The man said, "Your target has been narrowed to twenty possibles." His voice was low; he barely moved his lips. Slight French accent. "They've been initially cleared by background checks, but each fitted the profile you supplied. A single man, traveling alone, possibly on a British or American passport, but we checked many others. At this point all of those who traveled to this city from the Yucatán or the rest of Mexico are accounted for and were elsewhere when the attack here was made."
Richard looked at various still shots taken from an airport security camera, obviously set up at customs. None of the men or the names on the pages attached to the photos meant anything to him. The thumbnails of each of their lives tripped no alarms.
Bourland didn't recognize any of them either, but admitted he'd never gotten a look at the invader. "Did you show these to the other witnesses yet?"
"Yes. They were unable to identify their attacker. Most remembered a beard and an eye patch. Recollections of height and weight differ among them. Such variations are to be expected from witnesses under extreme stress. One of them said there was no beard at all. Our best description came from the one we sent over as guard."
"Yet he could not pick anybody from your collection."
"No."
"Only twenty?" asked Richard.
"Yes."
"Unacceptable. We'll have to widen the profi . . . wait. What about this?" Richard pointed to the upper corner of one shot that showed part of a convex mirror. There was a blurred male form in it, the curved reflection misshapen, but there was enough to show he just might have a beard and eye patch. "Who's he?"
"We can find out." The man gave nothing away, though he should have been chagrinned that something as obvious as that had been overlooked by his people.
"Do so. Did you bring a copy of the videos made?"
"Of course."
The girl pulled an unlabeled CD case and a notebook computer from her shoulder bag. "When we digitized the recordings, we cleaned the images up. All the other passengers cleared our check, though." She had a pleasant, husky voice.
She put the disk in the computer's DVD player and activated it, speeding through the shifting images until Richard told her to stop. The scene matched the one in the top photo, but as it played out, the picture suddenly deteriorated and ceased. The recording kicked in again, but by then the suspect was gone. Whoever was reflected in the mirror got through without leaving a clearer shot of himself behind.
There's no such thing as coincidence.
"Does this machine have a screen-capture program?" he asked her.
"Yes, along with photography software."
"Good. Freeze on that image in the mirror, copy it to the program and let's see what it looks like."
She seemed to understand exactly what was wanted and manipulated the process with a swift, deft touch. A few minutes' work and the screen had a larger version of the mirror on it, the pixels just starting to show. She refined, sharpened, drew out more information, then removed the distortion caused by the curvature. Even her aloof partner with the pale, narrow face came around to look over her shoulder as she progressed from one improvement to the next.
Richard snorted at the final result. If this outfit was so deadly efficient, they should have spotted him. "You'll need to upgrade for your background check procedures, I think," he said. He glared at the freeze-framed stocky man, his skin reddened by the tropical sun, his face partly obscured by an eye patch.
"Who is he, Richard?" Bourland asked, leaning in.
"It's Charon."
Bourland was silent a moment. Staring. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Who's Charon?" the woman wanted to know.
"A legend," replied her partner. "Professional assassin. A very good one."
Richard glanced at them. "And quite out of your league. I'll take it from here."
The man went still, his version of saying "oh, really?" and the woman lifted her chin seeming ready to argue, but didn't. They were probably too used to being at the top of the food chain and not pleased at the reminder that even nastier predators existed.
The man looked at Bourland. "We can locate and remove the target, if that is what you require."
"What I require is a bodyguard for my son until Mr. Dun gives the all-clear. He will deal with Charon."
"We are aware of Mr. Dun's credentials and mean no disrespect to his abilities, but our resources are considerably greater than his. We are better prepared to deal with this level of threat."
"You have no idea what the true level is." Richard was in no mood to engage in a pissing contest.
Bourland didn't hide his flare of anger, though. "Obviously not, since you let Charon breeze past your security check. That bastard could be anywhere by now."
"He'll still be in Toronto, Philip," said Richard. "He has one more target to take out. Me."
"You're not going underground to avoid him, are you?"
"No. Quite the opposite."
"That would be ill advised," said the man.
"It's the only way to find him."
"You'll want an invisible perimeter around you. We can arrange—"
"No, I won't, and you won't. Your lot is to watch the Bourlands. Don't argue, Philip. If he figures out your connection to me you'll be in the line of fire, too. I have to be Charon's only focus. If he succeeds, you should be safe enough, though I wouldn't trust that. But it's a moot point. I'll see to it he fails."
"How?"
"He won't expect me to be functioning after what's happened here. He is presently unaware we know about him. I'll use that. The tricky bit will be making sure no one else gets hurt."
"Again, how?"
"I'm working on it. In the meantime, we behave as close to normal as possible, given the circumstances. Go through the expected motions."
Bourland shook his head. "I'd rather not."
"I know, but assume we're being watched."
Richard looked at the couple. "Mr. Bourland will show you where his son is; make sure the policeman on duty there sees the right credentials from you."
