Now she was back in New York under a sky that was mockingly cloudless and blue, and she saw him, no longer Lohengrin but just Klaus, standing alongside a window, staring blankly outward to the bustle and confusion of the the city.
She felt all the fears, all her terrifying images of what might have happened to him and the nightmare of thinking he might even be dead, dissolve in that instant. She felt light suddenly.
“Klaus! My God…” Barbara rushed to him.
She ran to Klaus and embraced him, pulling him hard into her. “Klaus … I was so afraid that you were … you were…” She kissed his neck, his mouth, her fingers snared in his golden hair.
And she realized that his arms weren’t holding her in return, that she might as well have been kissing a stranger. “Klaus?”
He looked down at her, his single eye focusing slowly. His black eye patch was gone—he wore a makeshift white one with an elastic string tangled in his hair. A hint of a smile touched his lips, then vanished. He opened his mouth, but what emerged was a sob. He choked it back with an effort, his throat moving, and his hand reached out to touch her cheek. She clasped it, holding it there. “So awful,” he said. His voice was cracked and rough, as if he’d spent days shouting and roaring in the madness that had taken him. “Barbara, what I did … Es war schrecklich,” he finished in German: it was terrible.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she told him. “You know that.”
He shook his head mutely. His gaze searched hers, and she saw the moisture gathered in his eye. “I was right,” he said. “You needed to be in New York. You put together the team that saved us. You did what I couldn’t do.”
She shook her head as she hugged him again. She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t care. “Klaus, I never knew what it was like for you, not really. I didn’t listen to you closely enough, didn’t hear what you were trying to tell me underneath all the words, and I’m sorry for that.” She took a step back from him, still holding his hands. “From now on,” Barbara said, “we will keep nothing from each other. We’ll be the team we were meant to be. We’ll tell each other what we’re feeling, what we’re thinking. There will be no secrets between us. Promise me that.”
Klaus’s hands shook. She tightened her grip. He shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice dead and empty, his face slack. When his gaze finally came back to her, there was no affection there, only pain. “No,” he repeated. “I can’t make that promise, Barbara. There are things that I will never tell you. There are things that must always remain hidden.”
She nodded, not wanting to agree but knowing that she had no choice. Not now. “Then we should talk about the Committee, what we need to do going forward from this, what we need to do to recover.”
His head was shaking before she finished. “Do what you feel you need to do, Barbara. Whatever seems best. As for me…” He took a long, slow breath as his good eye closed, as if he wanted to shut out the entire world. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I don’t know.”
“Klaus…” she began, but he let her hands drop away.
“I’m so tired,” he said, and he began to walk back toward the hospital wards. “So tired,” she heard him repeat, speaking to the air.
She watched him go, wanting him to stop, to turn, to reach back for her, but he did not.
After a moment, she followed.
Maseryk hadn’t fired him. Instead Franny had been placed on administrative leave. Told to take as long as he needed.
As he was leaving the office the captain had clapped him on the shoulder. “Ray told me what you did over there.” Franny cringed, waiting for the tally of all his sins and failures. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? All these damn aces and it’s a nat that saves the day.”
“It wouldn’t have happened without all those aces.” He had almost left the office when he remembered and turned back. “What about Baba Yaga, sir?”
“D.A. won’t file charges. Lack of jurisdiction. And apparently a handful of jokers don’t rise to the level of a crime against humanity so Brussels won’t touch it either.”
“So she skates?”
“Looks that way.”
Franny had just shaken his head, but it gnawed at him. Filled every waking hour and even invaded his dreams driving away the gasping nightmares of Talas and the Dark God. In the brief intervals when he did sleep he alternated between terror and fury.
He had decided Baba Yaga deserved to know that Tolenka’s last thought was of her, and indeed his final word as well so he was back at the Jokertown Clinic. She hadn’t noticed him yet standing in the door of her room. She was dressed in a chic businesswoman’s skirt and jacket. There was a full set of Louis Vuitton luggage. She had clearly replenished her wardrobe.
Did the means justify the ends, Franny wondered as he watched her place a final item in the largest bag. Yes … probably when literally the fate of the world had hung in the balance, but—
And then he saw the cassette tapes and the old player in the trash can. A cold certainty came over him, but he decided to give her a chance.
“Heading out?”
She turned. “Back again, boy? I thought you’d have had enough of me.”
“I have, but I wanted to tell you about Tolenka.”
She shut the suitcase and struggled to zip it closed with her one hand. “He didn’t die here. That’s clear. What more do I need to know?”
“He tried to say your name. His last thoughts were of you.”
She gave a derisive snort and said, “A hero and a romantic. You’re a—”
“A sentimental ass, a fool, yes, I know. What did you do with his medal, Mariamna? Is it in the trash, too?”
“I gave it to Grekor. He collects such trinkets. Relics of the old days when Americans feared us. We should have beaten you. You are all such sentimental fools.”
“You called out to him when you were delirious.”
“Concern that he’d finally died and I was doomed.” Her voice was harsh. There was no softer emotion that Franny could discern.
“Deflection? Or do you really not give a fuck about a man you worked with, made love with, protected for decades?”
