“Be an open invitation to trouble,” Clements said.
Mel grinned and swung one leg. “That’s what we’re hoping.”
Wart skittered to one side. “Perhaps we will make the showing on the Elaki Channel.”
Clements rolled her eyes. “That’s your big goal, Wart? Cable?”
FIFTY
David looked around the supper club, Amazed at how much could be accomplished in a short amount of time with the right bankroll and the best in nano technology.
The club was wide open and airy—most of the second floor had been torn away, the nasty little rooms replaced by an open floor that went halfway across the first, then stopped at a new escalator, put in particularly for the party.
Officially it was a benefit dinner dance, honoring past and present winners of the Racial Harmony Awards, attended by the wealthy, the socially prominent, and anyone else with the price of a ticket.
Many of them cops.
It was a slap in the face to the Kahaners. It was a target.
The balloons were Peterson’s idea, one for every state, with the name of that year’s award-winner. The big tease, Peterson called it. There had been publicity shots of the balloons being hung the day before. The party was getting a lot of play. The PR people at the FBI were good enough to go into business.
David knew the Kahaners would not be happy. He wondered if Tatewood would play.
He saw Mel and String, by the food table. Peterson talking to a woman in a red dress. He looked down the escalator at the crowd below.
No clowns. No purple balloons.
Clements was on duty, talking to Mel, though she did not look a bit cop-like in a slate-blue sequined dress. David saw her frown, and he braced himself for the fight, then she and Mel laughed. Miraculous. He looked back at Peterson, thinking there was something familiar about the woman in the red dress, just as she turned and saw him.
Teddy.
Someone called his name, and he turned, saw Rose, stunning in black.
“Anything?” he asked.
She shook her head. He saw, over Rose’s shoulder, Teddy coming close.
“Hello, David.” Teddy’s eyes were bright and full of a wise kind of pain.
“Teddy, this is my wife, Rose. Rose, this is Teddy Blake. She works with—”
“With the FBI, yes, David, you told me.”
David did not remember telling her. Rose smiled her social smile, and the two women shook hands, and David watched them like a man with something on his mind. Rose looked from David to Teddy, frowning slightly.
David felt a weird unexpected pride—how do you do, my wife and my lover, or is it ex-lover now? We never did resolve that, did we? He had the strange and dangerous urge to laugh. David Silver, King of the Jungle.
Rose looked at him and the feeling went away. His hands were shaking. He put them behind his back.
Rose gave Teddy a dismissive smile. “I want a drink. David, can I get you something? Teddy?”
“No,” David said. Surely Rose knew better than to ask.
Teddy shook her head.
David looked at Rose. He offered to get her drink, but she said no.
“I want to talk to Mel anyway.” She walked away, and Teddy stared after her.
“Excuse me, David, but I think Peterson wants me.”
David touched her arm. “You can’t avoid me forever.”
“Who’s avoiding you? Why do you think I came tonight, if not to see you? Now I’ve seen you, and I’m going.”
“I don’t understand what happened between us, Teddy. Did I miss something?”
“Look, David, I’m in a relationship right now that’s starting to go sour. And the main problem is this psychic thing.”
“Is it back?”
She shook her head, looked very young, then angry. “This man of mine doesn’t believe in it and he has … contempt for it, okay? And that means contempt for me, so how can that be good? I put up with that attitude from Mama the whole time I was growing up—to this day, she and I don’t speak. I just think I’d be making the same mistake all over again, if I start something up with you.”
“I wish you’d thought of that before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you started it up.”
“It was a joint effort, don’t you think?”
“You’re projecting your problems with one relationship onto ours. Can’t you keep us separate from everything else?”
“Like your wife?”
“Yeah, like my wife.”
“I’m just trying not to make the same mistake twice. I’m flattered—”
“Flattered?” David thought he must sound stupid.
“I’m hoping we can be friends, David.”
“My friends don’t treat me like this.”
Teddy narrowed her eyes. “Maybe not. But probably you don’t sleep with them either.”
David wondered how women got so good at making men feel they were in the wrong, no matter what.
FIFTY-ONE
The clowns came at midnight, dispensing floating bouquets of glorious purple balloons. The first clown through the door was slammed into a wall and frisked, but at least fifty more poured into the supper club right behind the first, and suddenly balloons were as thick in the air as pollen on a hot summer day.
David caught sight of Peterson and Brevitt, who crooked his finger and motioned him over. Captain Halliday’s voice was soft in David’s headset.
“David. We’ve had a fire call come in. Pierre’s Café Bar.”
God, David thought. Not Pierre’s. But it made sense—a restaurant that welcomed Elaki and humans on an equal footing. Peterson was right. They couldn’t guard them all.
“It was … okay, just in, David, false alarm.”
“What?”
The captain’s voice droned in his ear. “Got half the emergency units in town responding, and it’s snarled the grid.”
A woman looked at David, and he knew he seemed foolish, conversing with the air.
She snagged a purple balloon and looped the string around her wrist, smiling shyly. “Taking it home to my daughter.”
