by Tim Powers
He could hear the low rumble of a boat moving toward the marina entrance, and he swam to the stern and, submerged to his eyes, peered out from around the port corner.
The Black Sheep was moving slowly out there, and he could see Tony on the fly bridge scanning the water around the marina boats with binoculars. Below, on the transom deck, Harlowe was visibly doing the same.
Vickery retreated to the shadows between this boat and the dock. Harlowe’s slip was just down at the end of this long dock, as he recalled, and the man might tie up the Black Sheep and come looking for him along the dock, with Tony and Biloxi checking parallel ones—though they could hardly hope to see a person hiding in the water between the dock and a boat’s bow. Their best bet would be to have the three men take up widely separated posts on the shore, and watch for Vickery to emerge.
The Port of Los Angeles, with its cargo terminals and cranes and rail lines, lies behind a breakwater that stands three miles out and extends from Point Fermin east to a point a mile off Seal Beach; within that, several marinas and sport-fishing docks are encircled by an angular five-hundred-yard inner breakwater, and the eastern end of that was about a hundred yards from where Vickery treaded water and gripped Harlowe’s knapsack.
When he had been a Secret Service agent, until five years ago, he had been able to swim 50 yards underwater without taking a breath; he doubted that he could still do that, but no one ashore was likely to notice it if, out there in that expanse of sun-glittering water, he just let his face surface to empty and refill his lungs along the way. And once he had rounded the point of the shorter breakwater, he could swim rapidly west to the beach by the Cabrillo Beach boat ramp.
He relaxed and for two minutes just breathed deeply and slowly, in and out. Then he took a deep breath, submerged, and kicked off from the keel of the boat.
Fifteen minutes later he had followed the breakwater’s five-hundred yard extent all the way around the outside of the basin, and here it ended a hundred feet ahead of him as a plain dirt slope, which slanted down to his left and stretched away as a sandy beach.
He paused, treading water. On this end of the shore were a couple of bushy palm trees, and further away four tarpaulin-draped kayaks and a cluster of little rowboats were drawn up on the sand, and fifty yards past them a long pier projected out over the water. A couple of people were visible in that direction, sitting on a grassy patch above the sand, so he decided to come ashore by the palm trees directly ahead, where the breakwater ended. It would be best to minimize the likelihood of anyone being able to answer questions about a fully dressed man emerging from the sea.
He paddled forward until one stockinged foot touched sand—
—And he tensed as if suddenly in free fall, for the sunlight switched direction and he couldn’t see the beach and the palm trees—instead he was bodilessly aware of an open door in a stone wall, and beside it a little girl in overalls and a straw hat. He recognized her—the daughter he had never fathered, whose wraith had several times saved him in the Labyrinth last year. And her voice spoke in his head: I can’t follow onto land. The sea has freed me. Goodbye, and thank you for reading me to me.
“Mary,” he said aloud, breathlessly, “wait! I—I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!”
The fleeting vision faded, and he was again paddling in cold salt water, seeing the shore straight ahead and the breakwater a few yards to his right. He looked around wildly, as if hoping to see at least some diminishing blur over the low waves, but the voice had stopped, and, he knew, the never-born little girl who had spoken was now, at last, truly nonexistent. The garden door had closed behind her.
Perhaps his last-moment baptism of her . . .
Another and very different voice now twitched in his mind: I’ll wait for you in hell. And then it too was gone.
Both were voices he had heard before, but never from people who were alive. The second one had been that of nineteen-year-old Pratt’s ghost, and Vickery told himself that asking it for forgiveness would after all have been an empty gesture—Pratt himself was two days gone, and the ghost had only been a cast-off shell that had thought it was him.
Goodbye, Mary, he thought. Goodbye, Pratt. I’m sorry.
Alone, Vickery resumed swimming toward the palm trees, dragging Harlowe’s knapsack through the water.
Anita Galvan made a sharp left turn from 22nd Street when Santiago called from the back seat, “Behind us again!” The Buick’s tires chirruped on the pavement. She was heading south now between little fenced-in houses and old stuccoed apartment buildings, and she glanced impatiently into the rear-view mirror.
