With the trail growing colder by the hour, he contemplated traveling down into Nebraska and hooking up with Grillo in Omaha. It was not his preference-the man's contempt still rankled-but he increasingly suspected he had no choice. He put off calling Grillo for a day. Then, finally, dulling his irritation with half a bottle of scotch, he made the call, only to discover that Grillo wasn't home. He declined to leave a message, fearful as ever that the wrong ears would be attending to it. Instead, he finished off the other half bottle, ;ttid went to bed drunker than he'd been in many a year.
And he dreamed; dreamed he was back in Wyckoff Street, up in that foul room with the demon that had slaughtered Father Hess, its flesh like embers in a gusty wind, dimiiiing and brightening in the murky air.
It had called itself by many names during the long hours of their confrontation: the Hammennite, Peter the Nomad, Lazy Susan. But towards the end, either out of fatigue or boredom, it gave up all its personas but one.
"I am DAmour," it had said, over and over. "I am you and you are love and that's what makes the world go round.
It must have repeated this nonsense two hundred, three hundred times, always finding some fresh way to deliver it as wisdom from the pulpit, as an invitation to intercourse, as a skipping song-until it had imprinted the words on Harry's mind so forcibly he knew they'd be circling his skull forever.
He woke strangely calmed by the dream. It was as though his subconscious was making a connection his conscions mind could not, pointing him back to that terrible time as a source of wisdom. His head thumping, he drove in search of a twenty-four hour coffee shop, and finding one out on the highway, sat there until dawn, puzzling over the words. It was not the first time he'd done so, of course. Far sweeter memories had died in his cortex, gone forever into whatever oblivion happiness is consigned, but the demon's words had never left his head.
I am you, it had proclaimed. Well, that was plain enough. What internal seducer had not tried confounding its victim with the thought that this was all a game with mirrors?
And you are love, it had murmured. That didn't seem to demand much exegesis either. His name was D'Amour, after all.
And that's what makes the world go round, it had gasped. A cliche, of course, rendered virtually meaningless by repetition. It offered nothing by way of insight.
And yet, there was meaning here; he was certain of it. The words had been designed as a trap, baited with a sliver of significance. He had simply never understood what that significance was. Nor did pondering it over half a dozen cups of coffee, and-as dawn came up-Canadian bacon and three eggs over easy, give him the answer. He would just have to move on, and trust that fate would bring him to Kissoon.
Fortified, he returned to his motel, and again consulted the map he had taken from the hovel in morningside Heights.
There were several other sites his quarry had deemed worthy of marking, though none of them had been as significant to him as New York or Jamestown. One was in Florida, one in Oregon, two in Arizona; plus another six or seven. Where was he to begin? He decided on Arizona, for no better reason than he'd loved a woman once who'd been born and bred in Phoenix.
The trip took him five days, and brought him at last to Mammoth, Arizona, and a street corner where a woman with a voice like water over rock called him by his name. She was tiny, her skin like brown paper that had been used and screwed up a dozen times, eyes so deeply set he was never quite certain if they were on him at all.
"I'm Maria Lourdes Nazareno," she told him. "I've been waiting for you sixteen days."
"I didn't realize I was expected," Harry replied.
"Always," the woman said. "How is Tesla, by the way?"
"You know Tesla?"
"I met her on this same corner, three years ago."
"Popular place," Harry remarked, "is there something special about it?"
"Yes," the woman replied, with a little laugh. "Me. How is she?"
"As crazy as ever, last time we spoke," Harry said.
"And you? Are you crazy too?"
"Very possibly."
The response seemed to please the woman. She lifted her head, and for the first time Harry saw her eyes. Her irises were flecked with gold.
"I gave Tesla a gun," the woman went on. "Does she still have it?" Harry didn't reply. "D'Amour?"
"Are you what I think you are?" Harry murmured.
"What do you mean?"
"You know damn well."
Again, the smile. "It was the eyes that gave it away, yes? Tesla didn't notice. But then I think she was high that day."
"Are there many of you?"
"A very few," Maria replied, "and the greater part of all of us is Sapas Humana. But there's a tiny piece"-she put thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart to demonstrate how little-"a tiny piece of me which Quiddity calls to. It makes me wise."
"How?"
"It lets me see you and Tesla coming."
"Is that all you see?" "Why? Do you have something in mind?"
"Yes I do." "What?"
"Kissoon."
The woman visibly shuddered. "So he's your business."
"Is he here?"
"No."
"Has he been here?"
"No. Why? Do you expect him?"
"I'm afraid so."
The woman looked distressed. "We thought we were safe here," she said.
"We haven't tried to open a neirica. We don't have the power. So we thought he wouldn't notice us."
"I'm afraid he knows you're here." "I must go. I must warn everyone." She took hold of Harry's hand, her palms clammy. "Thank you for this. I will find some way to repay you."
"There's no need."
"oh, but there is," she said, and before Harry could protest further she'd gone, off across the street and out of sight.
He stayed in Mammoth overnight, though he was pretty certain that the Nazareno woman was telling the truth, and Kissoon was not in the vicinity. Weary after so many weeks of travel, he retired to bed early, only to be woken a little after one by a rapping on his door.
"Who is it?" he mumbled as he searched for the light.
The answer was not a name but an address. "One-twoone, Spiro Street," said a low sibilant voice.
"Maria?" he said, picking up his gun and crossing to the door. But by the time he had it open the speaker had disappeared from the hallway.
He dressed, and went down to the lobby, got the whereabouts of Spiro Street from the night manager, and headed out. The street he sought was on the very edge of town, many of its houses in such an advanced state of disrepair he was amazed to see signs of occupancy: rusty vehicles in the driveways, bags of trash heaped on the hard dirt where they'd once had lawns. One-two-one was in a better state than some, but was still a dispiriting sight. Comforted by the weight of his gun, Harry stepped up to the front door. It stood a couple of inches ajar.
"Maria?" he said. The silence was so deep he had no need to raise his voice.
There was no reply. Calling again, he pushed the door open, and it swung wide. There was a fat white candle-set on a dinner plate surrounded by beads@n the threadbare rug. Squatting in front of it, with her eyes downcast, was Maria.
"It's me," he said to her. "It's Harry. What do you want?"
"Nothing, now," said a voice behind him. He went for his gu. n, but before his fist had closed on it there was a cold palm gnpping the back of his skull. "No," the voice said simply.
He showed his weaponless hands.