David took the woman’s hand and unwound the string, smiling gently. He was aware of motion, all around. Cops, clowns, everyone chasing balloons. Did Tatewood actually think he could get away with this? They’d just round up all the clowns.
David found Peterson. “Why aren’t you evacuating?”
“We are, but it’s going slow. Speaker system never made it off the ground, so we’re escorting them in groups.”
David looked over his shoulder, saw a woman with a radio talking to a group of old men in tuxedos.
One of the men put a hand on the woman’s arm. “My dear, you are so charming. Are you sure we have to leave?”
She said, yes, sir.
“Too slow,” David said.
Brevitt looked around, wearing his watchful look. “We got all the clowns rounded up now. None of them Tatewood.”
“He could be disguised,” Peterson said. “He’s done that before.”
“We can hope.”
Clements came around a corner, hair swinging, metal box in her hands. She joined the huddle.
“We’re not picking up anything, all the balloons are clean. I don’t like this.”
David frowned. “Fake fire call, Pierre’s Cafe Bar. Tied up half the emergency units in town.”
Mel detached himself from the buffet, crammed half a stuffed mushroom in his mouth. “David, you hear about—”
“Pierre’s?”
Mel chewed, swallowed. “I been thinking about this. We got fake bomb threats before, right? Now we got fake fire calls. You think he’s flipped it?”
Peterson turned and looked at Mel. “Flipped it how?”
“Before, the bomb was a fake. Now the fire is. Which means maybe this time there is a bomb. I mean, it makes sense. Guy’s got a sense of humor.”
Brevitt was shaking his head. “We’ve had this place tight
the last forty-eight hours, and then we swept it. No way he could have planted a bomb.”
“He might if he’s a guest,” Peterson said.
“We have more surveillance here than a girls’ dorm.”
Peterson grimaced. “You’re living in the dark ages, Brevitt. Girls’ dorms don’t—”
David cut him off. “I think Mel’s hit it, Peterson. We can’t chance it. Pull the bomb squad in. Captain Halliday?”
There was a moment of delay, then the captain’s voice sounded in David’s ears. “I’m with you, David, bomb squad’s been alerted. They’ve been on standby, so they should be with you in less than a minute.”
David looked up. The evacuation was going well, but it needed to move faster.
“Let’s get these people out of here.”
The men and women in blue jumpsuits with BOMB SQUAD on the back had the added benefit of speeding people from the club. David personally saw the woman who had wrapped the balloon around her wrist to the door. She tried to get his phone number, but he just smiled and waved her out.
He saw Rose leading a group of men down the back staircase. He hoped she would stay with them. The room was almost clear. String glided across the ground floor, nearly colliding with a woman in a blue jumpsuit.
“Please, sir, to excuse.”
The woman nodded, looked amused, and began checking the panel of controls beneath the arch of the escalator. David looked up to the second floor, and caught sight of Teddy. He thought how beautiful she was, light catching the sequins of her dress, red high heels strapped over delicate ankles. Balloons drifted by, like flowers. Someone had released the black balloons that listed the fifty states and their contest winners. One of them caught on the top handle of the escalator—David saw the glowing silver letters.
NORTH CAROLINA.
And he was on the Ferris wheel again, wind in his hair, thinking how much he wanted to kiss Teddy Blake. I’m afraid of two things, she had said. Escalators and North Carolina.
Had she seen her own death, and not realized it?
David saw the woman in the jumpsuit walk away—she moved quickly, hurried but controlled, the stiff-legged gait of an ex-con. And String had said, “sir.” String, an alien, who did not pick up on the same male/female cues humans did. Who looked at the woman in the blue jumpsuit and said, “sir.”
Not a woman, David thought. Tatewood. Planting the bomb that would bring the place down.
The mind was an incredible thing. One part of his focus was on Tatewood, aware of loud chatter, loud air-conditioning, music in the background, and his own voice, frantic on the headset, alerting Peterson, the captain, and anyone else tuned in. Tatewood was here. He’d planted a bomb. He was dressed like a woman, in a bomb squad jumper, and heading northwest from the escalator, bottom level.
The other part of him watched Teddy, thinking that sometimes a choice is not really a choice. He bounded up the steps, knowing that if Tatewood’s bomb was on a remote, it would go off when he reached the top.
He thought that if he could reach her and touch her before the explosion, he’d be content. He could see that she was frightened, face pale, eyes wide and confused. Something was wrong and she did not know what to do. Her sixth sense was deafened and she was off balance without it. He called her name as he made the final leap to the top of the escalator, moving toward Teddy, toward his heart, toward his death and hers.
As soon as he had her in his grasp he was no longer content. He wanted more time, time while he ran with her, away from the escalator, toward the back staircase, minimally aware he was passing people, people who would soon be dead.
He did not have the breath to call out, he did not have the breath to warn them. He saw Clements, he saw Brevitt, he saw a waiter who was no more than a boy.
He saw the sign that said EXIT and knew they would never make it. It was his last thought before the shock wave hit, and he and Teddy went down.
FIFTY-TWO
A shaky voice warned David not to move. He thought about it awhile. He was sore and his head hurt, but he could move if he wanted, no trouble. He opened his eyes, saw the blue-white glow of emergency lights in the darkness. He turned sideways, and the floor beneath him creaked.