In the reflection, Santiago appeared to be alone back there, but when they had been stopped at a red light a few moments ago Galvan had shifted around on the front seat to look at him directly—and the apparition of an old man had still been sitting beside the boy, who was whispering to it. The thing looked like a water-color portrait that had been left out overnight in the rain, but in its insubstantial hands it held a silver medallion that shone with emphatic solidity in the afternoon sun-glare. Galvan was surprised that the old ghost could hold the object up against gravity. Santiago had called the silver disk the old ghost’s handhold.
Galvan’s main business was providing rides for people who wanted to avoid ghosts, and now she was chauffeuring one of the unnatural things. She didn’t like it.
“He senses them again?” she asked now as she concentrated on an approaching intersection.
“Just the man, just Vickery, he thinks,” said Santiago, “and he won’t let me speak more than a couple of words at a time to him. It’s . . . hard for him to be a compass. Even when he was alive, it was hard, and now it nearly uses him up.”
“Well tell him to last till we find Vickery.”
Galvan became aware that she was nervously humming a couple of random notes over and over again, and made herself stop. Vickery alone? Santiago had seen both Vickery and Castine captured, possibly shot, three hours ago. If Vickery was alone now, did that mean he had escaped, or did it just mean the woman who had been with him was dead? Surely it meant he had escaped! He was a clever old sinverguenza, a tricky scoundrel.
“Right or left?” she asked, for this street ended at a park half a block ahead.
“Left,” said Santiago, “but still south. By the water.”
Galvan was cautiously hopeful. For an hour or so Santiago’s creepy old ghost-pal had been tracking the two souls who shared with it the consequence of having been to the Labyrinth afterlife and back: a vibration in their slots in sequential time, apparently, like cars with bad motor mounts. The old ghost had guided Galvan and Santiago down here to San Pedro, but then about an hour ago it had stopped being able to detect their identities.
Galvan had been afraid the astral silence meant that Harlowe had killed Vickery and Castine—in which case she was convinced that any real hope of saving her idiot nephew and the children was gone. Vickery had been her only real hope of tracking Harlowe—Santiago had said that Vickery had seemed to have a plan for derailing Harlowe’s mysterious soul-eating project.
But now Vickery had reappeared on the old ghost’s radar, possibly—probably!—free. Santiago had spoken of some Egyptian who also wanted to defeat Harlowe, but Galvan believed the ever-resourceful Vickery might still be able to do it, and she had no faith in some Egyptian. And whatever Vickery might try to do, he’d surely need help, being at core a hopeless fuckup. Galvan couldn’t sit around and do nothing.
She turned left, then resumed her southward course on Pacific Avenue.
“Turn left again!” said Santiago, “he’s by the water!”
But to the left was just the apparently endless extent of a gated community—for several blocks, all Galvan could see on that side was locked gates and red tile roofs behind a spike-topped wall. “I’m trying!” she yelled. “This car can’t fly!”
At last she was able to steer left onto a street that curled around in an S, and then s
he could see the ocean on her right, beyond a row of eucalyptus trees and a line of picnic tables.
“Further up now,” called Santiago, and Galvan gunned the Buick north, past parking lots and a fenced-off lagoon, and soon the boy yelled, “To your right!”
Galvan yanked the steering wheel and bounced up a driveway into a parking lot. Ahead was some wide multi-level building with arches and more red-tile roofs—some sort of community center.
Santiago leaned over the front seat and pointed at the far corner of the parking lot. “That way!”
The Buick sped diagonally across the parking lot and halted at the edge of the asphalt, where a tan cement walkway led down toward the beach.
And a man in a black denim jacket carrying a heavy-looking knapsack was trudging up the walkway. There was nobody visible behind him, and Galvan noticed that he was wearing socks but no shoes.
“That’s him!” said Santiago, but Galvan had already recognized Vickery. She pushed the gear shift into park and opened her door.
