“You each did, too.”
“I—” began Gay Bob. “I lost a couple of hours the other day. Maybe more. I kind of blanked out.”
“Me, too,” said Yo-Yo. “I went to a meeting, and then bang, it was gone. All the time I was speaking. Maybe more.”
Straight Bob nodded. “I’ve been losing minutes and hours for days now.”
Monk reached out and tapped his clock. “It’s in there.”
“How?” demanded Yo-Yo. “Are you saying Doctor Nine stole our time?”
“No,” said Monk, “I’m saying that Dylan stole it.”
He dug a hand into his front jeans pocket. “I have Dylan’s memories of the last few days. I explained how that works.”
“It’s freaky as shit,” said Gay Bob.
“Preaching to the choir, brother,” said Monk. “Point is, that’s how I know about the clocks, and it’s how I know where Dylan hid the keys.”
“Don’t do it,” warned the feral ghost. “He will kill you for this.”
Monk did it anyway. He removed his hand and held it out, palm upward, to show what he had. Three small, delicate silver keys.
“So, yeah,” he said, “we have time. We have your own time.”
“No,” said a cold voice from the doorway, “you’re all out of time.”
They turned. Dylan clapped his hands in dark delight. The doorway was filled with people.
The Shadow People. The nurse smiled with red, red lips.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
Caster Bootey touched Rain’s arm. “Everyone has places in which they hide the things they don’t want to look at. You’re not alone in that. It’s human nature.”
“I was told to hide away the things I can’t bear,” said Rain. “To keep me safe.”
“And are you safe?”
“No,” said Rain. “Not even a little.”
“Sometimes things can stay hidden in the back closets of the soul,” murmured Caster. “Sometimes these things die back there and become a useless and harmless part of the past.”
“And … sometimes they don’t.”
“No. Sometimes they don’t.”
They faced each other for a long moment. Rain said, “Sometimes they feed off the darkness and get bigger and stronger, don’t they?” she asked, but it was rhetorical. “Sometimes these things get so strong that they fight to get out.”
The old man nodded.
“Caster?” Rain asked.
“Yes?”
“I … I kind of understand that somehow it was you who did all this, brought me here, helped me…”
“Some of it.”
“Why? I mean … why bother? Who am I to you?”
Caster shrugged. “I have my reasons, Lorraine. And before you ask … they are my reasons, and I don’t choose to share them with you. Just accept that I did what I did out of love.”
Rain had nothing to say to that, so she nodded and dabbed at her eyes. Then she turned to Dylan. “I want to hold you, baby. I want so much to hold you and never let you go.”
“He is lost,” said Doctor Nine. “He is mine and—”
“Lorraine,” interrupted Caster gravely, “there is still one thing left for you to do tonight.”
She had avoided looking at the Box of Rain, but now she turned and faced it. The thing stood a dozen paces away. Too close. Way too close.
“Oh,” she said, understanding filling her like ice water.
“Turn your back on it and take my hand,” said Doctor Nine. “Come with me and you will never feel pain again. Touch that thing and pain is all you’ll ever know. You will lose your son as you’ve already lost your lover and your mother.”
She chewed her lip. The box rattled as the demons inside fought to get out. She touched Caster’s sleeve. “I…”
“No, child,” said Caster. “No more words. Just go and do what you have to do. Go and do what you came to the Fire Zone in the first place to do.”
Across the battlefield of the dance floor, Doctor Nine gave her a look of pure murderous hatred. “Be damned, then.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT
Monk pivoted and tossed the keys to Gay Bob, who stood closest. “Wind everyone’s clocks. Hurry!” he yelled.
“And do what?”
But there was no time for Monk to answer. A towering, leathery figure pushed past the nurse and lumbered toward him. Monk knew from Dylan’s memories that this was the Mulatto. A zombie of some kind. Old, with a withered black heart. The zombie reached for him with leathery hands, and Monk ducked the grab and shoulder-rammed the creature in the gut, driving it back against the other creatures filling the doorway. The Mulatto slapped his hands against the sides of the doorframe and kept on his feet, then charged again, but Monk had bought himself enough time to take the brass knuckles out of his pocket and slip them on. It was a solid pound of steel set with symbols of spiritual protection. He stepped into the reach, bashed the arms to one side, and hooked the zombie in the ribs. Dry skin tore and bones broke as a great rush of stale, dusty air shot from the thing’s open mouth.
The nurse pushed past them and rushed the bed, drawing a long, slender knife from her pocket. Straight Bob threw his clock across the bed to Gay Bob.
“Here!” he yelled, then he tried to block her, but the nurse slashed him across the face, opening a red line from his left eyebrow to the right corner of his mouth. The blade cut through Straight Bob’s nose and blood exploded as he fell back, clutching his face and screaming. She cut him again and again, ripping his face apart, trying to get his throat.
Yo-Yo threw her clock, too, then growled as she grabbed the nurse’s hair and jerked the woman sideways, slamming her head into the side rail of the bed. The nurse cried out in pain, but, cat quick, she turned and drove the knife deep into Yo-Yo’s stomach.
The clocks fell onto the floor, and Gay Bob dove for them. The Shadow People changed from vaguely human forms into the clearly defined shapes of nightbirds. They flew across the room and covered him, stabbing at him with razor-sharp beaks, slicing his face, his throat, his hands.
Monk heard the high-pitch cry of pain, but he was too busy to do much about it. Even hurt, the Mulatto was incredibly strong. The zombie caught Monk by the throat and lifted him completely off the ground, then slammed him into the wall. Monk was a big man, and what the zombie was doing was virtually impossible. Monk hammered at the arm holding him, but without effect, so he kicked the Mulatto in the chest, the shoulder, the face as the crushing g
rip began to collapse Monk’s neck vertebrae.
Dylan laughed and danced and tried to fight, but his ghostly fists passed straight through Gay Bob, who was backing away from the fight, fiddling with the keys, dropping them, scooping them up, trying each one to find the one that unlocked any of the clocks.
The other Shadow People, formless and malevolent, began pushing into the room.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE
The Music held itself in check, letting silence provide the score for Rain’s approach to the box. However, the silence seemed to hum with unleashed power.
Licking parched lips, Rain took the first step forward. She did not say anything because she did not want to hear her voice crack and break.
She took a second step. A third. With each step, she seemed to hear an echo or see a shadow of things that had brought her to this moment. Her first dreams of the Fire Zone. The old woman on the train and those damned glasses. Seeing her son. Seeing Dylan running and screaming.
Step.
The news about Noah coming on the same day she learned she was pregnant and how those two things stretched her apart and broke her into pieces.
Step.
Sticks. The man who killed her life when he rolled over that mine with Noah in the back seat. Sticks, who lied to her and hid his guilt from her. Sticks. Dead and burned. How she hated him. Except … he had come to save her in the park, hadn’t he? Was that some kind of penance?
Step.
The little monk in Central Park. Mr. Hoto. Trying so hard to warn her about the choice she was making. Being so destroyed when he realized that he had failed.
Step.
The actual birth. Dying. Being shocked back to life while her baby was still inside of her. Had it been his life force or the electrical jolt that had given her a direction in which to swim in all that darkness? Did it matter?
Step.
The drugs. The beautiful, horrible, delicious, disgusting, delightful, dreadful, wonderful drugs. The Void that took her to other worlds and maybe warped so much of her mind that she now thought this was actually happening. The crack cocaine that lifted her on its sweet smoke. There was a crack pipe waiting for her at home. Someone was going to find it. Her mother, her father, the landlord, the cops, her friends. She would not be going home from the hospital anytime soon. Whoever found that stuff would make the obvious guess.
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