"Urk," the salesman gasped.
Cipher pushed him against the hard stone wall of a building. The guy slammed into it and bounced away, his hooded eyes blinking shut and then open again on impact. Through it all, he held his sample case out to the side like it contained fragile treasures.
Cipher was half-tempted to kill the man, but even as he reached out, the impulse faded. Some part of me is still Joe Monteleone, he told himself. I recognize myself in that man. The salesman hurried away.
He crossed another street, another beam of bright sunshine that did nothing to warm the winter's day. He found himself surprised that Wager hadn't said anything about him materializing in the street, roughing up the salesman. Could the comm unit have been damaged by the clown's hard case?
"Wager," he said, as a test. "This is Cipher. You copy?"
There was no response. He was on his own.
Looking up at the next corner, he suddenly realized where he was. Part of him had known it all along, he now realized. It was almost surely why he'd chosen to walk in the first place. He was headed uptown, toward 57th and 5th, which is where Wager believed Gen13 to be. But his course took him past 53rd and 6th, which was where the luxurious Regent Hotel stood.
And in the Regent, he knew, was his family. Well, Joe Monteleone's family. They'd never recognize him, he realized. But he could convince them. He remembered his life with them, in its every last detail. He knew things no one else on Earth could know. He'd be able to convince Margaret. Wager had sworn to keep them well cared for, as long as they lived. Living in a place like this, a place he never would have been able to afford—it looked like Wager was upholding his end of the bargain. Cipher's end—Joe's end—was that he would do Wager's bidding, and he wouldn't try to contact his family.
But he was right here. Right outside the hotel. Surely a brief visit wouldn't be a problem. Especially with the comm unit down.
He went blank, as he was beginning to think of it. Faded from view. He knew he couldn't get inside unobtrusively as Cipher. And he couldn't risk going inside invisible—what would happen if someone happened by while he was knocking on Margaret's door? He scanned both sides of the street and saw what he was looking for— Henry's, an upscale men's clothing shop. At this time of the morning it was open, but not yet crowded.
He went inside. A couple of sales clerks leaned against the counter, chatting, sipping from styrofoam coffee cups. One of them, tall and thin, almost birdlike, with a great big beak jutting from beneath dark round glasses, looked up at the sound of the door opening and closing. Seeing nothing, he shrugged.
"Wind," the other one said.
"All we need," the bird-man said.
Except for the sales clerks, the store seemed empty. Good. Cipher materialized.
"Huh?" the bird-man asked. He snatched his glasses off, wiped them on his white shirt.
"How'd you do that?" the other one said. "Mirrors?"
"I need a suit," Cipher said, ignoring their shock. His voice was steady but firm—don't mess with me, it said. They seemed to understand.
I don't know if we can fit you off the rack, pal," the bird-guy said. "You gotta be, what, a 48 long? But in slacks, maybe a 32, 34 waist?"
"I don't know," Cipher said, realizing that as Joe Monteleone, he hadn't bought a new suit in almost a decade. And since then, his sizes had changed considerably. "Just figure something out, and fast."
The two men scrambled for the racks, trying to piece together something that looked like it might work. While they did, Cipher thought about Margaret, about what she'd think when she saw him.
Sure, she'd be scared, at first. But once he convinced her it was him, in a whole new body—and he wasn't drinking, and he had put her into a fine hotel with clean sheets and room service and college money for the kids— she'd take him in her arms and squeeze him. She'd tell him how good he felt, how strong, how firm. She'd listen to his heart as she rested her head against his chest, and her hand would trail languidly up and down his forearm, the way she used to do when they were young and would stop anywhere, in the middle of a crowded intersection, or on the path outside the Pond in Central Park, or in the produce aisle of the corner grocery, to hug each other and hold each other close and profess their eternal love.