"We have them," the woman assured, showing him a plastic card with her picture on it. It was an excellent forgery, proclaiming her to be an employee of his own security firm. Though one division of it dealt with the hire and employment of guards, they were of the more ordinary unarmed variety. It nettled him that such things could be so perfectly duplicated so quickly, but their organization had a reputation for frightening efficiency.
"You're the only two on this, anyone else turning up you will consider suspicious. Should that happen, use your best judgment on how to neutralize them, but keep it discreet."
"None of that collateral damage idiocy," Bourland put in. "Paul may not mind, but I do."
The girl's eyes flickered. She liked him.
Richard added, "And lose those damned sunglasses. You two look like Boris and Natasha on a bad day."
She suppressed a twitch of her pink lips and started for the door, pausing for her partner. He stared down at Richard, who was not the least bit interested in the young man's issues. The man removed his sunglasses, revealing the soulless, dead eyes of a killer. No surprises there. Richard stared right back, unimpressed.
"Hey," said the woman, breaking their lock. Evidently she was the balancing factor for the duo, keeping the guy in line when needed.
He finally followed her out the door, putting his shades back on.
"There's a bomb waiting to go off," Bourland muttered.
"And you want them around Michael?"
"No, but they're the best. They don't have to be likeable so long as they do the job, which they will do or die trying. But if Charon's the one behind this . . ."
"Then you're damned lucky you're still alive."
"And you. If I hadn't taken the night shift—"
"This place would be full of bodies. Had I been there Charon would have tried to kill me, then God knows what would have happened." Sabra might still be alive. "You know, y
ou've not mentioned bringing the regular law into this, Philip. That's unusual for you."
"The police are out of their depth with someone like Charon."
"It's more than that."
"I know how these games are played; we're on a different kind of field with him."
"This was before we knew he was involved. You've played it close with them."
Bourland rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, but it's all very simple. You kill Charon—or whoever—and I bury him, with no one the wiser. If you want to go vigilante, it will be with my full backing, cooperation, and a quiet cleanup to follow. A coverup if necessary. Just don't ask for anything in writing."
Richard managed a wan smile. "Your word's always been good enough for me."
"What now?"
Richard blanked for a second, then the ugliness of mundane practicality kicked in. "When the coroner is finished with his postmortem, we should . . . make arrangements."
Bourland's face clouded. He turned away, hand over his eyes.
* * *
Charon's murderous foray in the hospital took less than fifteen minutes; that was how much time was missing from the hospital videotapes. The police did not know how he'd been able to sabotage all the cameras and tapes at once. Richard had an idea, but knew better than to share it with them.
Human or not, Charon was far too dangerous for ordinary law enforcement or even the extraordinary as represented by that couple. They were trained in every kind of conventional weapon and combat, but utterly unprepared for supernatural confrontations.
After Sabra drank from the Grail her healing changed her, turned her human again, but she still retained her Gifts. If anything she was stronger than ever before in them. Had the same happened to Charon? Did he even possess Gifts? Assume so. If not back then, then without doubt now.
He'd caused the Otherside disruption in Stonehenge, Chichén Itzá, and certainly must have conjured that freak wind on the highway. The alternative, that the Goddess had to do with it—had done it on purpose—Richard refused to consider. Her part in it could only have been damage control afterward.
Charon's motive was elusive, though. He had thoroughly dropped himself from sight for the last few years. Richard had patiently hunted for him, not liking to leave a job unfinished, but discovered no sign of him until now. Why had he so suddenly surfaced, and what the devil was he up to?
Sabra would have been able to figure it out.
He fought off a wave of darkness, of overwhelming grief. No tears, though, only a terrible sickness of heart.
No. I will not give in to you just yet. When it's done and that animal is dead, I will mourn.
Then he thought of the Grail again and went cold.
* * *
Sharon Geary stirred from her nap, feeling sluggish not from her unplanned slumber, but from lack of fresh air. She'd gotten—mostly—used to the strong smell of snake, but every few hours had to let her companion know when she needed a breather. Literally. He had her sealed in tight, which was both a good and bad thing.
She'd forced herself to deal with floating in the pitch blackness, wanting to conserve her torch batteries. Stretching out, she touched nothing with hands or feet, meaning she could be an inch away from any given side, or smack in the middle of the scale-lined sphere the serpent had made from his knotted body. He really had been very decent to her, but needed reminding about certain basics. So far, he didn't seem to object.
Swimming motions didn't cut it, but she had some success getting herself moving by blowing a stream of air as though trying to inflate a really large balloon. Though most of Newtonian physics must have been tossed from this corner of the universe, the action-reaction thing still worked, more or less, in here.
A few moments of huffing and puffing and she was able to reach a curved wall and touch it, hanging on precariously by means of the roughness of the scales. To protect her palms she'd put on some fingerless gloves stowed in one of her cargo pockets, the material acting like the soft side of fabric fastening tape.
One hand in place, she banged on the living wall with the other. "Hallo! Need some air in here again!"
She'd gotten used to dealing with the god in a very short time. Must have been from being Irish.