Vickery froze when he saw her climbing out onto the pavement, and she waved both empty hands. “Where’s Harlowe?” she called. “We gotta stop him! I’ll pay you—I’ll—you can keep your damn book—anything!”
Vickery stared at her for several seconds, then pulled the knapsack around in front of him. Galvan swore and reached for the semi-automatic in a holster inside her khaki jacket, but when Vickery unstrapped the knapsack and dug around in whatever its contents might be—while Galvan’s hand was closed firmly on the grip of her gun—what he pulled out was a sagging red and black lump that she recognized as a waterlogged book.
“I got it myself,” he said thickly, and he opened his hand and let the thing fall and slap on the pavement. “It’s empty now.” He trudged forward, leaving the thing behind him.
Galvan remembered the night last year when they had bought the book, in some haste, to contain his daughter’s frail spirit; it had cost five dollars, and now it was clearly worth nothing.
“Okay,” she said, nodding and relaxing, “okay. But listen, my nephew Carlos colored in a picture in a coloring book! Some of the niños too! You know about that, right?” When he nodded, she shook back the sleeve of her khaki jacket and looked at her watch. “We got not much time. Where is Harlowe?”
Vickery cocked his head, considering her. “How long before you sell me out again?”
“Right now you’re my family’s only hope,” said Galvan impatiently, “I don’t sell out my family.”
“That’s . . . well, that’s true, I know you don’t. So I’m safe with you till at least midnight, right? Like Cinderella. Okay.” Vickery hurried to the car, and she noticed that he was leaving wet footprints on the tan pavement, and that his clothes were sopping wet. She brushed aside an instinctive concern for her leather upholstery and said, “You better sit up front, stash your bag on the floor. This is an ordinary car, and we got a ghost in the back seat with that kid Santiago.”
Vickery halted, the sodden knapsack swinging from his hand. “A ghost? Are you sure?” When she nodded vigorously and jerked a thumb at the car, he said, “They’re damn dangerous.”
“Get in!” Galvan said loudly. “It’s—cooperating!”
“Cooperating.” After a moment’s hesitation, Vickery shrugged and stepped quickly around to the passenger side. “Whose is it?” he asked as he pulled open the door.
“Some old guy Santiago—” Galvan paused and bent to peer in the back window. She didn’t see the silver disk floating in the air now.
“It was Mr. Laquedem,” said Santiago from the back seat. He bent down and picked up the silver medallion from the floor. Galvan only noticed that a looped string ran through a hole in the thing when Santiago pulled it over his head so that the medallion lay on his chest.
Santiago stared at Vickery, who was now sitting in the passenger seat. “He spent himself to find you.” Tears shone in the boy’s eyes as he added, “You damn well better be worth it.”
Galvan slid into the driver’s seat and pulled her door closed. “Do you know where Harlowe is?” she asked Vickery, speaking very distinctly as she started the engine. “You got away from him, right?”
“He’ll be at the Cabrillo Marina,” said Vickery, nodding northward, “he’s got a boat docked there, the Black Sheep. He and a couple of his guys are probably waiting along the docks right now, watching the water to see if I climb out.”
Galvan shifted into reverse and stepped on the gas pedal, and Vickery grabbed the dashboard as she backed fast across the parking lot and then spun the car around to face the street. The tires screeched in protest and dust was flying as she shifted to drive.
She spared him a sideways glance. “He had you on this boat?” She turned right onto the street and sped up.
“Yes. I jumped overboard—I had to, he was shooting at me—” Vickery touched his left thigh, and Galvan noticed a long rip in the denim fabric and a raw cut in his skin, “at my legs, he wants me alive. Ingrid Castine is still aboard, that’s Betty Boop, we’ve got to get her away from him. Damn. You got guns? I’m unarmed.”
“I got a gun. You know you smell like an old pier?”
“Do you have a spare?”
“Not me,” she said, “ask the boy.”
Vickery looked over the back seat, and in the rear-view mirror Galvan saw Santiago shake his head.
The street ended in a T ahead, and Galvan steered to the right, and then had to drive in a long loop before she was able to enter the marina parking lot.