She'd whisper those words into his ear, and he'd do the same to her, tell her how much he missed her and loved her, how he would always love her. Then, after a while, he would go, because he had to kill those meddlesome Gen13 kids. He knew he was who he was and where he was because of Wager, and he wouldn't forget that commitment. But still—a half hour with his family, holding his wife, talking to his kids, seeing how they'd grown—who could hold that against a man? Not even Wager. His employer was harsh, but he was human.
The suit almost fit, even over his uniform. It didn't really match—the jacket was from a blue pinstriped number, and the slacks were from a brown wool. But it covered most of his gear, and he thought it would be good enough to get him into the hotel without causing a stir. The sales clerks had tried to charge him four hundred dollars, but when he'd thrown the bird-guy across the room and dismantled the cash/wrap counter with one flex of his arms, they had become reasonable and let him leave. He hurried back across the street.
The Regent was more posh than any place he'd ever stayed. The lobby was all marble and glass—even the floor was marble. The counter was a big slab of some rich-looking dark wood, topped with another slab of marble. He knew all that marble had to be expensive, and he wondered for a moment just how much Wager was paying to keep his family in a place like this.
Then he had a moment of panic, because the truth came to him suddenly. He wasn't, of course. Wager had told him his family was staying here, but he had also warned him not to look for them. He was probably lying. They were probably in some dump, some tenement building somewhere, cursing the day they'd heard Joe Monteleone's name. Cipher stormed the front desk with a scowl on his face, expecting the worst.
"I'm looking for the Monteleones," he said. "Margaret Monteleone, two kids."
The clerk, barely out of his teens, looked at him like he was a moron. "Of course, sir," he said. "If you'll go to the house phone,"—he pointed across the lobby to a leather sofa with three white telephones on a little glass table in front of it—"I'll ring their room for you."
Cipher leaned closer to the kid, hands resting on the edge of the marble. "I don't want to call them," he said. "I want to surprise them."
"I'm sorry, I can't tell you their room number," the kid said, his voice quaking a little. "That's against hotel policy. If you'd like I can ring them and tell them you're here."
"I said—" Cipher started.
"Five-seventeen," the kid interrupted. Cipher looked down and realized that he had crumbled the edge of the marble slab to powder.
"Thanks," he said. He went to the elevators.
The wait was short, and then he boarded, rode up five stories. A sign on the wall pointed to the left. Their door was four down from the elevator lobby.
Brass numbers on polished wood. He didn't want to knock—he knew Margaret would look through the peephole, and see a stranger, and she'd be frightened. He wanted her to hear his voice before she saw him. His voice hadn't changed.
He took the doorknob in his hand. She could call down later for a new one. He turned it, feeling the lock mechanism resist, and then give under his superior strength. He pushed the door open. The room was dark, curtains drawn against the morning sun.
"Margaret," he called softly. "Elyse. Joey…"
There was no answer. Maybe they were out. If so, he'd wait for them, at least a little while. He had run the risk of angering Wager; he wasn't going to let it go for nothing.
"You here, Margaret?" he asked the room. "It's me, Joe."
He walked down the short hallway, past the door to the bathroom and the closet. Beyond, there was a sitting area, and two doors leading to two bedrooms. At least Wager put them in a suite, Joe thought. Maybe they're still sleeping.
He picked the nearest bedroom door, tapped on it. "Margaret?"
Still no answer. He opened the door, found a light switch, clicked it on.
She was half on the bed, half dangling toward the floor. Blood had pooled beneath her, running out down her cheeks and temples from the slash in her throat. It was still wet and thick, hadn't yet had time to congeal. Less than an hour, he thought. Maybe much less.
He ran to the other door. The kids! He threw their door open.
The scene brought tears to his eyes.
Elyse had been fifteen, Joe Jr. nine. Elyse loved dancing and horses and pop music, while Joe Jr. kept himself amused with television and the Internet. At least, those had been the things they'd liked when they'd had a home. On the streets, you didn't have time for hobbies—part of why he'd sent them to live with Margaret's family after he'd lost their home. At least they'd still have access to schools and TV and the occasional book or toy.
