Jagger forced his attention back to the floating eyes, but it was too late. She’d caught something in his expression or in the flick of his gaze. The eyes disappeared, and the backpack rotated around.
“Tyler, run!” Jagger yelled. “Go! Go now!”
The pack began bouncing in midair, heading toward his son.
Tyler spun and descended the steps.
Jagger lifted the revolver and pointed it at the backpack. “Stop!” he yelled, then added the word that had become, in the culture of cops-and-robbers entertainment, weighted with a specific consequence: “Freeze!”
The pack stopped and shifted sideways; it rotated back and continued toward the stairs. Jagger wondered if she had forgotten about the backpack, that it betrayed her location.
He nudged his aim a few inches to the right of the pack and fired.
When faced with something not only new but contrary to everything one has ever learned about the world, some humans are prone to suspect the supernatural or otherworldly-that hovering saucer must be from outer space because planes need wings and helicopters need rotors; those flickering lights, dropping temperatures, and self-opening cabinets are, of course, evidence of poltergeist activity. Upon first encountering the invisible being, Jagger’s mind had flashed through the possibilities- angel… demon… alien… ghost… But then he’d seen human eyes and heard a human voice, and he’d put it together: ordinary bad guys with extraordinary technology. What happened when his bullet struck the invisible thing sent his mind spinning back into the Twilight Zone.
A small explosion sprayed fire and smoke from the point of impact, as though the weapon had been loaded with exploding ammo, followed by an eruption of sparks-not the empty Bic lighter sparks the blade had kicked up when it struck RoboHand, but big, Fourth-of-July sparks. A body appeared, sleek and charcoal-colored, with blue electrical currents flashing lightning-like around every contour, every limb.
At that moment it seemed to Jagger more of a probability than a possibility that the thing was some sort of space-aged robot, a real-life Terminator who’d come from the future not for John Connor but for Tyler Baird.
The creature-definitely female, or at least constructed to resemble one-reached back with both arms to claw at the sparking point of impact. She spun around like a dog chasing its tail, like a man on fire. She pulled off the backpack and slung it aside. She slapped at her arms, stomach, head, trying, it seemed, to catch the quick squiggles of electricity coursing over her. But her hands always landed after the current had passed. In desperation, she gripped the scaly flesh of her shoulder and tore at it, spinning away from him as she did.
After ten or fifteen seconds, the sparks sputtered and stopped. The blue streaks of current diminished to a few random bursts, except in one area: they congregated around her neck, concentrating into a pulsating color of bright blue threads that flew like shooting stars over her shoulders, up around her head.
The figure turned back toward him. Both hands grabbed her neck, and in a quick upward motion she peeled off her face, revealing-Jagger realized with some relief-her true identity: very human and very beautiful, an observation coming more from the part of Jagger’s mind that told him marauding psychopaths who attacked monasteries and kids should not look like this than from the part that appreciated pretty things.
She had already torn away the material over her shoulder, arm, and chest, revealing a black athletic halter top. At first he thought her bare skin was dappled with shadows, but they were too crisp and formed images: thorny vines, a grinning skull, crosses in a variety of styles. Black, gray, blue tattoos. Among them one stood out: on her forearm, the same gold fireball he’d seen on the man.
She clutched at her neck again and pulled down, ripping the material from clavicle to armpit. A flap fell over her chest, exposing a metal collar identical to the man’s. She fumbled with something in the back-a latch, he realized, when she pulled the collar off and hurled it to the ground.
Grimacing, she rubbed her throat, then her face. Her right hand slid around to the back of her neck, and she released a curtain of black hair. She scratched at her bare arm, then at the other through the material, then her legs. She placed her hands on her knees and stayed that way, catching her breath. Slowly she raised her face and gazed at him through strands of hair.
“That hurt,” she said. More heavy breaths, then: “Well, what are you waiting for? Shoot.”
