“No,” said Church, “that’s not what I’m going to say.”
“I know that M3 is gone and all the T-craft destroyed.”
Church said nothing.
“But,” continued Junie, “as soon as I heard about the earthquake, the dream came right back to me. It’s like a punch in the brain. It reminded me of the dreams I had when Joe was sick after he got back from Antarctica. During the Kill Switch thing. I told Rudy about my dreams. And Joe. I dreamed that he was running on a beach on some alien world and a gigantic monster was hovering in the sky. You know what monster I’m talking about. With stubby wings and a beard of writhing tentacles. You know. The one the pulp fiction writers called Cthulhu.”
“Yes,” said Church faintly.
“Joe had dreams of it, too, and in his dream there were T-craft in the sky. Not ships made by Majestic Three. Original design. Now I’m dreaming of those ships in our world, and the sky is burning. There’s an earthquake. Now we have an earthquake in Washington while Joe’s there. I… I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”
There was a soft tone and the pilot’s voice filled the air. “Coming up on it.”
Church leaned over to look out of the windows. Below, the Gulfstream G650 that had once belonged to Hugo Vox sat waiting on an airstrip. A fuel truck was trundling away from it and a signal was waving the chopper to a spot on the grass nearby.
To Junie, he said, “We need to have a longer conversation about this. Take Joe’s jet and fly to Brooklyn. I want you to tell Doc Holliday every detail you can remember about your dream.”
“Why? Am I right? Is there something about the T-craft and the earthquake?”
“Every detail,” repeated Church. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
He ended the call, aware that Brick was staring at him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
There is a concept of “exquisite pain,” which is a level of agony coupled with an absolute precision of awareness in every nerve ending that transcends discomfort. It has a kind of perfection to it, a beauty for those who appreciate things at their absolute best. This is not a masochistic thing. No, it’s closer to an understanding of the techniques of how a great painting was rendered or a beautiful clock constructed. If you feel it and do not pass out, or pass into the bluntness of screaming, then you truly grasp the precise mechanics of pain.
That was what I felt as I squatted to pick Aunt Sallie up.
She tried to help, tried to loop her good arm around my neck in order to transfer some of her weight to my frame. She tried to stiffen her body to give me better leverage. She tried. There was simply not enough of her left to help.
I raised her improbably heavy body and felt the swords of agony strike deep. The first step was the worst because the level of intensity was unexpected. And I immediately knew that my assessment was wrong. The second step was worse. And the third.
The car was a million miles away and receding. I felt a sob break in my chest before I was half the way there. Felt Auntie begin to slip.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but there was no breath for making those words audible.
She clung to me with failing strength, and as her muscular strength ebbed, her body seemed to become heavier. Holding her was going to be impossible long before I reached Betty Boop. We both knew it.
My knees tried to buckle with each step. Blood boiled in my ears and there was a feeling in my muscles like violin strings being played to the breaking point. I could almost hear them. My lower back was a ball of fiery heat. Black and red flowers blossomed in the air in front of my eyes.
And then a shadow passed in front of me. I blinked through tears and saw a man there. Young, black, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt under a red-and-blue Washington Wizards jacket. Maybe twenty years old, but with a hard face that was much older. Some scars on his skin and in his eyes. The kind of guy that my white upscale urban genes wanted to categorize, because even with people of good intentions there is often a latent xenophobia, a hardwired racism.
He looked at me and at the burden I carried. His face was without expression, telling me nothing at all.
“I got her, yo,” he said.
I studied him. “She had a stroke.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Her face.”
“My car is over there.” He looked where I nodded.
“Yeah. I got you.”
He said that to her, not to me. Same thing, though. He reached out and took Aunt Sallie from me. Her weight surprised him. He hissed and groaned and gasped, but he took her.
I sagged down to my knees.
“You hurt?”
“Tore my… back…,” I wheezed.
“That’s fucked up.”
That was all he said. He turned away and staggered with her to my car. The doors opened for him, and if he was surprised he didn’t say a word. I struggled up and followed and caught up in time to help him put her in the backseat. Aunt Sallie was nearly gone now and could not even speak. That one eye still saw me. Saw him.
With trembling fingers, I reached for my wallet, and immediately saw a look of utter contempt and profound disappointment on the young man’s face.
“Shit,” he breathed, but I shook my head, removed a business card, and offered it to him. “Fuck’s this? I didn’t ask for shit.”
“Take it,” I said. “Please.”
He hesitated and then did. There was my name and a phone number.
“You ever need anything, I don’t care what it is, call me. Day or night. Someone will always answer that call.”
“You Five-Oh?”
“I’m grateful to meet a friend,” I said, and offered my hand. He looked at it for a moment, shrugged, shook it, and stepped back. I struggled behind the wheel and he closed the doors. Calpurnia started the engine and drove us away.
I turned a few times to see if he was there, but the young man was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The two agents in black suits stood side by side near their vehicle and watched the burning city.
One of them held a small device, and he held it up as if scanning the devastation. They leaned close to study the details that scrolled sideways on the screen, running from left to right in a stream of symbols.
Both of them frowned.
They looked at each other.
They both flinched as something exploded half a block away. They whirled to see the trunk lid of a parked Toyota Camry go flying into the air, twisted and scorched, pushed into the air by a fist of burning smoke. For a moment there seemed to be a crackle of bright lightning within the cloud, but then it paled to ordinary grayness. The trunk lid thumped down and lay on the debris from shattered car windows and collapsed walls.
The agents glanced at each other for a moment, and then ran toward the car. The one with the scanner raised it again. They skidded to a stop and looked into the ruined trunk to see a heap of slag that ran like mercury until it slowed and cooled into a shapeless nothing.
Their frowns deepened. The lightning had been as intense as thermite, but it had not been white or even blue-white. The glow had been a lambent green.
“Fahf ah or’azath,” said the taller of the two. He had a network of fading pink scars on his face.
“H’ ah og or’azath,” agreed his companion. “Ahf’ ah cahff apes ah?”
The one with the scanner lowered it and looked out across the city. There was a second small explosion accompanied by a flash of green. Far away to their left. And then another. And another.