She’d told the taxi driver to take her to Santa Theresa, the old section of Rio. There, the jokers had gathered as they had gathered in New York’s Jokertown, as if taking solace in their mutual afflictions in the shadow of Corcovado. Santa Theresa had been in the warnings too. Near Estrada de Redentor she tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Stop here,” she said. The driver said something in rapid Portuguese, then shook his head and pulled over.
Sara found that this taxi driver was no different than the rest. She’d forgotten to insist that he turn on his meter when they’d left the hotel. “Quanto custa?” It was one of the few phrases she knew: How much? He insisted loudly that the fare was a thousand cruzados, forty dollars. Sara, exasperated and tired of constant small ripoffs, argued back in English. Finally she threw a hundred-cruzado bill at him, still far more than he should have received. He took it, then drove off with a screech of tires. “Feliz Natal!” he called sarcastically: Merry Christmas.
Sara flipped him the finger. It gave her little satisfaction. She began looking for the clínica.
It had rained that afternoon, the usual rainy-season squall that drenched the city for a few hours and then gave way to sunshine again. Even that hadn’t managed to quell the stench of Rio’s antiquated sewage system. Walking up the steeply inclined street, she was pursued by fetid odors. Like the others, she walked in the center of the narrow street, moving aside only if she heard a car. She quickly felt conspicuous as the sun began to fall behind the hills. Most of those around her were jokers or those too poor to live anywhere else. She saw none of the police patrols here that routinely swept the tourist streets. A fox-furred snout leered at her as someone jostled past, what looked to be a man-size snail slithered along the sidewalk to her right, a twin-headed prostitute loitered in a doorway. She’d sometimes felt paranoid in Jokertown, but the intensity was nothing like she felt here. In Jokertown she would have at least understood what the voices around her were saying, she would have known that two or three blocks over lay the relative security of Manhattan, she would have been able to call someone from a corner phone booth. Here there was nothing. She had only a vague notion of where she was. If she disappeared, it might be hours before anyone knew she was missing.
It was with distinct relief that she saw the clinic ahead and half ran to its open door.
The place hadn’t changed since yesterday when the press corps had visited. It was a crowded, chaotic lunacy. The clinic smelled vile, a combination of antiseptics, disease, and human waste. The floors were filthy, the equipment antiquated, the beds mere cots packed together as closely as possible. Tachyon had howled at the appearance, then had immediately thrown himself into the fray.
He was still there, looking as if he’d never left. “Boatarde, Ms. Morgenstern,” he said. His satin jacket missing, his shirt-sleeves rolled halfway up his lanky arms, he was drawing a blood sample from a comatose young girl whose skin was scaled like a lizard’s. “Did you come to work or watch?”
“I thought it was a samba club.”
That gained her a small, weary smile. “They can use help in back,” he said. “Felicidades.” Sara waved to Tachyon and slid between the rows of cots. Near the rear of the clinic she halted in surprise, frowning. Her breath caught.
Gregg Hartmann was crouched beside one of the cots. A joker sat there, bristling with stiff, barbed quills like those of a porcupine. A distinct animal musk came from the man. The Senator, in hospital blues, was carefully cleaning a wound on the joker’s upper arm. Despite the odor, despite the patient’s appearance, Sara could see only concern on his face as he worked. Hartmann saw Sara and smiled. “Ms. Morgenstern. Hello.”
“Senator.”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to be so damn formal. It’s Gregg. Please.” She could see fatigue in the lines around his eyes, in the huskiness of his voice; he’d evidently been here for some time. Since Mexico, Sara had avoided situations that might leave the two of them alone. But she’d watched him, wishing she could sort out her feelings, wishing that she didn’t feel a confused liking for the man. She’d observed how he interacted with others, how he responded to them, and she wondered. Her mind told her that she may have misjudged him; her emotions tore her in two directions at once.
He was looking at her, patient and genial. She ran her hand through her short hair and nodded. “Gregg, then. And I’m Sara. Tachyon sent me back here.”