“First sentimentality and now psychobabble. You really are pathetic, Francis.” She read something in his face and her brows snapped to gather in a sharp frown. “What, boy?”
“Nothing. Thank you for clarifying things for me.” He turned and headed to the door. Paused and looked back.
“May I ask where you’re going?”
“Going to come visit?”
“You never know.”
“Paris. I haven’t been there in a while and I like it.”
“Bon voyage, Mariamna.”
The gravediggers didn’t understand why they were burying a chair, but they were happy for the work.
Mollie relished the feel of the sun on her skin. She stood, along with her supervisory entourage, at the edge of a cemetery in a remote Hungarian village. At least, the GPS anklet said it was Hungarian. Ffodor had been born close to a wrinkle in geography where Croatia, Slovenia, and Hungary came together. He had planned to bring her here, just for the hell of it.
But that had been a million years ago. Before Horrorshow. Before Baba Yaga. Before the fight club, before the botched robbery at the casino. Before she’d lost control of her power. Lost control of her mind.
Her ankle itched. The anklet was specially designed to detect any discontinuities in her GPS location, such as if she stepped through a portal. If it did detect a problem, it would tase the living shit out of her (which made showering a little nerve-racking) and then drug her unconscious long enough for a recovery team to collect her.
She snaked a finger under the band to scratch the itch. One of her minders frowned. For a few heartbeats a rage boiled so hot within Mollie she thought she might erupt like an Icelandic volcano, despite the raft of antipsychotics the docs had prescribed for her. But Mollie remembered her centering exercises and caught herself in time.
; They wanted to keep Mollie an emotional zombie. That was for the best. Bad things happened when she got angry.
Her doctors had referred her to the cosmetic surgeon who worked on Joey, but Mollie had declined. She couldn’t afford elective surgeries. Her own family’s medical bills were fucking insane, and all the money raised by the auction of the stolen property in her North Dakota apartment, all sixty-eight thousand dollars, had gone to Jamal Norwood’s family and the families of the people whom she’d murdered in Half Moon Bay.
Besides … Mollie deserved the scars. And so much worse. Compared against everything she’d done to—to Ffodor, to Joey, even to Berman—a few physical scars were a slap on the wrist.
But she’d measure her mental scars against anybody else’s.
Dr. Swanson yawned quietly behind her hand. She was jetlagged. They all were. They’d traveled from New York the long way around. The primitive way. Using machines.
Mollie used her ace only on rare occasions, and some Committee bureaucrat had to sign a sheaf of papers for each of those. The jobs usually involved opening shortcuts between dingy warehouses in disparate parts of the world so that aid workers could ferry food and water.
The head gravedigger called a halt to the excavation. They knew what they were doing. The square edges went straight down. Deep enough to bury a Louis XIV chair.
True to the time-honored traditions of their profession, the gravediggers wandered off a short distance to give the mourners space, and promptly lit cigarettes. The strange scent brought a sad smile to Mollie’s face. That had been Ffodor’s brand.
Mollie waited for a nod from her minders before climbing into the grave. They offered to help her lower the deceased, but Mollie insisted on doing it herself. The chair was painfully heavy, but she did manage to lift it over the lip of the grave and set it softly in the dirt. It didn’t list or wobble. Part of her therapy involved learning to work with her hands and learning new (honest) skills, so she’d repaired the damage Ffodor’s transmogrified body had taken during her fight with Joey.
Just glue. No woodscrews, no staples. She couldn’t bear the thought of drilling into Ffodor like that.
She didn’t cry. She’d already cried enough tears for one lifetime. Crying was the easy part. What came after the tears? That was the hard part. The frightening part. The part with apologies and reparations and guilt. She wasn’t ready to face her family yet. Dr. Swanson had warned her that might take a while.
Mollie knelt in the mud. She laid her head on the seat. Sighed.
“I wronged you, Ffodor Mathias,” she said. “You died because of my arrogance, my hubris, and my greed. You were very very good to me. You deserved better. And I am so deeply sorry. I will carry this regret for the rest of my days. That is my pledge to you.”
Franny had finally made it to Paris.
He had glimpsed it briefly when Mollie had abandoned him in Talas, but now he was finally here. The guy who had never traveled any farther than Florida to visit his grandparents had now been in Talas and Tehran and Paris. He had to say Paris was better.
Figuring that Baba Yaga would only stay at the best, Franny had downloaded a list of the most expensive hotels in the City of Light. He had worked his way through sixteen of the twenty-five listed by Forbes. Hôtel Fouquet’s Barrière was next. According to the article the cost was $1,487 per night and that was before taxes. He couldn’t imagine spending that much on a place to sleep. Just buying a plane ticket had depleted his meager savings.
Shifting the floral bouquet into one hand he fingered the vial of Trump virus in his coat pocket, then touched the syringe in his breast pocket. He wasn’t killing her. Not really. There was a reason the trump was normally only used in Black Queen cases. Using it on a stable ace risked four possible outcomes—nothing would happen, their powers were stripped away, the virus reactivated and turned them into a joker, or death. Administering it to her wouldn’t make him a murderer. He was giving her a chance. It was more than she’d done for her victims.
