Avenging Fury

by John Farris

  “First one looked like a meteor. But I never did see anything like that other light, and we get all manner of natural phenomena out this way.”

  “I believe the first phase of the harmonic convergence has come off successfully,” Devon said.

  “First phase? What’s the rest of it supposed to be like?”

  “Oh, Herbert. I don’t think I could begin to describe all that to you.”

  When she thought the once-incandescent red crystal skull had cooled enough to be touched, Harlee Nations approached it slowly along the rim of the sacred site, marked by petroglyphs, above the tinaja. Ten feet away from the skull she removed welder’s goggles. In spite of the protection they’d afforded, her eyes still smarted from the solar brilliance of two flashes an instant apart. Incoming, outgoing.

  A wonder that the earth hadn’t spasmed in an isostatic rebound or shifted on its axis. But Harlee surmised that the galactic beam, generated by a phenomenon known to all the ancient races as the Fiery Chariot, its passage triggered by a configuration of the hot-blooded planet Mars to the galactic center in the fire sign of Sagittarius, the Centaurian archer, hadn’t actually touched the earth. According to the lore she had soaked up in the Magician’s library earlier in the day. The potentially shattering power of the beam had been gobbled by that little wonder of a skull and flung out again in Mordaunt’s direction. South of the Calico Tanks and perhaps far out to sea, reckoning from the angle of deflection.

  If it ultimately had connected with anything but the fishes she couldn’t say.

  But if Mordaunt had needed the juice to free himself from his glass tomb and the ruby skull hadn’t botched the job, he had it now.

  Seated on the edge of a desk in the office of the visitors’ center, leaning toward Ranger Herb with her panty hose around one ankle while she fumbled behind her back with the catches of her bra, Devon said in a tremulous voice, “Be gentle with me.” His stuck-out penis felt as hot as a fireplace poker on the tender inside of one knee. Finally and a little impatiently she pushed his hands away and lay back, heels wide apart against the edge of the desktop, a languid forearm covering her eyes while, with her other hand, she pulled him down on top of her. Really, he was a lovely man.

  Harlee was leaning against the side of Devon’s car with her arms folded, admiring the pinkish hue of a sickle moon with the evening star at its southern tip, when Devon appeared in the doorway of the visitors’ center, turned to give a sizable hunk of ranger a lingering smooch, then came skipping blithely across the parking lot.

  “Nice to see you in one piece,” she said.

  “Can’t trust you for one minute,” Harlee said good-naturedly. No pang of jealously. No interest in sex herself, at least for now. Her calves hurt from strenuous hiking. She was looking forward to a meal, a hot bath, a sound night’s sleep.

  “How often does one have the opportunity to fulfill the ultimate sexual fantasy of the middle-aged male? And besides, I was a little randy myself.”

  Harlee yawned, then smiled sardonically.

  “Now don’t make me feel cheap,” Devon scolded.

  CONCORDIA HOSPITAL • 6:00 P.M.

  At a news conference devoted to the condition of supermodel Bertie Nkambe, which remained critical, a hospital spokeswoman told the twenty or so media representatives keeping tabs on Concordia’s celebrated patient, “This afternoon at three o’clock Miss Nkambe was taken off the ventilator for ninety minutes. The fact that she was able to breathe on her own for so considerable a period of time is a very positive development. She still was unable to speak while off the ventilator, but she continues to be responsive to family members and medical staff when she is awake.”

  Bertie might not have been making recognizable sounds with the breathing tube out of her throat, but she and Eden chatted at length subvocally during Eden’s second visit of the day.

  —What happened to the guy with the broad shoulders who was with you this morning? Did you tell me his name? I can’t remember.

  —Oh, Cody had some business at his gallery. He’ll meet me here in a little while.

  —Cody, hmm. So what’s up with you and Big Tex?

  —He’s from New Mexico. Nothing, really.

  —You spent the night at his place and the whole day with him but it’s nothing.

  —Last night, God, I was whacked out and he was decent enough not to put on any moves. Cody is . . . easy to be around. Easy to talk to. He sort of has an instinct for knowing how to . . . rub where it hurts. Emotionally, I mean. He just takes my mind off a lot of stuff, that’s all. God’s gift, or maybe Leoncaro had something to do with . . . us, I don’t know.

