But lots of things hadn’t happened here, so that didn’t prove a thing. Like, for example, the Sickness. It pops up in a city, a small town, takes its victims, and moves on. A random sequence he knew from the newspapers drove the scientists and doctors out of their analytical minds. Prediction might mean better preventive action. Like the signs that were posted in every school and church in town, reminding people to get their smallpox inoculation before it was too late. The signs worked, of course, but the vaccine itself didn’t always do the job.
So how, he asked himself, did John Harp know about the run of luck he’d been having?
And something answered, over two years is a hell of a long run.
He pushed his hair away from his forehead, and smiled at a little girl prancing alongside her mother, both wearing masks, the little one’s with a Mickey Mouse painted across the front, the mother’s with a Bugs Bunny. The woman saw him watching and raised her eyebrows in a gesture that told him it was better than looking like you were heading straight for surgery; his own look told her Hey, whatever works.
But the sight lifted him, just as the street shepherd had jolted him out of his anger at John Harp, and he walked a little more quickly, more confidently, not really paying attention to where he was until he had crossed the first loop of Caesar’s open oval, long front drive, and found himself in front of what Moonbow had called his personal statue.
He chuckled and walked past it—high on a marble base, a gold sculpture of two charging horses pulling a chariot, its driver with one arm raised high, a snapping whip in his hand.
Not quite a mirror of the chip his mother gave him.
As he stepped off the curb onto the second leg of the oval, he looked over his shoulder at the chariot one more time, shook his head, and jumped, arms flailing, when a blaring horn warned him he’d nearly stepped in front of an airport van. The driver mouthed a curse at him as he stepped back hastily and almost tripped over the curb, faces in the van windows staring, not a single one of them friendly.
have you ever wondered
Shaken, feeling more than a little foolish, he decided to pass on Caesar’s and make his way farther up, to the Mirage or beyond. By then maybe his heart would have stopped trying to claw its way out of his chest. He shook his hands again, and rubbed his sternum; he licked his lips; rubbed his arms.
rattlesnake
He walked a little faster, realizing he’d blown an awful lot of time, both at the restaurant and at Bally’s and the Barbary. If he was going to add to his stash, he’d better . . . he’d better . . . and do what? he asked himself suddenly. When you get what you want, what are you going to do, buy a mansion and hide out until the shepherd’s numbers are so large he can’t carry them anymore?
cowboy
An impatient swipe at the sweat on his nape, a pass of his forearm across his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe he was still in the nightmare. Maybe there’s still some coincidence in the world.
have you ever wondered
Maybe.
Maybe I have.
a car that jumped the curb
He didn’t care about the heat; he didn’t care about the danger.
He looked back, he looked ahead, and with a silent cry, he ran.
* * * *
2
At the first men’s room he could find when he reached the Mirage, he banged into a stall, locked the door behind him, dropped to his knees, and threw up.
Damning the tears, damning Harp, damning the stench, damning the sun.
Rocking on his knees until there was nothing left; rocking on his knees while he mopped his face with toilet paper; flushing the toilet several times, flushing it again even though there was nothing there but water; rocking on his knees, thinking maybe he’d gone crazy.
Sagging to the floor, stretching out his legs, his feet poking under the door, his back against the rim of the bowl. Blinking rapidly enough to make himself dizzy. Working his lips like an old man who can’t find the words to speak. Fingers stroking his neck as if he could ease the raw burning in his throat.
Sitting there, panting and sweating, until he heard the restroom door open, heels tap sharply across the tiled floor, and finally, after a long silence, a woman’s voice say, in a clear British accent, “Pardon me, Mr. Falkirk, but is there something wrong?”
He couldn’t help it; he laughed.
* * * *
3
“Let me tell you something,” he said, “but don’t expect me to make any sense.”
Beatrice Harp neither flinched nor smiled. She sat sideways on the stool next to his, watching solemnly, studiously as he stroked the slot machine’s side again, just to be sure. Then he slipped in a quarter, pulled the arm, and shook his head when twelve quarters rattled out.
“I think your old man’s a nut.”
Another quarter; nothing this time.
“But I’m not going to ask how you found me, because then I’ll have to think you’re a nut, too.”
“Can you do this all night?” she asked, nodding to the machine. “Make money, I mean.”
“Sometimes. Maybe. But I don’t.”
“Because they’ll mark you,” she said.
He looked at her, finally nodded.
“Very clever, then. Spread yourself around, I expect, is that right?”
He nodded again, watching a dozen quarters bounce onto the bed the others made.
She wore baggy tan shorts that reached her knees, a loose matching blouse with a small animal stitched in dark red across her right breast. Kneesocks and walking shoes. A tortoiseshell band over her head to hold the hair out of her eyes. Both hands gripped a small purse in her lap.
