Brennan felt their hard stares and waited for the inevitable. It didn't take very long.
"Shoot," someone said from the back of the cell. "He don't look too tough to me."
"He looks like a pussy," someone else said.. "Take away his bow and arrow and he's just a pussy."
There was some low, cautious laughter. The man who spoke first pushed his way to the front of the cell where Brennan stood with his back against the bars. He was a big, tough-looking nat with tattoos crawling up and down his arms and a nose that'd been broken more than once. The second speaker was shorter than Brennan, but powerfully built. His head was bald and his face was a network of scars. They approached Brennan side by side as the others in the cell backed away.
"He is a pussy," the first said. "Here pussy, pussy, pussy. We got something for you."
Brennan watched without expression. When they came within reach, he pivoted sideways and lashed out with his right foot, catching the short one in the groin. The man went down with a gurgle and then threw up all over himself. Brennan grabbed the other by the arm and whirled him face-first against the cell's barred door.
The door shook when the thug rammed up against it. His left arm went through the bars. Brennan reached out and grabbed his hand, then yanked his arm back into the cell, wrapping it between two bars. He howled as his arm snapped. Brennan grabbed a handful of greasy hair and shoved his head forward as hard as he could. It pushed through the bars, but not without leaving a lot of skin and one ear behind.
His howling grew louder, and Brennan turned to face the rest of the cell.
"Anyone else?" he asked quietly.
There were mumbled denials, then a high, feminine voice said, "How about me?"
The mob of thugs parted like the Red Sea and there were awed, unbelieving whispers as Jennifer walked naked through the rear wall of the cell. She ran to Brennan and threw her arms around him. "Take a deep breath," she said, and they sank through the floor of the cell.
It was like nothing Brennan had ever felt before, almost like what dying might be like. They went through the floor and landed, light as feathers, on the floor of the room below the cell.
Brennan ducked out of Jennifer's arms and glanced around quickly. It was dark and quiet. They seemed to be in some kind of file-storage area.
"Let's see if we can find you some clothes somewhere," he said to Jennifer, but she didn't answer. She looked dazed and drawn, and only turned to look at him when he touched her arm. He suddenly realized what a strain it must have been ghosting him. His mass was well over anything Jennifer had ever attempted to dematerialize before. "Are you all right?" he asked.
Jennifer nodded, but even that seemed to be too much of an effort for her. She collapsed limply on the dusty floor. He bent over her. She was breathing long, shallow breaths. Her pulse was weak and thready.
She obviously needed medical attention, but Tachyon, the only doctor Brennan trusted, was in Atlanta. At any rate, he had no time to agonize over it. They had to move. They needed a place to hide and recover. They needed a sanctuary.
They were being followed.
Jay looked away from the taxi's sideview mirror. "Somebody's on us," he said.
"What?" Tachyon turned all the way around and gaped out the back rear window, staring suspiciously at the Volvo immediately behind.
Jay touched his arm. "Easy. He's good. You'll never spot him that way. Cabby." The detective fished out his wallet. "There's an extra fifty in it for you if you can lose the gray Dodge. Back about three cars."
"Sure thing, mister," the cabbie said, grinning.
Jay rummaged through his billfold, found a ten and three ones, cursed under his breath. A bribe here, a bribe there, pretty soon they add up to real money. He showed the bills to Tachyon. The alien grumbled and came up with the cash, leaning forward to tuck the money into the driver's shirt pocket. The cabbie hit the gas, and the taxi turned left, squealing. Tachyon landed in Jay's lap.
In the front seat, Blaise grinned hugely. "Just like Paris, K'ijdad."
"Huh?" Jay's mind was on the car behind them. "Never mind," said Tach. "You know enough of my secrets."
Jay glanced behind. "Still on us. Damn, he's good." Tach was flitting about, as nervous as a bird. "What are we going to do?"
"There's probably not going to be time for any long good-byes."
The Motel 6 sign loomed ahead. "Sara's there, too," said Tachyon.
It took Jay a moment to place the name; Sara Morgenstern, the reporter who accused Hartmann of being a monster, the one Mackie Messer had tried unsuccessfully to snuff. "Jesus Christ. You got the whole New York Philharmonic there? Maybe the Dodgers?"
"This is no laughing matter."
"No shit. Punch it, buddy. Everything she's got."
The cab gunned down the street, veered into the motel lot on two wheels. They were out before it stopped. Jay threw his last ten at the driver and ran, his broken rib screaming with every step as he dashed across the asphalt.
The door was opened by a dark, round-faced man in his sixties. Behind him on the bed, a pale blond woman clutched a pillow as she watched the tube. The Russian backed up quickly as the three of them rushed inside. Jay slammed the door and locked it. Tachyon went straight for the blonde and yanked her to her feet. Blaise hugged the Russian.
"No time to explain," Tachyon said breathlessly. "Hartmann knows. There is someone after us." He grabbed the front of the girl's dress and ripped it off her with a single sharp yank.
Sara gave a shriek and tried to cover herself with her hands, looking at the alien like he'd gone nuts. "Into the shower," Tach said, pushing her toward the john. She was wearing nothing but a little lacy bit of bra. Her pubic hair was the same pale blond, Jay noted with interest. "Don't come out, and by the way, you rent by the hour." Tach got the bra off on the run. Jay had to admire his manual dexterity.- Footsteps came pounding down the hall outside.
The Russian took it calmly. "There's no time," he said, holding Blaise.
"Yes, there is," said Tach. "Jay will get you out of Atlanta. For the god's sake, Blaise, move!"
The Russian disentangled himself from the boy. "Open up! Open the goddamn door!"
Jay knew the voice. Carnifex. "Now!" Tachyon urged.
Jay shrugged, pointed at the Russian. There was a pop. All of a sudden they were short a Slav. Tach grabbed some vodka off a dresser, clutched it to his chest, and dove onto the bed.
The door shattered with a crack. Billy Ray stepped through the splinters, brushing aside a jagged shard of wood with the back of his head. He had a gun. A big gun, one of those Dirty Harry jobs. The white gloves he wore as part of his fighting togs made it look even bigger and blacker. He pointed it at Tachyon, which was fine with Jay. He hated guns, especially when they were pointed at him. "All right, where is he?" Ray wanted to know. "Where the fuck is he?"
"Huh?" asked Jay.
"Assholel" Carnifex shoved at him contemptuously with the flat of his hand. Jay sat down hard. Carnifex looked around, spotted the closet, and acted like he'd made a discovery. He ripped the door off its hinges, grabbed handfuls of clothes, flung them to the floor. There was no Russian in the closet. Ray grimaced, dropped to his knees, peered under the bed. There was no Russian under the bed. He got up, swung toward the bathroom. "Get out of there. Nowl"
"Wal, sugah, how many you boys there gonna be?" Sara called out from under the shower, in the worst Southern accent Jay Ackroyd had ever heard.