  —Are you sure you trust him?

  —He hasn’t given me any reason not to, Bertie.

  —Be certain that you keep Simba with you at all times.

  Eden looked around at a tall hospital volunteer who had backed into the room with an apologetic smile, pulling after her yet another cart laden with flowers. The girl had an oval face with the coloring and piquancy of Asian bloodlines, and dusky-blond shoulder-length hair.

  “Oh—those are supposed to go to the cancer wing.”

  “I’m sorry. Nobody said anything. But I just started as a volunteer this afternoon.”

  “Otherwise we’d be up to our ears. But please leave the cards so Bertie will know who to thank later.”

  The exotically beautiful girl looked sympathetically at Bertie, who, with her eyes closed, lay partially elevated in the bed.

  “I think she is so wonderful. What a terrible thing. She’ll be all right, won’t she? I’ll say a prayer in chapel on my break.”

  “That’s very good of you—”

  “My name’s Flicka. Are you Bertie’s best friend?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I feel like I’ve seen you before. Are you in the movies?”

  “No. I’m just plain no-talent Eve Bell.”

  “Very nice to meet you. I’ll see that these flowers are taken to the cancer wing. I can’t bear to go over there myself. I guess I’ll have to get used to it. Is there anything else I can do for you? Something to eat from the cafeteria?”

  “No, I’m fine. Flicka. That’s an unusual name.”

  “My father was from Helsinki and my mother was born in Macao. She was part Chinese and part Thai. But they aren’t with me anymore.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. How old are you, Flicka?”

  “I’ll be seventeen in a couple of months. I’m a model too, I mean I’m trying to be, but I have a problem with my hips, so, you know, I really haven’t made it big, like Miss Nkambe. Imagine being born on a farm in Africa. Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids over there, I can’t help but cry. I mean I’d love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff.”

  “Sure. Flicka, if you wouldn’t mind? My visiting time is almost up, and—”

  “I apologize! I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll just come by from time to time while on my shift, see if there’s anything.”

  When the girl had gone, Bertie said, —What’s wrong with her hips?

  —A little wide in the beam for runway, but even so she’d ace the next Victoria’s Secret collection. When are Joseph and Kieti coming back?

  —Not tonight. They’ve both got jet lag and there’s no need for them to hang around here watching me snooze. Kieti’s restless for long-stemmed American beauties, and how long can you keep my pop away from a VIP baccarat room?

  —So do you want me to—?

  —No. Find yourself a good time. But as soon as you hear from Tom—

  —I’ll get back to you right away.

  —You don’t have any idea where he went with the dear departed?

  —’Fraid I don’t, Bertie, and I’m antsy too.

  —Feeling a little tired now. This self-healing process takes a lot out of me, and I sure could use a New York cut smothered in grilled shitakis.

  —How much longer, do you think?

  —I could walk o
ut of here two days from now. But the docs would find that peculiar. I don’t want to attract unwanted attention to myself.

  —Two days! You recuperate faster than Wile E. Coyote.

  Eden leaned over the bed to kiss Bertie’s cheek.

  —I’d better. I think you’re going to need me. Eden, I’ve been thinking about Gwen.

  —I sure haven’t.

  —Remember when we met with Leoncaro in the Pope’s study? We were speculating what might have become of your dpg after the Magician had her kidnapped off a street in Rome?

  —Sure. Sebastiano said Grayle might have wanted her because doppelgangers can travel back and forth in time. And I said—

  —Only if it was something you wanted her to do.

  —That’s right. I’m in control of Gwen.

  —Eden!

  —Doesn’t count unless I say her full name out loud, after which she is no longer a doppelganger. Good riddance. But releasing her is my decision alone. Meanwhile—

  —You don’t know where she is. How do you usually keep in touch with Gwen?

  —Kind of a mystery. It’s not a conscious thing. There’s no secret password. Largely visceral, I think. Sometimes she shows up for no good reason. She can be a pest about that.

  —There must always be a reason, even if neither of you is sure what it is.