“Great. This is Mariu, who was on the wrong end of somebody’s knife.” Gregg indicated the joker, who stared at Sara with unblinking, feral intensity. His pupils were reddish, and his lips were drawn back in a snarl. The joker said nothing, either unwilling or unable to talk.
“I guess I should find something to do.” Sara looked around, wanting to leave.
“I could use an extra pair of hands with Mariu here.”
No, she wanted to say. I don’t want to know you. I don’t want to have to say I was wrong. Belatedly Sara shook her head. “Umm, okay. Sure. What do you want me to do?”
They worked together silently. The wound had been stitched earlier. Gregg cleaned it gently as Sara held the prickly barbs away. He smeared antibiotic ointment on the long wound, pressed gauze to it. Sara noticed most that his touch was gentle, if clumsy. He bound the dressing and stepped back. “Okay, you’re done, Mariu.” Gregg patted the joker carefully on the shoulder. The spiny face nodded slightly, then Mariu padded away without a word. Sara found Gregg looking at her, sweating in the heat of the clinic. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She took a step back from him, uncomfortable. “You did a good job with Mariu.”
Gregg laughed. He held out his hands, and Sara saw angry red scratches scattered over them. “Mariu gave me lots of problems until you showed up. I’m strictly amateur help here. We made a good team, though. Tachyon wanted me to unload supplies; want to give me a hand with that?”
There wasn’t a graceful way to say no. They worked in silence for a time, restocking shelves. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” Sara commented as they wrestled a packing crate into a storage room.
Sara saw that he noted her unspoken words and hadn’t taken offense. “Without making sure a video camera was recording my good works, you mean?” he said, smiling. “Ellen was out shopping with Peregrine. John and Amy had a stack of paperwork this big they wanted me to tackle.” Gregg held his hands two feet apart. “Coming here seemed a lot more useful. Besides, Tachyon’s dedication can give you a guilt complex. I left a note for Security saying I was ‘going out.’ I imagine Billy Ray’s probably having a fit by now. Promise not to tell on me?”
His face was so innocently mischievous that she had to laugh with him. With the laughter a little more of the brittle hatred flaked away. “You’re a constant surprise, Senator.”
“Gregg, remember?” Softly.
“Sorry.” Her smile faded. For a moment she felt a strong pull to him. She forced the feeling down, denied it. It’s not what you want to feel. It’s not real. If anything, it’s a backlash reaction for having detested him for so long. She looked around at the barren, dusty shelves of the storeroom and viciously tore open the carton.
She could feel his eyes watching her. “You still don’t believe what I said about Andrea.” His voice wavered halfway between statement and question. His words, so close to what she’d been thinking, brought sudden heat to her face.
“I’m not sure about anything.”
“And you still hate me.”
“No,” she said. She pulled Styrofoam packing from the box. And then, with sudden, impulsive honesty: “To me that’s probably more scary.”
The admission left her feeling vulnerable and open. Sara was glad that she couldn’t see his face. She cursed herself for the confession. It implied attraction for Gregg; it suggested that, far from hating him, she’d come nearly full circle in her feelings, and that was simply something she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. Not until she was certain.
The atmosphere between them was char
ged with tension. She searched for some way to blunt the effect. Gregg could wound her with a word, could make her bleed with a look.
What Gregg did then made Sara wish that she’d never seen Andrea’s face on Succubus, that she hadn’t spent years loathing the man.
He did nothing.
He reached over her shoulder and handed her a box of sterile bandages. “I think they go on the top shelf,” he said.
“I think they go on the top shelf.”
Puppetman was screaming inside him, battering at the mindbars that held him in. The power ached to be loose, to tear into Sara’s opened mind and feed there. The hatred that had rebuffed him in New York was gone, and he could see Sara’s affection; he tasted it, like blood-salt. Radiant, warm vermilion.
