The Monster Novels: Stinger, the Wolf's Hour, and Mine

by Robert R. McCammon

  A uniformed guide was gathering the Japanese group together. Mary passed him, striding along the walkway that went next to the water. Clumps of oil and dead fish floated in it, white bellies bloated. A woman was coming toward her, walking alone. She had long black hair that whipped in the wind, and she wore a red overcoat. When the woman was about six paces away, she suddenly stopped and smiled. “Hi there!” she said brightly.

  Mary was about to answer, when a young dark-haired man passed her from behind. “Hi!” he answered the woman, and they linked arms. “You got away from me, didn’t you?” he teased her. They turned away from Mary Terror, their bodies pressing against the railing, and Mary went on with Drummer.

  She threaded her way through another clutch of Japanese tourists, cameras clicking up at the weeping lady. Her eye caught the glint of a badge, and she looked to her right. A pig in a dark blue uniform was strolling slowly along, about thirty feet from her. She veered away from him and walked to the railing, where she stood with Drummer and stared at the gray-hazed city. One hand rested on the lip of her bag, the Magnum within an instant’s reach. She waited a few seconds and then turned away from the view, her heart pounding. The pig had walked on, beyond the Japanese tourists. She watched him go, the breath cold in her lungs. Not safe, she thought. Too open out here. It came to her like a blow: this wasn’t the kind of place Lord Jack would have chosen for a meeting. There was no shelter here, no way out if a trap was sprung. She saw a black man in a Knicks jacket sitting on a bench, staring at her. She stared back long enough to make him look away, and then she started walking again. Mary didn’t like it; this place was wrong, it wasn’t Jack’s style. When she glanced back, she saw the Knicks fan stand up and walk to the railing as if to keep her in sight.

  Trap, she thought. An alarm began to scream inside her. The stench of pigs was in the air. The man who’d been feeding the sea gulls suddenly came into view, walking slowly beside the railing in his shined pig shoes, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. She knew the look of a pig who was carrying firepower, the weight of a gun was in the bastard’s walk. Tears of rage swelled in her eyes, and her mind shrieked the warning: Trap! Trap! Trap!

  Mary began striding quickly away from the Knicks fan and the bastard with the shined shoes. Drummer made a little mewling sound around his pacifier, perhaps picking up some of Mary’s tension. “Shhhh,” she told him. Her voice quavered. “Mama’s got her baby.”

  Her shoulders tensed. She was waiting for the noise of a whistle or the crackle of a radio: a signal for the enemy to move in on her. She knew what to do when that happened. First kill Drummer with a single shot to the head. Then keep firing at the mindfuckers until they took her down. Reasonable. She would not die without taking some of them with her, and damned if they’d get her alive.

  Mary Terror suddenly stopped walking. A small gasp left her mouth.

  There he was.

  Right there. Ahead of her, leaning against the railing and looking out toward the Atlantic. His body was still slim and youthful, and his long blond hair hung around his shoulders in golden waves. He wore a battered leather jacket, faded jeans, and boots. He was smoking a cigarette, the smoke swirling back over his head in the wind.

  Lord Jack. Right there, waiting for her and the baby.

  She couldn’t move. A tear—not of rage, but born of joy—streaked down her right cheek. There was a lump in her throat; how could she speak around it? She took a step toward him, her body tormented between frost and fire. He tapped ashes out on the railing and watched a sea gull wheel in the sky. Mary could see the fine etching of his nose and chin. He’d done away with his beard, but it was him. Oh dear God it was him, right there in front of her.

  Mary walked to him, trembling. He was smaller than she remembered. Of course he was, because she was larger than she’d been. “Jack?” she said softly; it came out garbled. She took a breath and tried again, ready to see the flames in his eyes when he looked at her. “Jack?”

  His head swiveled.

  Lord Jack was a girl.

  A teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her long blond hair danced in the wind, a tiny silver skeleton dangling from her right ear. She stared at Mary Terror with the cigarette gripped in her mouth, her eyes hard and wary. “Choo talkin’ ta me?” she asked.