  —I guess so.

  —How long has it been since either of us saw her? My sense of time is screwed up. It’s the painkillers and anticonvulsants. Bad for my short-term memory too. I’d get them to cut the dosages but I still need to be on oxygen part-time, the lung that took a hit isn’t behaving.

  —Best thing is for you to get out of here soon as you can. About Gwen—

  —What if the Magician found a way to separate her from you? Didn’t MORG have her doped up at Plenty Coups? What was the name of that bowlegged little guy with the mirror sunglasses?

  —Bertie, I didn’t get all of that, you’re not coming through clearly. I did finally penetrate the fog around Gwen when I found the time. Before that I spent forty hours straight, as you know, trying to locate a weapon of mass destruction. I get your point, but I don’t buy Gwen being under Mordaunt’s control, no matter what combination of hypnotics he might have her on. Anyway, he’s gone and eventually she’ll wake up and I’ll get her back on the beam. Bertie?

  But there was nothing more from Bertie. Her eyelids didn’t move. She’d drifted off to sleep and there was little else to hear but the huffing of the ventilator. Eden gave Bertie another kiss and called for the nurse waiting outside. In the sitting room of the suite she alerted Cody Olds on her cell phone. There was a team of Blackwelder ops ensuring Bertie’s privacy. One of them escorted Eden to the lower level of the parking garage to wait for Cody. Eden taking time now to devote to her dpg, concentrating on her, wishing for that telltale buzzy feeling around her navel, a signal that they were hooking up or that Gwen was about to put in an appearance. Nothing came of the effort. Eden felt a slight, dismal sense of loss. As if she actually missed her doppelganger. What if something very bad had happened that wasn’t really Gwen’s fault? And what was the name of that bowlegged little guy with the mirror sunglasses?

  With four more Blackwelders keeping them company in a huge Hummer behind Cody’s little cartoon-comedy Prius, they drove to dinner at a restaurant called Stakes, owned by a couple of his friends. Past a little white chapel like wedding-cake art, host to many a grievous mistake of the heart. A billboard thirty feet high, advertising the Follies, sweetmeats spangled in feather frosting, leggy as newborn colts. Intersection with flares, an SUV on its back amid metal trash and pulverized glass like a scream gone to glitter, blue lights everywhere. Emerging into the slipstream of light-show ecstasies on Las Vegas Boulevard. It was a weeknight in the off-season, if Vegas could be said to have an off-season, but still there were throngs crossing the street and the boardwalk by the hotel that featured pirate ships doing battle in an artificial lagoon. Eden and Cody both silent while they waited on a light to turn green, Eden looking far down the Strip and wondering if she was on another hard road to disillusion or if she had the right to hope for something better. Cody glancing at her just then with a gleam of intimacy that caused her heart to swell. Whatever was in her future, this moment would do. Besides, as Tom Sherard had said to her (speaking from the experience of the big-game hunter he once was), nothing invites danger like our own fears.

  On their breaks from volunteer work at Concordia Hospital, Flicka and three others from Harlee Nations’s crew put their heads together in the section of the cafeteria leased to a fast-food chain after they had fended off a couple of interns who, sensing opportunity, had made a move to join them.

  “So she was right there when I came in with the flowers,” Flicka said. “Beside the bed with her head bowed, lips moving as if she was saying a prayer for the Supa. I was, like, totally ginked. The Avatar. Awesome.”

  “So do we let Harlee know?” Reese said.

  “Lotsa luck,” Nic said, with her customary feline petulance. “Her cell’s been turned off all day. I don’t know where she and Devon are.”

  “Meanwhile . . .” Honeydew said, and let the suggestion hang while they worked on a Big Mac (Honeydew, with her supercharged metabolism and zit-proof skin) and char-grilled chicken salads (everyone else).

  Flicka sipped her Coke, looking at each of them in turn. The vote seemed to be in.

  “It’s easy to get past the private cops,” she said, after a mild belch. “Just bring a wagonload of flowers. There’s a nurse probably twenty-four/seven, but I only need to get rid of her like, three minutes, fill in while she takes a sandbox break, whatever.”