But they'd never see another birthday, never log on to another web site, never hear another song.
Cipher—Joe Monteleone—stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched, blinking his eyes to hold back the tears. Who had done this? Why?
Someone would pay.
And it dawned on him that there was only one possible answer to his question.
Wager had done this.
Wager would die.
"You gotta admit, he always keeps his word," a voice said, behind him.
Cipher spun and saw Suzanne Sawyer, standing in the doorway to his wife's room. Behind her, three men he'd met briefly at Wager's brownstone headquarters. They were interchangeable muscle, as far as he could tell. He thought their names were Mike, Curtis, and Paco, but he wasn't even sure about that. They were all big, well-muscled—even Suzanne looked like she'd been enhanced in some way. They wore uniforms similar to his, the same
Ouroboros emblem on their chests, matching armbands encircling their biceps. They looked, to him, like something from a Flash Gordon movie, and it occurred to him that he must look even more ridiculous, wearing that outfit under an ill-fitting mismatched suit. He tore the clothes off and threw them to the floor.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded.
"Wager. He said he'd keep them in high style for the rest of their lives. He just didn't say how long that would be."
"That's my wife in there," Cipher said. "My kids. He shouldn't've."
"You fail to understand the most significant fact here," Suzanne argued. "Wager decides what he should and shouldn't do. You're nothing. A tool."
"Maybe that's what you think," Cipher replied. "Maybe that's even what he thinks. He'll learn different."
"Don't do anything stupid," Suzanne warned him.
"Too late for that," Cipher said. "I'm just gonna fix the mistakes I've already made."
Suzanne cocked her head toward him, speaking to her companions. "Stop him."
This was too much for him. His wife dead, his children slaughtered, and now this woman and her playmates thought they could stop him from exacting his revenge.
He'd never wanted to kill for Wager. Hoped to spend his whole life without taking anyone else's. But now, all bets were off.
"Try," Cipher said. He threw himself across the room at them.
The one he thought was Mike, with close-cropped brown hair and a beard, came forward to meet his charge. He raised his forearms and crossed them, and Cipher slammed into them. The impact was much like running headlong into a brick wall.
Staggered, he dropped to one knee. Wager had done something to these four. Even Suzanne looked different than he remembered her, bigger, maybe tougher.
But no matter what he'd done to them, they still weren't him. He charged again—this time, heading straight for Suzanne. When he smeared the walls with her brains, the others would be easy.
Paco met this advance with an upthrust boot, catching him in the stomach. He doubled around it, but managed to close his hands on Paco's leg. He yanked. The man flew backward, head slamming into the hotel room's carpet with a loud thud.
Cipher smiled at the sound.
But before he could capitalize on it, Curtis closed a fist over his collarbone and squeezed. The pain was excruciating, and Cipher fell to his knees again. He managed to clamp his hands over Curtis's forearm, and bent. Curtis's arm snapped like a dry twig, and he let out a scream.
Before he could regain his feet, Mike slammed the hotel room's desk into his neck and shoulders. Wood splintered around Cipher. He shook his head to clear it. These guys should know they couldn't hurt him with such primitive attacks. He was surprised that Curtis had been able to hurt him so badly. Something about whatever Wager had done to them—they'd been given some amount of the same stuff he had, Cipher guessed.
No other way they could do any damage to him.
But still, he'd take them. And then he'd visit Wager.
Thinking about the man filled him with rage. His vision clouded. He let out a guttural roar and flailed at Mike. His fists pounded flesh.
"This is ridiculous," he heard Suzanne say. Her voice sounded like it was coming from far away. He knew, vaguely, that his blood was pounding in his ears, deafening him. He looked away from Mike for a moment, trying to locate Suzanne.
When he found her, she was pointing at him. Not with a weapon, just with a single finger. And light seemed to emanate from that finger, blinding him.
Burning him.
He screamed. Threw his hands in front of his face.
Curled into a ball on the hotel floor.