So easy, Puppetman moaned. It would be easy. It’s rich, full. We could make that an overwhelming tide. You could take her here. She would beg you for release, she would give you whatever you asked of her—pain, submission, anything. Please …
Gregg could barely hold back the power. He’d never felt it so needy, so frantic. He’d known this would be the danger of the trip. Puppetman, that power inside him, would have to feed, and Puppetman only fed on torment and suffering, all the black-red and angry emotions. In New York and Washington it was easy. There were always puppets there, minds he’d found and opened so that he could use them later. Cattle, fodder for the power. There it was easy to slip away unseen, to stalk carefully and then pounce.
Not here. Not on this trip. Absences were conspicuous and needed explanations. He had to be cautious; he had to let the power go hungry. He was used to feeding weekly; since the plane had left New York, he’d managed to feed only once: in Guatemala. Too long ago.
Puppetman was famished. His need could not be held back much longer.
Later, Gregg pleaded. Remember Mariu? Remember the rich potency we saw in him? We touched him, we opened him. Reach out now—see, you can still feel him, only a block away. A few hours and we feed. But not with Sara. I wouldn’t let you have Andrea or Succubus; I won’t let you have Sara.
Do you think she’d love you if she knew? Puppetman mocked. Do you think she’d still feel affection if you told her? You think she would embrace you, kiss you, let you enter her warmth? If you really want her to love you for yourself, then tell her everything.
Shut up! Gregg screamed back. Shut up! You can have Mariu. Sara is mine.
He forced the power back down. He made himself smile. It was three hours before he found an excuse to leave; he was pleased when Sara decided to stay at the clinic. Shaking from the exertion of keeping Puppetman inside, he went into the night streets.
Santa Theresa, like Jokertown, was alive at night, still vibrant with dark life. Rio herself never seemed to sleep. He could look down into the city and see a deluge of lights flowing in the valleys between the sharp mountains and spilling halfway up the slopes. It was a sight to make one stop for a moment and ponder the small beauties that, unwittingly, a sprawling humanity had made.
Gregg hardly noticed it. The lashing power inside drove him. Mariu. Feel him. Find him.
The joker who had brought in the bleeding Mariu had spoken a little English. Gregg overheard the story he’d told Tachyon. Mariu was crazy, he said. Ever since Cara was nice to him, he’d been bothering her. Cara’s husband, João, he told Mariu to stay away, told him he was just a fucking joker. Said he’d kill Mariu if Mariu didn’t leave Cara alone. Mariu wouldn’t listen. He kept following Cara, scaring her. So João cut him.
Gregg had offered to dress Mariu’s wound after Tachyon had stitched it up, feeling Puppetman yammering inside. He’d touched the loathsome Mariu, let the power open his mind to feel the raging boil of emotions. He’d known immediately—this would be the one.
He could sense the emanations of the open mind at the edge of his range, perhaps a half-mile away. He moved through narrow, twisting streets, still dressed in the blues. Some of his intensity must have shown, for he wasn’t bothered. Once a crowd of children surrounded him, pulling at his pockets, but he’d looked at them and they’d gone silent, scattering into darkness. He’d moved on, closer to Mariu, until he saw the joker.
Mariu was standing outside a ramshackle, three-story apartment building, watching a window on the second floor. Gregg felt the pulsing, black rage and knew João was there. Mariu’s feelings for João were simple, bestial; those for Cara were more complex—a shifting, metallic respect; an azure affection laced through with veins of repressed lust. With his barbed skin Mariu had probably never had a willing lover, Gregg knew, but he could sense the fantasies in his mind. Now, please. Gregg took a shuddering breath. He let down the barriers. Puppetman laughed.
He stroked the surface of Mariu’s mind possessively, cooing softly to himself. He removed the few restraints an uncaring society and church had put on Mariu. Yes, be angry, he whispered to Mariu. Be full of devout rage. He keeps you from her. He insulted you. He hurt you. Let the fury come, let it blind you until you see nothing but its burning heat. Mariu was moving restlessly in the street, his arms waving as if to some inner debate. Gregg watched as Puppetman amplified the frustration, the hurt, the anger, until Mariu screamed hoarsely and ran into the building. Gregg closed his eyes, leaning against a shadowed wall. Puppetman rode with Mariu, not seeing with Mariu’s eyes but feeling with him. He heard shouts in angry Portuguese, the splintering of wood, and suddenly the rage flared up higher than before.