Kukulcan was evidently awake and still obliging. A vast shift took place as on the other times before, and a long opening appeared in the darkness. It was dark outside as well, but still lighter than her little sanctuary.
Fresh air blew in, cleaning out the stale. Must have been quite a wind out there. Cold, too. Until now she'd not noticed warmth or chill.
She ventured to take a peek, trusting her large friend would eat anything nasty before it ate her. And there he was, almost within touch, one of his great eyes looking at her.
"How's it goin' ?" she asked. "Any luck gettin' us back where I belong?"
Apparently not.
She got the impression that they were moving, though. Except for the influx of wind, no hint of it transferred to her in her shelter, but the feeling was there all the same.
She decided to try her Sight. At first she'd been too preoccupied, but now that she'd become more or less used to the situation it occurred to her she should explore other venues that might lead to an escape. Not that the company wasn't good, but in much of the mythology she'd read mortals who hung around with gods often came to a bad end, and she'd rather skip the honor, thank you very much.
Sharon wriggled partway out and focused quick, not knowing how long she might have.
Wow. A rainbow lightning storm. How about that?
The colors were considerably more intense than anything she'd seen on her side of Reality. Fireworks came the closest, but they were less bright and didn't last as long. The bolts of energy shooting around here went from one side of her wide view to another, slower than what was normal to her, lightning taking its own dear time. She was able to pick out every tiny little branch and fork. Now that was just amazing.
Silent, too. The place should have been roaring and booming like a battlefield. Very strange, but fortunate for her, considering how much noise might otherwise be slamming about. Wouldn't want to blow out her eardrums.
Kukulcan might be feeling it, though. Ordinary snakes were sensitive to heat and vibration. She noticed neither; in fact, the air was getting colder by the minute, if still fresh. Must be a ton of Otherside ozone about, but she hoped the chill wouldn't slow him down. Maybe that white blood of his kept him going.
"Where you takin' us, if you don't mind my askin'?"
No verbal reply came; she didn't expect one. However, she could see some kind of disturbance far, far ahead—or what would be ahead if that's where they were heading. She couldn't tell, distance was impossible to reckon, and as for time . . . well, she knew she'd been here for hours on end, more than a day at least if she could trust her watch, yet she felt no hunger or thirst. Or other bodily needs for that matter. Either the god or this place had something to do with it, which was very fortunate.
"Thanks for the peek. I'll let you get on with things."
She pushed back in, and the crack closed, but not completely. He'd left an inch-size opening, and she didn't think it was an oversight on his part. It gave her a constant supply of fresh air to breathe, and a narrow view of things, even a bit of light. She could deal with the darkness, but would rather not have to; perhaps they were clear of the area where the giant Sharon-eating bugs swarmed.
She found a way to hold on with her palms flat on the scales, resting her chin on the back of her hand, with her weightless body bobbing gently clear so she could watch the light show. It passed the time, however time was passed here.
The disturbance seemed very small, but then the noonday sun looked small given the gap between itself and the earth. It seemed just as intense, though moving, a tiny, twisting spiral with a brightness in the center. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.
Hopefully, Kukulcan knew what he was about. In a place like this one needed friends.
/> * * *
Toronto, the Present
"Daniel Dean?" said Richard, looking at a fax of an American passport that had just come into the commandeered hospital office. The name and address were unknown to him, but the cheerful, beaming face—what was left of it with the scars under the patch on the right side—was Charon's.
Bourland grunted an affirmative. "His name when he landed at Pearson. He seems to have shed it the moment he left. There's an ongoing search of hotels in the area for one-eyed guests, but no luck so far. He could have shed the eye patch, too."
"In which case we are still looking for a one-eyed man, albeit with considerable facial scarring."
"Cosmetic restoration surgery? A glass eye?"
Richard remembered the damage Charon had taken that day when they'd fought over the Grail. "He could be in sunglasses, so I wouldn't put too much attention on that one feature."
"Then we'll only find him by luck or the next time he purposely shows himself."
"Or by taking note of oddities. Any more on that cab driver?"
Earlier in the morning a man had been found slumped behind the wheel of his cab, the motor still roughly chugging away, less than a block from St. Michael's. His fare records were gone, though his dispatcher had his call-in just minutes after Charon left the hospital. The destination address was the road where Sabra's cottage stood. The dead driver had bled heavily from his nose, ears, and eyes.
"The prelim postmortem indicates some kind of internal hemorrhage." Bourland slid a copy of a handwritten form across the conference table.
"Just like Sabra."
"They think he may have felt something was wrong and tried to drive himself in for help, but the violence of the bleeding . . ."
"He was murdered."
"I'd like to know how."
"No, you don't."
Bourland made no argument against that. "What about the break-in at her place?"
Richard had been on the phone with the police, having called in a possible burglary to them. Because of the special circumstances and Bourland's influence, he'd been able to listen in as two officers walked through her home, describing their progress into their radios. Richard might have gone up himself, but knew it was too soon. To see her things scattered just as she'd left them . . . no, better to have someone else do that for him.
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