“His SUV is in the first row on your right,” Vickery said, peering tensely ahead through the windshield. But when she had driven halfway down the row, he sagged and said, “It’s gone. They must have been quick.”
“You sure?” asked Galvan as she steered into a parking space further down and switched off the engine; and when Vickery nodded, she said, “How long were you in the water after you jumped overboard?”
“Not long, maybe a half hour or so . . . uh, but I did have a sort of episode, just before I came ashore.”
She opened the door and stepped out, and when Vickery and Santiago had got out on the other side, she said, “What’s an episode?”
“A hallucination, more or less,” said Vickery. He seemed defensive. “Let’s walk down the dock—carefully!—and try to get on the boat. Ingrid might still be aboard.”
Galvan looked at her two companions. The right pocket of Santiago’s sweatshirt sagged, clearly containing some sort of firearm, and Vickery was still visibly soaked, and just in his socks. Get on the boat, she thought. God help Carlos and the kids.
Vickery was scanning the few other people in the parking lot. “His car’s gone, but I bet they didn’t all leave,” he said. “Watch for a young guy in a red T-shirt, or one with a buzz-cut in a white T-shirt. Harlowe’s got red hair and red cowboy boots. They’ve got stun-guns—they want me alive.”
“I’ll use a real gun,” said Galvan.
“Pray God there’ll be no call for it,” Vickery said. “At most you can hold them off till we get to the boat—”
“I’m gonna kill this red boots joto. Fucks up Carlos and the niños.”
Santiago nodded solemnly.
“What,” said Vickery to both of them, “here? No! And then what, we all sprint back to your car and drive out? Without Ingrid? You’ve got to—”
“It’s a Glock with a good silencer, just makes a snap,” Galvan said, “and he’s had dealings with me, he’ll know me, he’ll let me get close. If we see him, our story is that I captured you for him.” She grinned. “Neat, huh?”
“Listen to me!” said Vickery. “Who says killing him will stop the egregore, and save your nephew and the kids? I get the idea it’s rolling to birth on its own. What we’ve got to do is kill it.”
Galvan exhaled and glanced at him. “What are you scared of? His ghost would be on me.”
“Damn it, Harlowe’s not the thing, he’s only the guy who’s got a lot of people lined up for it. It’s goin
g to arrive with or without him, unless we kill it.”
“That’s what Fakhouri says,” admitted Santiago.
Galvan recalled that Fakhouri was the Egyptian. “Okay. For now. Santiago says you know a way.”
“I’m pretty sure. Right now let’s see if we can get aboard the boat.”
The three of them hurried to the seaward end of the parking lot, Vickery squinting in all directions, but the few people visible were clearly not the ones he was watching for.
They made their careful way then along the second floating dock, between gleaming bows of moored boats. Galvan had her hand on the gun inside her khaki jacket, and Santiago was gripping what must have been a gun in his sweatshirt pocket. Vickery was just walking lightly with his arms out from his sides and his fingers spread, clearly ready to jump in any direction—but halfway down the dock he stopped at an empty slip, staring blankly at the narrow expanse of lapping water below the dock.
“It was here?” asked Galvan, seeing his shoulders slump as he looked around at the clustered boats.
He nodded. “We’ve got to find Ingrid.”
“We’ve got to stop the thing,” Galvan corrected him. “Eleanor?”
“Eleanor? Oh, egregore. We need Ingrid’s help to do it.”
“Why, exactly?”
Vickery opened his mouth, then closed it and shrugged. “She’s one of us.”
Galvan ran her fingers through her mop of black hair, then let her hand drop to her side. Vickery was probably just in love with the silly woman. Go along to get along, for now. “So where do we go?” she asked, looking past him at the sea and the boats and the dock.
“Topanga Canyon Boulevard,” Vickery told her.
“What, Malibu, Woodland Hills? You think she’ll be there? Or Harlowe?”
“Unlikely. But we need go there.”
Galvan sighed mightily and turned to walk back to the parking lot. Go along to get along, she thought—for now.