  Mary stopped, her legs freezing up. She felt her face harden, felt her joy spin away from her like a sea gull on the wind. She made a noise, but she wasn’t sure what she said; maybe it was a grunt of pain.

  “Crazy fucka,” the girl muttered, and she brushed past Mary Terror and stalked away.

  It came. Close behind her. The voice.

  “Mary.”

  Not a question. A knowing.

  She turned, cradling Drummer with one arm and the other hand in her shoulder bag. Her fingers rested on the Magnum’s grip.

  “Mary,” he said again, and he smiled with tears swamping his pale blue eyes.

  It was the man who’d been feeding the gulls. He had short brown hair flecked with gray on the sides, and he wore tortoiseshell glasses. His face was bony, his chin too long, and his nose too large. Around his eyes were webbings of lines, and two deep lines bracketed his mouth. The wind caught the folds of his beige overcoat. Mary saw that he was wearing a black pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and a red tie with little white dots on it. She glanced down at his shined black wingtips, and her first impression was that the devil of all pigs had just spoken her name.

  She didn’t know his face. Didn’t know his eyes. The pigs had sprung their trap. His hands were still in the pockets of his coat. She saw the uniformed pig walking toward them unhurriedly. The Knicks fan was lounging against the railing, staring at the gray water. It was time to play the game out, but on her terms. Mary drew the Magnum from her shoulder bag, her finger on the trigger, and she placed the barrel against Drummer’s head. The baby shivered and blinked.

  “No!” the stranger said. “Jesus, no!” He blinked, too, as surprised as Drummer. “I’m Edward,” he said. “Edward Fordyce.”

  Liar! she thought. Dirty fucking liar! He didn’t look at all like Edward! The pig was coming, approaching from behind the stranger. He was about ten or eleven paces away, and Mary’s finger tightened on the trigger as she saw the noose falling.

  “Put it away!” the man said urgently. “Mary, don’t you know me?”

  “Edward Fordyce had brown eyes.” The trigger needed a quarter-ounce more pressure and the gun would go off.

  “They’re blue contacts,” he said. “The glasses are fake.”

  The pig was almost upon them. In another moment he’d see the gun. Mary licked her lower lip. “Make me believe you.”

  “I got you out. Remember where we hid?” He frowned, his mind working furiously. “We kicked at rats all night,” he said.

  The rats. Oh yes, she remembered them, licking at her blood.

  The pig was right behind Edward Fordyce. Edward was aware of him, too, and suddenly he turned toward the pig, keeping his body in front of Mary. “Cold out here, isn’t it, Officer?”

  “It’s a bitch,” the pig said. He had a square, wind-chapped face. “Snow in the air.”

  “We haven’t had a lot of it yet, so we’re due.”

  “You can have the white crap! Me, I wanna go south for the winter!”

  Mary had no time to debate it any longer. She slid the gun into her shoulder bag, but she kept her hand on the grip.

  The pig took a step to the side, and he looked at Drummer. “Your kid?” he asked Edward.

  “Yeah. My son.”

  “Oughta get him out of this wind. Not good for a kid’s lungs.”

  “We will, Officer. Thanks.”

  The pig nodded at Mary and walked on, and Edward Fordyce stared at her with his falsely colored eyes. “Where’d you see the message?”

  Him. Not Lord Jack. Him. Mary felt a wave of dizziness swirl around her, and she had to lean against the railing for support. “Rolling Stone,” she managed to say.


  “I put it all over the place: Mother Jones, the Village Voice, the Times, and a couple of dozen other papers. I wasn’t sure anybody would see it.”

  “I saw it. I thought…somebody else had written it.”

  Edward glanced around. His eyes might be the wrong color, but they were as keen as a hawk’s. “We’d better split. The boat’s loading up. I’ll carry the baby.” He held out his arms.

  “No,” she said. “Drummer’s mine.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. I’ve got to tell you, taking the kid out of that hospital was crazy.” He saw her eyes blaze at the use of that word. “I mean…it wasn’t too wise.” She was a couple of inches taller than he, and maybe thirty pounds heavier. Her size, and the suggestion of brute strength in her hands and shoulders, frightened him. Her face had always had a dangerous, sullen quality about it, but now there was something savage in her face, too, like a lioness that had been squeezed into a cage and taunted by dumb keepers. “You’ve been all over the news,” he said. “You drew a lot of attention to yourself.”