  “Three minutes?” Reese said. She was wearing a pink turtleneck under her jumper to cover up a hickey Bronc Skarbeck had bestowed the night before. Bad bed manners on his part. Like he was trying to suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. Those lusty old guys with hearts as frail as paper lanterns, caution to the winds when they get a whiff of warm quail in the nest. But at least he’d had superior body tone. “How will you do it?”

  “No problemo. The Supa’s on drip lines. Unconscious, most of the time.”

  “Give her what?” Nic asked, her thickly made-up foxy eyes avid for the details. “An extra helping of morph?”

  Flicka reacted with disdain to this unwitting slur on her prowess as a poisoner. “Severely contracted pupils,” she said. “Dead giveaway, so to speak.”

  “Doesn’t belladonna dilate the pupils back again?”

  “That’s too much fuss, when there are time constraints,” Flicka said. She looked as cool as Dracula snacking on a frozen bloodsicle. “And there’s no need to get cute with toxins when . . .”

  They had another would-be visitor, one of those arrogant brain-digger types, exuding surgical star power and personality in his OR scrubs. Coming on to them heart-to-hearty.

  “Hi, girls. What are we being so serious about over here in the corner?”

  Honeydew took the lead, her eyes opening as wide and blue as morning glories.

  “Looky here, y’all. A real doctor.”

  “Talking to us.”

  “I am totally blown.”

  “Turn out de lights, I’s done seen hebben.”

  “Do you suppose docky want to fuckus?”

  Reese said breathlessly, “Let us now synchronize our orgasms, and all come together.”

  “Come to-gethherr,” they harmonized, turning heads all over the cafeteria.

  “Hey, uh, girls, I just—”

  “It is a little hairy, though, wouldn’t you say, Honeydew?”

  “Like my daddy’s bear-paw slippers.”

  “Eyebrows, yecchh.”

  “Keeps itself up, though. Cute buns.”

  “What d’you say, Nic—want to get down and dirty with it?”

  “Like I want a cactus growin’ on my lip.”

  Without a trace of expression on any of their gorgeous faces they watched the back of their victim’s neck
glowing red as he walked quickly away from the table with his tray, then returned to the business of Bertie Nkambe.

  “I’ll use digoxin,” Flicka announced, as if she’d made up her mind during the diversion.

  Nic’s full underlip was in bicker mode. Flicka shortstopped her by saying, “The Supa’s heart gives out, that’s all. Because of the severity of her wounds there won’t be any questions as to why she died.”

  “What about mass spectrometric analysis or immunoassay?” Nic said authoritatively.

  Flicka smiled patiently. “There’s a flaw in forensic pathology. Toxicologists can’t find poison unless they know they’re looking for it. It’s a matter of professional oversight, and who is going to suspect?”

  The other two girls nodded, but Nic said stubbornly, “Harlee’s got to okay the offing of the Supa.”

  “Well, the Great One wanted her out of the way, didn’t he?” Reese said. “Not for us to wonder why. Maybe she’s, you know, paranormal too? Maybe we should go ahead and finish the job that Cornell what’s-his-name botched.”

  “Girlfriends, do any of us need Harlee seriously pissed because we didn’t consult her about Nkambe?”

  They all looked thoughtfully at Nic. No one wanted Harlee pissed. Any of them could be banished from the crew on her whim, denied the benefits of spectrochrome therapy, without which they would be dreadful hags in no time. And it was lonely out there, beyond the comforting warmth of Harlee’s affections.

  Honeydew said, “Why don’t you try her cell phone again, Nic?”

  “She knows we’ve been calling,” Flicka argued. “Maybe she just doesn’t want to be bothered. No rush. I wouldn’t try to do it tonight anyway. There’ll be a new load of flowers to deliver tomorrow. I’ll need one of you to divert whoever’s in the suite with Nkambe while I do the deed. Nic, are you going to finish your salad?”

  “No, you can have it. I can’t eat. I’m all bloated and cramping up. Periods are really bad at our age, aren’t they?”

  “Consider the alternative,” Reese advised.

  LAS VEGAS • OCTOBER 30 • 2:12 A.M.