Puppetman was feeding now, taking sustenance from the rampant emotions. Mariu and João were struggling, for he could sense, deep underneath, a sensation of pain. He damped the pain down so Mariu would not notice it. The screams of a woman accompanied the shouts now, and from the twisting of Mariu’s mind, Gregg knew that Cara was there too. Puppetman increased Mariu’s anger until the glare of it nearly blinded him. He knew Mariu could feel nothing else now. The woman screamed louder; there was a distinct dull thud audible even in the street below. Gregg heard the sound of breaking glass and a wail: he opened his eyes to see a body strike the hood of a car and topple into the street. The body was bent at an obscene angle, the spine broken. Mariu was looking down from the window above.
Yes, that was good. That was tasty. This will taste good as well.
Puppetman let the rage slowly fade as Mariu ducked back inside. Now he toyed with the feelings for Cara. He diluted the binding respect, let the affection dim. You need her. You’ve always wanted her. You looked at those hidden breasts as she walked by and wondered how they would feel, all silken and warm. You wondered at the hidden place between her legs, how it would taste, how it would feel. You knew it would be hot, slick with desire. You’d stroke youself at night and think of her writhing underneath you, moaning as you thrust.
Now Puppetman turned derisive, mocking, modifying passion with the residue of Mariu’s anger. And you knew that she’d never want you, not looking the way you do, not the joker with the needled quills. No. Her body couldn’t be for you. She’d laugh about you, making coarse jokes. When João possessed her, he’d laugh and say, “This would never be Mariu; Mariu would never take pleasure from me.”
Cara screamed. Gregg heard cloth tear and felt Mariu’s uncontrolled lust. He could imagine it. He could imagine him bearing her down roughly, uncaring that his barbs gouged her unprotected skin, looking only for release and imagined vengeance in the violent, agonizing rape.
Enough, he thought, quietly. Let it be enough. But Puppetman only laughed, staying with Mariu until orgasm threw his mind into chaos. Then Puppetman, sated himself, withdrew. He laughed hilariously, letting Mariu’s emotions drop to normal, letting the joker look in horror at what he’d done.
Already there were more shouts from the building, and Gregg heard the sirens in the distance. He opened his eyes—gasping, blinking—and ran.
Inside, Puppetman eased himself into his accustomed place and quietly let Gregg place the bars around him. Satisfied, he slept.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1986, SYRIA:
; Misha sat bolt upright, sweat-drenched from the dream. She had evidently cried out in fear, for Sayyid was struggling to sit up in his own bed.
“Wallah, woman! What is it?” Sayyid was hewn from a heroic mold, fully ten foot tall and muscled like a god. In repose he was inspiring: a dark, Egyptian giant, a myth given life. Sayyid was the weapon in Nur al-Allah’s hands; terrorists such as al-Muezzin were the hidden blades. When Sayyid stood before the faithful, towering over all, they could see in Nur al-Allah’s general the visible symbol of Allah’s protection.
In Sayyid’s keen mind were the strategies that had defeated the better-armed and -supplied Israeli troops in the Golan Heights, when the world had thought Nur al-Allah and his followers hopelessly outnumbered. He had orchestrated the rioting in Damascus when al-Assad’s ruling Ba’th Party had tried to move away from Qu’ranic law, allowing the Nur sect to forge an alliance with the Sunni and Alawite sects. He craftily advised Nur al-Allah to send the faithful into Beirut when the Christian Druze leaders had threatened to overthrow the reigning Islamic party. When the Swarm Mother had sent her deadly offspring to Earth the year before, it was Sayyid who had protected Nur al-Allah and the faithful. In his mind was victory. For the jihad Allah had given Sayyid hikma, divine wisdom.
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