Bells and music two rows over, some cheers and laughter, while just behind them a couple argued loudly about how much money they’d spent, how much they had left.
“Good Lord, how do you stand it?” she asked when he leaned back a little to ease the strain on his spine.
“I don’t hear it.”
“Surely.”
“No, really. I don’t hear it. White noise, you know? How the hell did you find me?”
“I thought you weren’t going to ask.”
He swiveled around to face her and laughed aloud at the pure mockery of innocence in her expression. She was, he thought, something else again. Barging into the men’s room like that, helping him to his feet while he spun in momentary hysteria, fussing him over to the sink so he could rinse his face off with cold water and find a way to breathe without either weeping or laughing again.
At one point, after she’d introduced herself and handed him a fistful- of paper towels, he asked if she had ever been a nanny, the way she was treating him, and she’d answered, “I’ve been with Sir John quite a long time. I think that’s enough training, don’t you?”
At the time he hadn’t been sure if she’d been joking, but the look on her face now, her head slightly tilted, was enough to make him laugh again. “So?” he said.
“Mr. Falkirk,” she said earnestly, “Sir John was quite serious when he asked you those questions. Quite serious. He does tend to be a bit obtuse, however, I’ll grant’ you that. He knows it’s sometimes a bit maddening, but he prefers it that way. He’d rather you found the answers yourself rather than hand them to you on a silver platter. He believes the results are much more effective that way.”
With a wave that told her he was still listening, he turned back to the machine and dropped in another quarter.
“And he’s quite right, you know. It truly does not make a whit of difference how he . . . we found you. That we have should be sufficient.”
“It isn’t,” he told her flatly, watching the bars, the stars, the face of a leering clown whirl through their paces.
A dozen women, all of them flirting with the far boundary of middle-age, settled themselves on empty stools to either side, chattering incessantly. Laughs, scolds, a reminder that someone had promised someone else to take pictures of the volcano before they left for h
ome.
Pull the arm, Trey told himself; don’t think, just pull the arm.
“Mr. Falkirk.”
He raised a finger to tell her to hang on, and Time drifted, the tumblers did their work, and he scooped quarters into a large plastic cup. He knew he was winning too much, but he figured that as long as he only took it one coin at a time there wouldn’t be all the fuss, the notoriety, than if he gave the machine its maximum four and hit the jackpot.
“Mr. Falkirk, please.”
The couple behind them left, still arguing; the women cornered a waitress and pelted her with orders; chimes and melodies and the ratchet of gears as he pulled the arm down slowly, released it, and watched the tray fill.
“Mr. Falkirk! Please!”
Finally he turned his head.
Beatrice touched his arm. “Someplace more quiet, please, Mr. Falkirk. I can’t think here.”
A hesitation, a grudging nod, and he scooped the tray clean, mouthed a thank you to the machine, and rose stiffly. A jerk of his head for her to follow, and he went to the nearest cashier to change the coins into bills, stuffed the bills into his pocket, and looked around for a moment before leading her out of the casino and into the lobby. It wasn’t very large as Las Vegas lobbies go, only ten or twelve yards wide, but at least the voice of the games was effectively muted.
The registration and checkout desk was long and lightly manned. There were no lines at all, just a handful of people talking with the clerks. The stations at the far end were empty, and he folded his arms on the countertop and waited for Beatrice to join him.
“My,” she said.
The entire wall behind the counter was one massive aquarium, reefs and shallow caves and freestanding rocks swarmed around by fish whose vivid colors belonged to tropical birds. He watched a baby shark flash through a rock tunnel, and wondered, as he always did, what happened to it when it grew.
“Very restful,” she said, placing her purse on the counter.
“I know.”
“I take it you come here often.”
“Often enough. They help me clear my mind. I kind of follow one around until...” He shrugged.
“Yes. Well. Where were we?”
A one-sided smile: “You were about to tell me everything about everything so I’d know it all and wouldn’t bug you with any more questions, like, just for a crazy example, just who the hell are you people?”
She looked over her shoulder wistfully at the padded benches against the opposite wall, but when he didn’t offer her that comfort, she toyed a little with the thin silver chain attached to her purse and said, “You know, I think I’ve never seen an angel fish that large before.”
He frowned. “Look, Miss Harp—”
“Lady Harp, actually,” she said absently. “Sir John is my husband.”
“Okay. Lady Harp. I—”
“You can call me Beatrice, though. I don’t mind. It’s Sir John who likes all the ceremony and pomp.”
He checked his hands, watching the fingers twitch because just about now they wanted very badly to find a neck to strangle. When she noticed his agitation, she gripped his upper arm briefly. “I’m sorry. When you’ve been with Sir John as long as I have, you tend to take up his faults.”