“Stop.”
David rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. Found himself face-to-face with a young, towheaded boy in a hard hat. The boy’s eyes were wide, his face pale, and a bead of sweat hung over his upper lip where he was trying to grow a mustache.
“Please, for God’s sake, be still, sir.”
David thought of Teddy, reached for her.
“If you’re looking for the girl, we got her out, okay? The supports are shaky, you understand me? We’re about ready to collapse here, and the foundation is so iffy that it’ll go before we can shore it up. So we’ve got to move slow and careful. Are you hurt? Can you climb down with me, or—”
“I’m okay.”
The boy sighed deeply. “Good. Now just—”
“How many dead?” David asked.
“I don’t know, man. They’re holding the count until they see if you and me make it down.”
David thought of Yolanda Clements. He squinted. “Give me your light.”
“Sir.”
“Give—”
A rustling noise made both of them turn—vague dark shapes, moving close.
The boy’s mouth hung open. “What the hell are you guys doing up here?”
David saw String and Wart, awkward but lightweight, heading his way.
“Beat it, kid,” David said.
“What?”
“Go on. We have people to look for up here. Other cops. We’re not coming down without them.”
String lifted a fin. “Detective David, you are alive?”
“Not for long,” the kid said.
Wart moved close. “Yo Free is here?”
David swallowed. “Not that way. Over there.”
Wart aimed the light. It did not look good. A fallen support beam, rubble, what might be a foot.
“It is quiet, this,” Wart said.
The Elaki moved ahead, going up and over rubble like top-heavy snakes. David went behind them on all fours, listening. He heard creaks, muted voices outside, the soft slide of Elaki scales and his own awkward scrabbles.
No faint voice, calling for help.
They found Brevitt first. He was on his back, hand thrown across his face, and David thought at first he must be alive. He was uncovered, and even as David pulled the arm away from the face, he knew there had to have been a reason the rescue workers passed him by.
Brevitt’s eyes were open, and a dried streak of blood and spittle stained his chin and the corner of his mouth. David remembered him in the pancake house, methodically explaining the hunt for Tatewood. Clean-cut, probably had been a good boy all of his life. David lifted the left hand, saw the wedding ring, wondered if there were kids and sufficient life insurance.
Teddy was okay. He held the thought, right at the edge of awareness, and selfish or not, it comforted him.
David looked sideways at the rubble. No movement, no noise, no sign of Yolanda. He saw her again as he ran with Teddy, leaving them all behind.
And then String froze, bottom fringe quivering. “This I believe. Here.”
Wart slid sideways, and David reached out to steady him, their shadows crossing String’s light. David heard a crack, felt the shift of rubble.
“Slow,” he told the Elaki.
Wart twitched, and they moved carefully toward String.
It was David who pulled the boards and plaster away, making quick work of what would have taken the Elaki long precious minutes. He found her hand, streaked with blood and dirt, felt the flutter of pulse in her wrist.
“Is dead?” Wart’s eye prongs were rigid, his voice a strained whisper.
“Alive,” David said, though the pulse was lazy and faint. He moved a board away, saw her face safe and sound and beautiful in a dark pocket of space. Her eyes were closed, and her head roll
ed from side to side. Tears leaked down the soft cheeks, and she cried silently, unaware, trapped in some dark agony of her own.
Wart touched her forehead, fin shedding scales. “Yo Free?”
Something roused her—his voice, his touch, the three of them crouched close, afraid to breathe. David pulled another board away, and she winced and cried out.
“Calib,” she said.
David saw blood in her mouth. He bent close, and she opened her eyes. Her voice was strained, but cranky.
“Don’t know fuck-all about fire scenes, do you, Silver?”
He laughed softly. “No, ma’am.”
“He’s not safe. Help me. Help me find him. Not safe.” She tried to sit up, and David took her shoulders, felt thick wet blood on the back of her beautiful, blue-sequined dress.
“Light,” he muttered.
String arced the light. Wart stayed still, his own light useless by his fringe. David saw the thick and wicked splinters of wood driven deeply into Yolanda’s back, and shuddered. He saw a black well of blood beneath her, and death in her eyes.
He held her in his arms, unwilling to let her fall back. Could he not have taken just one moment to warn her? Could he not have caught her sweet warm hand as he ran by and saved them all?
He looked at Wart, shook his head. The Elaki jerked, and String looked from David to Wart, left eye prong drooping.
Clements looked up, face contorted. “Silver, damn it, help me find … help me find—”
“We have him,” David said. “He’s in the car with String, playing with the radio.”
Clements smiled.
“He’s safe,” David said.
“Safe,” she echoed. “Got to take him to the concert. I can’t find those tickets.”
“I have tickets, Yo Free.”
“Wart,” she said. Just his name. And smiled.
The animation left her eyes, and David knew that she was dead. He put a gentle hand into the front of her dress, checked her heart, found it still. She had lost enormous amounts of blood, and her skin was cool to the touch.
“Is gone?” String said.
David nodded.
Wart pulled away, emitting the high-pitched whistle of an Elaki in distress.
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