"Finish him," he heard her say. Even farther away now, her voice traveling to him through the waves of pain that racked his body.
He knew he couldn't prevent them from killing him. But he also understood that, even if they had been the ones who pulled the triggers on his wife and children, they had done so at Wager's insistence.
If they killed him, he'd never have a chance to kill Wager. And he wanted, more than anything, to see Wager dead.
The realization gave him the strength to push himself to his feet. With a scream, he grabbed the corner leg of the room's sofa and raised it into the air, flinging it at them. Wouldn't hurt them, but he just wanted them distracted now.
He dove through the window.
This room overlooked an alley, so while there were people on the street beyond, there was no one immediately below. Where he hit the ground, the pavement buckled.
He went intangible before he reached the street. Behind him, he heard voices, but he knew they'd never be able to catch him. With the comm unit broken, he was untraceable, a free man. He ran.
The fact that Suzanne had been able to hurt him so badly worried him. It meant that there was power out there—power greater than his. Only one person on Earth could have given her such power, he thought. Wager.
One more reason to kill him.
An hour later, he stopped in a doorway a block from the Mary McCardle Shelter. He waited there, out of the wind, for another hour, until he saw someone he recognized walk past. He wore baggy brown pants, a moth-eaten sweater, and a long trench coat held closed with a length of rope.
"Ron!" he called.
The man stopped, looked around. Saw Cipher standing in the doorway.
"C'mere," Cipher said.
Ron looked uncertainly at him.
"It's me," Cipher said. "Joe. Mr. Joe."
Ron stepped closer. "You don't look like Mr. Joe."
"Close your eyes," Cipher instructed. "Listen to me."
Ron did as he was told. He shut his eyes.
"It is me," Cipher said. "My name is Joe Monteleone. You sat next to me at dinner, about a month ago. I let you have my biscuit, remember?"
"Yeah," Ron said. "Sure, I remember that." He opened his eyes and came closer.
"Listen," Cipher said. "I need you to do something for me."
"Sure, okay," Ron said. "Whatever."
"You know who Bobby is, right? Kid who works at the Shelter sometimes? Goatee?"
"Sure, Bobby, ye
ah."
"I need you to give him a message…"
Bobby Lane stood alone in Central Park near the base of Cleopatra's Needle. The obelisk stood near East Drive at East 82nd Street, a welcome sight to a collection of runners who pushed themselves over Cat Hill and completed their last leg. He watched the runners pass, noting a straggler, a big man, wearing gray sweats.
It was him. Mr. Joe.
Cipher.
Bobby tried not to look over at his teammates, who stood among the collection of tall trees behind him. Across the street, beyond another grove of trees, lay the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Sliding his hands into the deep pockets of his trench-coat, Bobby glanced at the surface of the obelisk. It looked at least forty feet high and it was tapered to a point at its crest. Egyptian symbols covered its walls. The sounds of a softball game taking place on the Great Lawn's diamond drifted to him.
The jogger came to Bobby, not the least bit out of breath. Under other circumstances, Bobby might have made a joke about if it was safe or not, thinking about Marathon Man, that flick with Dustin Hoffman and Laurence Olivier that was shot not far from here. But he wasn't in a joking kind of mood.
And anyway, Mr. Joe was no dentist.
The man crushing the grass a dozen paces away had tried to kill him and his friends. He had changed—or been changed—by a madman.
Joe Monteleone stopped before Bobby and sighed. He seemed to listen to the sounds of people laughing and cheering, the high sharp crack of a bat hitting a softball.
"I used to bring my kids here," Joe said. "We played softball in that field."
"I remember." Bobby was still not looking at him. He couldn't. The man standing near him sounded like his friend. But one look in his direction and the illusion would be shattered. "You told me."
They didn't talk for a while. Instead, all that passed between them was a cool, whistling breeze. The earth smelled tired, ready for its season of sleep and renewal. The sun hung low on the horizon, a golden glowing orb that cast part of the needle in silhouette.
Time and Chance Page 17