“No problem,” he said. “But I’m not waiting much longer.”
“Nor should you have to,” she answered kindly. “But I’m not standing here, if you don’t mind. My legs aren’t what they used to be.”
So saying, she grabbed her purse and walked over to a bench, settled herself with a wiggle and a sigh, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and held it. Waiting.
Trey figured he had a couple of choices here: he could leave her where she was, grab a cab back to the Excalibur, and go home, the heck with fattening the stash, he could always do it another time; if they wanted him that badly they’d have to follow, and meet him on his own ground. It was, by far, the most tempting option. Ever since he thought he had seen Lil and the horse last night, everything had seemed . . . off-kilter somehow, not the least of which were this woman and her husband. He didn’t believe for a minute they weren’t some kind of private detective team. What he didn’t know was who wanted him.
Which made sticking around not a bad choice either. As long as doing it didn’t drive him out of his mind.
She sat with her legs crossed at the knee, foot bouncing impatiently, one hand cupping the elbow of the other arm. She cocked an eyebrow, he made her wait a second longer, then crossed over, sat beside her, pulled out his buck-and-a-half lighter and lit her cigarette.
“Thank you,” she said, blowing smoke at the high ceiling.
“Sure.”
To their left the lobby narrowed to a corridor that led to restrooms, shops, and, he supposed, offices.
“What in heaven’s name is that?” she said, pointing across him to the right.
“The rain forest.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you must have seen it when you came in. It’s a rain forest. All different kinds of trees and things, a couple of statues, things like that. It ain’t very big, but it’s humid as hell in there.” He frowned at her. “Come on, you must have seen it.”
“Sorry,” she said, flicking an ash into the sand of a brushed chrome ash tray cylinder. “I had other things on my mind, as you may remember.”
“I remember,” he said sharply, “that the only reason I’m still here is that you promised to talk to me.”
“Ah,” she said. “Yes?’ Another puff, and she stabbed the cigarette into the sand. “First, I must ask a favor, that you let me speak until I’ve done. Sir John is much better at this than I am, he just ignores anyone who interrupts. I,” and she smiled, “tend to get a bit flustered and lose my place.”
“No problem.”
“That goes for questions, as well.”
A grunt for a laugh. “Lady, you have no idea how many questions I have. But okay, it’s your show. I am, as they say, all ears.”
Her eyes closed and opened slowly, then followed the movement of a stocky woman carrying shopping bags on either arm, not looking away until she sidled into the ladies’ room, using her hip to bump open the door.
Then Beatrice looked at him, once again her eyes closing and opening slowly. “That woman. Did you see her?”
“What—”
“Did you see her, Mr. Falkirk?”
“Yeah, yeah, I saw her. So what?”
“If you put your hand on her arm, or took her hand, would you be able to do what you do with those machines? Would you be able to contact her . . . what you might call her spirit?”
It was his turn to blink slowly, frowning his puzzlement. “No. I don’t. . . no. Good God, what kind of a question is that?”
“It’s the one you have the wrong answer to, Mr. Falkirk.”
He shifted uncomfortably, made to rise, and changed his mind. “That’s . . .” He floundered, unable to find the word he needed, because nuts was too ordinary, and insane wasn’t strong enough.
“Listen to me,” she insisted quietly, leaning back against the wall, turning her head to face him. “These are strange days, Mr. Falkirk. Strange days indeed, as I’ve no doubt you are already aware.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” he said, thinking of the street shepherd and his sign. “The Millennium and stuff, right?” He shook his head at the notion, wanted to tell her, though, that she was right about the “strange” part. Sitting in the lobby of a hotel that had an actual rain forest inside, a zillion gaming tables and video gambling and slot machines and an attached complex that housed dolphins and white tigers, while after dark, a volcano blew up every fifteen minutes out front.
All while a woman he didn’t know tried to tell him he could take Jude’s hand and contact her spirit. Whatever that was.
Strange, he decided, wasn’t strong enough either.
* * * *
4
The simple truth of the matter is, Mr. Falkirk, there is no simple truth.
While you’ve been hiding here in the city, the world’s been falling apart. And don’t give me that look, you know damn well you’ve been hiding. It’s safe here for you, Mr. Falkirk, you don’t get hurt, and you don’t think about it because it frightens you.
But the world has been falling apart. I would guess the violence, the death, began just about the time you decided to come back to stay. When that ended—temporarily, I must caution you, only temporarily—it was followed by the famine. There was rain at last, of course, and the blight was defeated, but you can still see it out there ... if you’d ever bother to leave. Malnutrition and starvation don’t vanish overnight. And even if you don’t leave, there are still things you can’t readily get because it all isn’t quite back up to speed, is it?
Chariot - [Millennium Quartet 03] Page 13