  “Maybe I did. That was my business.”

  This was no place to get into an argument. Edward turned his overcoat’s collar up and watched the cop walking away; the pig was right, there was snow in the air. “You got a car?”

  “A van.”

  “Where’re you staying?”

  “A motel in Secaucus. What about you?”

  “I live in Queens,” he told her. Now that she’d put that damned gun away, his nerves were starting to settle down, but he kept an eye on the cop. It had taken him a few minutes to recognize her after she’d stepped off the boat. She’d changed a lot, just as he knew he had, but realizing who she was had been a real shock. The FBI had to be hot on her trail, and even standing next to her made him feel like a target at a shooting gallery. “We’ll go to your place,” he decided. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.” He tried for a smile, but either he was too cold or too scared and his mouth wouldn’t work.

  “Wait a minute,” she said as he started to walk toward the boat. He paused. Mary took a step toward him, and he felt dwarfed. “Edward, I don’t take orders from anyone anymore.” Her guts were twisted with disappointment. Lord Jack wasn’t here, and it was going to take her a while to get over it. “I say we go to your place.”

  “Don’t trust me, huh?”

  “Trusting can get you killed. Your place or I’m gone.”

  He thought it over. There was a nettled scowl on his face, and by it Mary saw that he really was Edward Fordyce. It was the same scowl he’d worn when Jack Gardiner had jumped his case about backing into the pig car.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “My place.”

  He caved in too fast, Mary thought. Something about him put her on edge; his clothes and shoes were Mindfuck State goods, the uniform of the enemy. He bore careful watching.

  “You lead,” she said, and he started toward the boat with Mary a few paces behind, Drummer cradled against her and her hand still on the Magnum’s grip.

  In the Circle Line parking lot, when they were away from people, Mary slid the gun from her shoulder bag and put its barrel against the back of Edward’s skull. “Stop,” she commanded quietly. He did. “Lean against that car and spread your legs.”

  “Hey, come on, sister! What are you—”

  “Now, Edward.”

  “Shit! Mary, you’re pushing me!”

  “Do tell,” she said, and she shoved him hard against the car and spent a minute frisking him. No guns, no wire microphones, no tape recorders. She came up with his wallet, flipped it open, and checked his license. New York issued, under the name Edward Lambert. Address Apt. 5B, 723 Cooper Avenue, Queens. A picture of a young, smiling woman and a little boy who had his father’s long chin. “Wife and kid?”

  “Yeah. Divorced, if you want to know.” He turned around, his face flamed with anger, and he snatched the wallet from her. “I live alone. I’m an accountant for a seafood company. I drive an ’eighty-five Toyota, I collect stamps, and I wipe my ass with Charmin. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” She put the Magnum’s barrel against his stomach. “Are you going to fuck me over? I know there’s a price on my head.” It was twelve thousand dollars, put up by the Atlanta Constitution for her capture. “If you’re thinking about it, let me tell you that you’ll get the first bullet. Dig it?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I dig it.”

  “Good.” She believed him, and she put the gun away but she left the bag open. “Now we can be friends again, right?”

  “Yeah.” Said with a measure of new respect and maybe fear, too.

  “I’ll follow you. I’m in the van over there.” She motioned to it. Edward started to walk to his red Toyota nearby, but Mary caught his arm. She felt a warm glow of nostalgia rise within her, and it helped to soothe the hurt that Jack wasn’t here. “I love you, brother,” she said, and she kissed his smooth-shaven cheek.

  Edward Fordyce looked at her, puzzled and still angry about the frisk. She was off her rocker, that much was clear. Taking the baby had been insane, and put him in as much danger as she was in. He had a pang of wishing he’d never decided to write the message. But Mary was his sister in arms, they had lived and fought and bled together, and she was a link to a younger, more robust life. He said, “I love you, sister,” and he returned the kiss. He smelled her body odor; she needed a bath.

