CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
With bitter tidings laden,
Shall summon to unwelcome bed
A melancholy maiden!
We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.
—Lewis Carroll,
Through the Looking-Glass
FROM aft by the stairs, the ankle-cuffed man stepped forward (dragging his flailing companion) into the dim glow projected by deLarava’s dress, and Sullivan saw that he was the gray-haired Obstadt. “No, Loretta,” Obstadt said hoarsely, kicking at the man attached to his foot, “you said I could have him. You work for me now. Get, back—”
And, crouched on the floor, the two-armed man who must nevertheless have been Sherman Oaks was jabbering urgently in what sounded to Sullivan like Latin.
DeLarava shoved her little gun at Obstadt’s belly and fired it. The bang was like a full-arm swing of a hammer onto the cap of a fire hydrant, and Obstadt stopped and bowed slightly, his mouth working. The man on the floor took the opportunity to lash his free fist twice, hard, into Obstadt’s groin, and Obstadt bowed more deeply.
Beams of sunlight lanced into the lobby from behind Sullivan, reflecting off the floor to underlight deLarava’s jowls, and he realized that the night sky was breaking apart on the port side too.
“Koot Hoomie Parganas,” said deLarava, moving forward again. Her dress still glowed in surging fields of tan and blue, and the tiny swimmer was waving its arms under her breasts.
Sullivan glanced past Elizalde at Kootie, who was sitting cross-legged in a nest of cables, his hair now backlit by reflected daylight. The boy seemed to have been forsaken by Edison—his wide eyes gaped in horror at the approaching fat woman, and his lips were trembling.
Elizalde stood up from her crouch beside Sullivan. “No,” she said loudly, stepping in front of the boy, “Llorona Atacado. You won’t replace your lost children with this boy.” And she jabbed her hand in the air toward deLarava’s face, with the first and little fingers extended. “Ixchel se quite! Commander Hold-’Em take you,” she said and she spit.
The saliva hit the deck between them, but deLarava reeled back, coughing and clutching the glowing fabric over her stomach as if the tiny drowning figure were sinking into her diaphragm. She blinked up at Elizalde from under her bushy eyebrows, and the barrel of the little automatic came wobbling up.
Sullivan was on his feet now, and he could see that Elizalde was not even going to think of raising the .45.
DeLarava’s gun was pointed from less than two yards away at the center of Elizalde’s Graceland sweatshirt—and as Sullivan leaned forward to grab Elizalde and yank her out of the way, his scalp contracted with the bar-time advance-shock of deLarava’s gun going off.
And so instead of trying to pull Elizalde back, he made his forward motion a leap into the space between the two women (in the moment when both of his feet were off the deck he whiffed suntan oil and mayonnaise and the cold, deep sea and, faintly, bourbon), and then the real gunshot punched his eardrums and hammered his upper arm.
The impact of the shot (and bar-time anticipation of the second) spun him around in midair to face the glowing figure of deLarava, and her second shot caught him squarely in the chest.
HIS FEET hit the deck but he was falling backward, and as he fell he heard the fast snap-clank of the .45 at last being chambered; and as his hip thudded down hard and he curled and slid and the needlessly ejected .45 round spun through the air, he saw Elizalde’s clasped hands raise the weapon toward deLarava, her thumbs safely out of the way of the weapons slide; the .45 flared and jumped, and the gunshot in the enclosed lobby was like a bomb going off.
Sullivan’s knees were drawn up and his right arm was folded over his chest, but his head was rocked back to watch deLarava’s fat body fly backward, sit boomingly on the deck, and then tumble away toward the starboard doorway in a spray of blood—
—Sullivan slid to a tense halt, staring—
But deLarava was at the same time still standing in front of Elizalde, and still holding the little automatic, though her arm was transparent; she was looking from Elizalde to the automatic in puzzlement, and the weight of the gun was pulling her insubstantial arm down toward the deck.
Then the top of her head abruptly collapsed from the eyebrows up, as the rubber bands imploded the frail ectoplasmic skull.
Sullivan’s chest felt split and molten, but he rolled his head around to scan the sunlight-spotted deck for a glimpse of his own freshly dead body. Surely deLarava’s chest-shot had killed him, and he was now a raw ghost about to blessedly dissolve into the fresh daytime air that was streaming in through the cracking night sky; after all, he wasn’t able to breathe—his lungs were impacted, stilled, and the only agitation in him was the thudding heartbeat that was jolting his vision twice every second….
My heart’s beating! he thought, with a shiver of dreadful hope. Suddenly he realized that he wanted to live, wanted to get away from here with Elizalde and Kootie and live….
DeLarava’s grotesquely pinheaded ghost was staring at its arm, which had been stretched all the way down to the deck by the weight of the little automatic. The translucent figure stumbled away forward toward where the carbon-arc light had been, and her arm lengthened behind her as the automatic slid only by short jerks after her across the polished cork deck.
Obstadt had reeled out through the open lobby doorway to the starboard rail. Beyond him, the induced black sky was breaking up, and Sullivan could see whole patches of luminous distant blue showing through it.
Obstadt’s tethered companion was up and hunching along beside him like a wounded dog—now the companion only had one arm, and Sullivan realized that it had certainly been Sherman Oaks all along, with his missing arm only temporarily provided by the ship’s degaussing field, which had been so magically stepped-up in this one segment of the ship. Oaks was wheezing like a hundred warped harmonicas, and his windbreaker and baggy camouflage pants were rippling and jumping and visibly spotting with fresh blood, as though a horde of starved rats were muscling around underneath.
The battered-looking lawyer who had been standing with the little girls was still holding the broom and staring stupidly up at the fragmenting sky—and Obstadt’s right hand lashed out and caught the man by the necktie. Obstadt strongly pulled him along the rail toward himself and opened his mouth wide over the lawyer’s throat.
But Nicky Bradshaw lumbered over to them and pulled Obstadt away. Bradshaw’s crew cut had lengthened messily in the last few seconds and was shot with gray now, and his turtleneck sweater was beginning to stretch over his belly, but he grabbed Obstadt’s coat lapels with both hands and boosted him up until the wounded man was nearly sitting on the rail; and then he braced his feet and pushed Obstadt over backward.
With a tortured roar and a useless flailing of arms and legs, Obstadt tumbled away out of sight below the deck, and Sherman Oaks was abruptly dragged upright and slammed belly-first against the rail, his single arm stretched straight downward as it took Obstadt’s pendulous weight.
“Nicky,” Oaks wheezed, “I worked with you at Stage 5 Productions in ’59! I can get you a ghost that’ll make you young again! Thus from infernal Dis do we ascend, to view the subjects of our monarchy!”