[48]
Jagger’s finger tightened on the trigger, then he relaxed it. “It doesn’t have to end this way,” he said. “Just-”
From their tall tower near the basilica, the monastery’s carillon bells began chiming, loud in the still air. Nine bells of different sizes-a gift from the czars of Russia in 1871, Gheronda had proudly told them-peeled out a rhythmic tune that to Jagger’s ears recalled the grating horror of the shower scene in Psycho. He focused more intently on the woman, thinking she’d use the distraction to get the upper hand.
When all she did was smile, he yelled, “Leave now and live. Stay and die.”
She simply stared.
“Take your friend and go!” He hoped he wasn’t making a second mistake of mercy. The way these people fought-the man and earlier the teen, who he was certain was part of them-they were people he didn’t want to underestimate.
In the States, he’d have held the woman until the cops arrived, but he wasn’t confident the Egyptians would do anything or that she wouldn’t fight if she knew his intentions to turn them in.
He looked behind him, a quick glance, which his mind processed after his eyes returned to the woman. The terrace was clear, at least as far as the light reached before the shadows devoured it. Not that he would see someone creeping up, not if the attacker was invisible.
“How many are you?” he yelled at her over the ringing of the bells.
“Inside? Now?” she called. “Just me and him. There was a third. He took off for our vehicle when Phin”-she nodded toward the downed man-“radioed that he had what we came for. Now he says your son took it.”
The details made him believe her. But what would she say? Five more, and they’re right behind you? He could only hope she was telling the truth.
She held her palms out, showing she had nothing in them. She straightened and took a step toward the man- Phin, she had called him-then stopped and cocked her head.
He heard it too-barely audible between the clangs of the bells, growing louder: Tyler’s rattling utility case. It was coming from the walkway on the other side of the arch, and Jagger knew what it meant. Tyler had circled around to reach his father from another direction. If he believed the woman was pursuing him, of course he would try to get back to Jagger without crossing her path.
“Tyler, no!” Jagger screamed, cursing the bells. “Stop!”
But the rattling drew closer, and Tyler appeared. He slammed into a side of the archway, grabbing it to stop himself. He was panting hard; beads of sweat glistened on his face. Immediately his eyes found Jagger, and he grinned and bolted for his dad.
“No!” Jagger said, holding up RoboHand, which was completely useless for making a stop gesture.
He realized the woman was moving, reaching across her chest to a pocket under her arm. She produced a pistol and swung it forward, sidestepping to avoid his aim.
He adjusted…
Tyler stormed up, arms wide. His shadow fell over Jagger, and Jagger sensed his dropping toward him.
She aimed.
Jagger pulled the trigger. Click. The firing pin came down on a spent casing or an empty chamber. He pulled again. Click.
She fired.
Tyler’s face instantly changed. The smile snapped into a silent scream. His eyes flashed wide. Pain and surprise twisted his sweet face into a stomach-churning mask that would make angels weep. He flew into Jagger’s arms. His head struck Jagger’s chest and he crumpled into his lap, a rag doll.
Jagger screamed. He dropped the gun and lifted his boy, bringing his face close. Tyler’s eyes rolled, found
his, and communicated too much for Jagger to bear. His head dipped, came up, as though he were gripped by utter exhaustion, seconds from sleep. Through quivering lips he said, “Da-Dad?”
“I got you, Ty. You’re okay, you’re okay, you hear me?” Jagger said, wishing it, wishing it. He cupped a hand on the side of Tyler’s head, then brushed his fingers down to touch his son’s lips, as if trying to stop what might come out-blood, last words, a last breath. His fingertips left twin streaks of crimson across Tyler’s cheek. Using the prosthesis to support his son, Jagger reached his other hand around to Tyler’s back and felt warm wetness, so much of it.
“Dad?” Tyler said, barely more than a weak groan.
Do something, Jagger thought, but all he could think about was holding his son, holding him together, keeping him here.
“You’re okay,” he repeated automatically-the words coming out on gasping breaths. He turned his head away, whispered, “No, no, no, no..”