  He got into his Toyota, started the engine, and waited for her to get into the van with the baby. Drummer, she called him. Edward knew the kid’s real name: David Clayborne. He’d followed the whole story in the news, but since that plane explosion over Japan the news hadn’t given much coverage to Mary and the baby. He pulled out of the parking lot, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure Mary—big old crazy Mary—was following. He hadn’t expected to see Mary Terror step off that boat. Placing the message had been a shot in the dark, but he realized he’d hit a target far greater than he’d ever have hoped.

  “Twelve thousand dollars?” he said as he merged into traffic heading for the Williamsburg Bridge. He glanced back; she was still with him, following closely. “Babycakes,” he said, “you’re going to make me a millionaire.” He grinned, showing capped front teeth.

  The Toyota and the van crossed the bridge, along with the flow of other cars, as small flakes of snow began to spin from the clouds.

  V

  THE KILLER AWOKE

  1

  Damaged Goods

  “I THINK WE WERE followed,” mary said for the third time as she stood at the window of Edward Fordyce’s one-bedroom apartment and looked down on Cooper Avenue. Snow flurries rushed past, shoved by the wind. A pile of trash bags on the street had burst open, and garbage and old papers fluttered along the sidewalk. Mary was feeding Drummer from a bottle of formula, the baby staring up at her with his blue eyes as he suckled on the nipple. She looked left and right along the dismal avenue. “It was a brown compact car. A Ford, I think.”

  “Your imagination,” Edward answered from the kitchen, where he was fixing them canned chili. The building’s radiators moaned and knocked. “Lots of cars in this city, so don’t get paranoid.”

  “The driver had a chance to pass us a few times. He slowed down.” The nipple popped out of Drummer’s mouth, and Mary guided it back in. “I don’t like it,” she said, mostly to herself.

  “Forget about it.” Edward came into the front room, leaving the chili to bubble on the stove. He had taken off his overcoat and the jacket of his suit. He was wearing red suspenders—“braces,” as he called them. “You want a drink? I’ve got Miller Lite and some wine.”

  “Wine,” she said, still watching out the window for a brown compact Ford. She hadn’t been able to get a good look at the driver. She remembered the Knicks fan: he’d come across on the boat with them, and so had the blond-haired girl in the leather jacket. A lot of people had come across too: a dozen Japanese tourists, an elderly couple, and about twenty others as well. Had one or more of them been a pig on her trail
? There was another possibility: that someone had been following not her, but Edward. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?

  He brought her a glass of red wine and set it on a table while she finished feeding Drummer. “So,” Edward said, “you want to tell me why you took the baby?”

  “No.”

  “Our conversation isn’t going to get very far if you don’t want to talk.”

  “I want to listen,” she said. “I want you to tell me why you put the message in the papers.”

  Edward walked to another window and peered out. No brown compact Ford in sight, but Mary’s insistence that they had been followed gave him the creeps. “I don’t know. I guess I was curious.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh…just to see if anybody would show up. Kind of like a class reunion, maybe.” He turned away from the window and looked at her in the dank winter light. “It seems like a hundred years ago we went through all that.”

  “No, it was only yesterday,” she said. Drummer had finished the formula, and she rested him against her shoulder and burped him, as her mother had demonstrated. Mary had already taken stock of Edward’s apartment; he had some nice pieces of furniture that didn’t go with the place, and he was dressed better than he lived. Her impression was that he’d had a lot of money at one time, but his money had run out. His Toyota puffed blue smoke from its tailpipe and it had a bashed left rear fender. His shined shoes, though, said he had once walked on expensive floors. “You’re an accountant?” she asked. “How long?”

  “Going on three years. It’s an okay job. I can do it with my eyes closed.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “I got a business degree from NYU after I went underground.”

  “A business degree,” she repeated. A faint smile stole across her face. “I knew it when I saw you. The Mindfuckers got you, didn’t they?”

  That familiar scowl creased his face again. “We were kids then. Naive and dumb in a lot of ways. We weren’t living in reality.”