Of course, once he found her he would have to deal with her guards. She would be guarded, he was certain of that. Even if all her mob competitors had died in blood and madness in Talas she still wouldn’t feel safe.
The hotel was on the Champs-Élysées. In the distance loomed the Arc de Triomphe. The building was white with a blue roof and shaped like the Flatiron Building in New York City. He walked past a line of black lion statues, under the red awning, and entered the hotel. The lobby flashed in shades of gold with crimson throw pillows and crimson rugs on the gold marble floor as accents. He approached the front desk that was fronted by gleaming crystal panels.
The supercilious desk clerk gave him the hairy eyeball. “I have a delivery for Mariamna Solovyova.”
“We will have it delivered to madam,” the man said. The disdain dripped off the accented words and Franny wanted to slug him.
He didn’t argue, just handed over the flowers. He walked away and used a fall of gold drapery as cover. A few moments later a bellmen arrived at the front desk and took the bouquet. Franny took a position where he could see the elevators, and watched the numbers light up. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor.
He then ducked into the bathroom and dialed 17. He had ascertained that was the emergency police number for France. He assumed what the operator asked him was What is your emergency? so he started talking.
“I’m staying at the Hôtel Fouquet’s Barrière, fourth floor. I came out of my room and saw armed men. I managed to get away, but I think something is happening.”
“Un moment s’il vous plaît.”
That he understood. A few seconds later a new voice came on the phone. “You have an emergency?”
Franny repeated the lie.
“Your name, sir?”
“Oh, shit!” Franny whispered.
He then drew his pistol and fired a shot into the toilet bowl. He dropped the burner phone he’d purchased, stepped on it and tossed the broken pieces into the toilet, and flushed it away.
The gunshot had been deafening with all the marble so he quickly ducked out, knowing someone would come to investigate. He hurried to the front door of the hotel and was satisfied when he heard the ululating cry of approaching sirens.
The few individuals in the lobby were looking confused. The desk clerk was alarmed as police cars pulled up outside. Franny ducked into the stairwell and ran up the stairs. As he reached the fourth floor landing he heard booted feet pounding up behind him. He pushed into the hallway.
An unmistakable thug stood outside a door. Even better, he had drawn his gun. When Franny suddenly emerged he fired, but Franny had been expecting that, and threw himself to the side. The bullet clipped his side, but the vest he wore beneath his shirt sucked the force.
That meant he was cowering on the floor when the cops burst out of the stairwell and came boiling off the elevator. They saw a man with a gun and reacted as Franny expected. One guard down. Another popped out of the hotel room. He was smart and threw down his weapon. While he was being arrested Baba Yaga emerged from the room.
She was spitting mad, but fortunately not actually spitting. She was shouting at the police in French. They were starting to look confused. The first goon was bleeding on the floor. More sirens as an ambulance arrived. Guests were emerging from their rooms. The scene was becoming chaotic. Franny loaded the syringe and joined the crowd. He edged in until he was next to Baba Yaga. She suddenly noticed him. Understanding flared in those cold eyes. Her mouth began working. Franny jammed the needle into her thigh and depressed the plunger, then leapt back.
She screamed and began to convulse. People drew back as she fell to the floor. Her back was contorting, trying to twist her into a circle. Med techs raced out of an elevator carrying a stretcher. There was massive confusion as everyone talked at once in five different languages and the EMTs dithered between the bleeding goon and the convulsing old woman. The old woman won out.
They had to strap her down to keep her on the st
retchers as the violent tremors continued. Grim satisfaction and guilt warred in Franny’s breast as he watched the transformation. The stump of her arm began to swell. A grotesque claw began to form. It was flailing and snapping. Bony plates emerged from her back like the spines on a stegosaurus. Her brow ridge became a horny shelf. She held the claw up to her face. A look of horror twisted her face and she began to scream.
Franny walked away. Justice had been served. For Jamal, and Jose, Tolenka and Father Squid. The dark, kindly eyes of the priest swam before him and Franny was shaken by doubt. The priest would not be grateful. He would have urged Franny to forgive. Regret and guilt washed over him. He had become as monstrous as the woman he’d punished.
Franny leaned against a wall and wept.
Closing Credits
STARRING
created and written by
* * *
Marcus (Infamous Black Tongue) Morgan
David Anthony Durham
Barbara (Babel) Baden
Stephen Leigh
Bathsheeba (The Midnight Angel) Fox
John Jos. Miller
Francis Xavier (Franny) Black, NYPD
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Michelle (Amazing Bubbles) Pond
Caroline Spector
Mollie (Tesseract) Steunenberg
Ian Tregillis
CO-STARRING
created by
* * *
Mariamna (Baba Yaga) Solovyova
Ty Franck
Horrorshow (Tolenka, aka Hellraiser)
Ty Franck
Josephine (Hoodoo Mama) Hebert
George R. R. Martin
Billy (Carnifex) Ray
John Jos. Miller
Olena Davydenko
David Anthony Durham
Vasel Davydenko
David Anthony Durham
High Stakes: A Wild Cards Novel Page 65