A shadow slid over him. The woman walked near and knelt. She held the pistol close to her chest, pointed at Jagger, and reached for Tyler’s hand. Jagger turned away from her, pulling Tyler with him, but she grabbed Tyler’s wrist, turned it. His hand opened, and a small black object rolled out. She took it and glared at the thing as though it were a bug that had crawled out of her ear.
“I was aiming for you,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the bells.
Jagger pushed his face into his son’s neck. He inhaled Tyler’s fragrance; it still smelled new, clean, free of the bitter tang of post-pubescent perspiration. But overpowering it like cigar smoke in a flower store was the sweetened coffee/metallic odor of blood, growing stronger with each breath.
“Go to hell,” he said.
His tears poured onto his son as his hand found the hole in Tyler’s shirt. He stuck his finger through and tore the material away. He rubbed bare skin, slick with the lifeblood that Tyler needed inside, not out. He ran his hand up to the bullet hole, gently pushing the blood back in. He stroked more liquid up, squeegeeing it off Tyler’s skin, back into the hole, only vaguely aware that it was the act of an insane person. No matter how fast he worked, the blood kept coming, flowing out over his fingers, cascading down.
He shifted Tyler in his arms and realized the woman and injured man were gone. He leaned his son’s head against his left bicep, stroked his face, ran his fingers through his hair, smearing blood everywhere.
Tyler watched him, lids half closed. With great effort he opened his eyes wider, questioning. Jagger read in them a need to know: What’s happening to me? And more important, What’s going to happen next?
“My boy,” Jagger whispered.
Tyler smiled.
Jagger smiled back, but he couldn’t hold it. His molars ground together, and he raised his face to the sky. “Not him, Lord,” he whispered. “Me, take me instead. Please. Not him, not him…”
He lowered his head, touching his cheek to Tyler’s. He tried to stop weeping and couldn’t. He groaned. His head rolled back, and he was looking at the stars again. “Why!” he screamed, and the word became a long, loud wail.
As if realizing their defeat for domination of the night air, the bells clanged their last and faded away.
[49]
The helicopter settled onto the slightly sloping rock in front of St. Catherine’s, and Owen climbed out. He stared at the smoking hole that used to be the front gate and realized he’d arrived too late. He leaned back into the cabin and spoke to the pilot, who switched on a joystick-controlled spotlight mounted to the nose of the copter. It bathed the destruction in white light. He started toward it and stopped.
A woman was coming out, carrying someone over her shoulder, only feet, legs, and backside visible from this angle. He pulled his pistol and saw a small handgun clutched in her fist. Squinting, she aimed it at him, each of them watching the other over the barrel of a gun.
“Stop!” he yelled over the sound of the helicopter’s engine and rotors. “I can’t let you take him.”
She twisted her torso, showing him the man she carried. It wasn’t Creed.
Owen gestured with his head for her to leave.
“Get that light off me,” she said. “Or would you prefer I just shoot it?”
He signaled the pilot, and the light snapped off.
Pointing the gun, watching him, she stepped gingerly through the rubble. When she’d cleared the worst of it she picked up her pace, heading for the garden side of the monastery. As she passed his position, she rotated to keep her eyes and gun on him, sidestepping, then walking backward.
At the end of the great wall, she stepped back into the shadows and disappeared. Owen kept his pistol aimed at the spot and slowly made his way toward the entrance.
As Jagger lowered his head and closed his eyes, the bells continued to resonate in his mind, clanging unmusically, pounding, settling into an unwavering, high-pitched tone, a scream sustained through eternity.
Something touched his head, and he raised it. Tyler was looking at him, through him, with unfocused eyes. His son’s hand slowly smoothed the hair on the back of Jagger’s head, caressing it. He coughed, too quietly to penetrate the scream that filled Jagger’s skull.
Jagger said something-Tyler’s name, soothing assurances-but the scream stole his voice as well. Then other sounds did break through, rhythmic pulses, as if from a variety of drums scattered around a pitch-black stadium: his heartbeat, footsteps pounding and echoing in the monastery, the thu-thu-thu of a helicopter’s rotors.
They’re leaving, he thought. What he wouldn’t have given at that moment for a rocket launcher. But he’d give more, he’d give everything, to save his son-to move and get him help. Move! Scratching in a deep recess of his brain, like a fingernail, was the thought that if he just stayed there, if he continued to simply hold his boy, time would stop, the badness would stop. Hit the pause button, freeze-frame this moment forever, the two of them holding each other, and what would happen next never would.
But if he moved-if he did the very thing he knew he had to, what every cell in his body except that scratching fingernail screamed at him to do-then the movie would go on, fast-motion, rushing to events he didn’t want to experience.
One of those drums in the darkness rose in volume, drawing close, then stopped. A scream-real now-reached him like a slap across his face. He looked over Tyler’s head and saw Beth frozen at the end of the terrace. She rushed forward. Her body broke up, prisming into disjointed shards. Jagger blinked his tears away, and her pieces came back together.
“Stop!” Jagger said, shaking his head. Beth should be there, he knew. To be with her son, to give Tyler comfort, to force Jagger to move. But he didn’t want her to see Tyler this way, bloody, barely holding on. It would rip her apart. “Beth… don’t…”
She didn’t slow but came full-on into his nightmare, tears already streaming down her face. She fell to her knees beside them. Her hands shot toward Tyler, stopped inches from him, hovered-wanting so much to touch him, but afraid her love would cause him pain, hurt him worse. Or was it, Jagger thought- scratch, scratch, scratch — that to her, physical contact and only that would make this horror real?
“Jag-What, what-?”
He heard the meaning behind each syllable. Tell me he’s fine! What do we do, what can we do?
She groaned, a mother’s agony. “Tyler-”
And what assaulted Jagger’s mind was everything Tyler ever had been-the wrinkled pink newborn, mad as a hive of bees at being extracted from the warm cocoon he had known; the five-year-old planting his entire face in his birthday cake and coming up a laughing abominable snowman-and as he was now, the boy whose love and joy was a sun that could burn away his parents’ gloomiest moods.
Beth’s torment broke Jagger’s paralysis.
“Give me your sweater,” he said. She stripped it off, and when he moved his hand from Tyler’s back to press the material against the wound, she caught a glimpse. She gasped as fresh tears poured down her
face. She clamped a hand over her mouth. New energy surged through him, adrenaline and determination incited by the urgent distress of the woman he loved. In his weakest time she had become strong, willing and able to carry them both; now it was his turn.
“Keep this pressed over the wound,” he said.
She nodded and pressed her hands against the balled-up sweater.
Tyler’s legs were sprawled across Jagger’s, his bare feet canted at awkward angles on the stone terrace. Jagger shifted and got a foot under himself. He rocked forward and rose up, pulling Tyler into his arms.
“What are you going to do?” Beth asked.
“We need Ollie’s Jeep.”
“Help!” Beth screamed over her shoulder. “Someone! Help!” Jagger started to walk, Beth sidestepping with him, keeping her hands on the sweater. She said, “When I heard you and came out, I passed Father Jerome. He said they turned on the bells to call for help from the town. Someone should be coming.”
“Who?” Jagger said, shaking his head. There was a doctor in town who manned a little clinic. He’d met him once, to get a prescription for stronger painkillers when a persistent ache in his stump had kept him up three nights straight. The doc looked as old as the monastery and moved like he had glass shards in his joints. He doubted the guy had treated anything more severe than a few cuts and bruises from clumsy tourists, a stomach bug now and then. But he was a doctor; he’d have equipment, supplies. Jagger moved faster.
Before they’d crossed half the terrace, a stranger rushed up the stairs and pointed a gun at them.
[50]
Beth froze and Jagger turned, putting his body between the stranger and Tyler. The sweater fell away, hitting the terrace with a sickening plop. Frustration and anger made Jagger feel like a racehorse straining at the gate: he wanted to move, go crazy, stomp over anyone preventing him from getting help for his son. But giving in to that impulse would get him killed, and that wouldn’t be in Tyler’s best interest. So he held it in, waiting to explode.
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