The chase was over, and she was coming down from it. But for now, she kept her pedal to the floor, and sped into the dark.
Some night, there would be a brick wall across the road, and that would be an end of it.
Some night, but not tonight.
Hawk-That-Settles felt emptied of his song, as if he had poured his spirit out into the sand with the ancient words. The Devil was at the door, and he didn't have the strength to wake up Jesse.
The one-eyed white girl was on her own.
"Houston, if you think I'm going to let you wake up the President with some glitches from a base we should have decommissioned in the '80s, you have got another think coming. Send a fax in the morning."
"What's that I hear, little pigs? Not on the hair of your chinny-chin-chins? Well, I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in…"
"This is Lola Stechkin, bringing you the Middle of the Night Bulletin, and informing you that absolutely nothing is happening around the world, thank God. Soon, it's back to the Late Nite Lingerie Lounge with Lynne Cramer, but first, here's a message from GenTech, the BioDiv that really cares…"
There was someone down in the courtyard. One of the men from her dreams. Jesse carefully pulled on her clothes. It would be dawn soon.
The moon was going down.
X
From the shadows, Hawk-That-Settles saw the Devil come into the courtyard of Santa de Nogueira. He looked like a man, but Hawk saw the spirit writhing inside him.
The Devil sauntered across the open space, apparently unconcerned.
This was Jesse's test. Hawk had no part in it. Although he knew that if she failed, the Devil would surely kill him too.
Again, he was an expendable innocent bystander for the one-eyed white girl's elevation to a higher plane of being. This little Indian was getting fed up with that.
"Tonto," said the Devil. "I see you."
Hawk came out of the shadows. "My name's not Tonto."
"No, of course not. You are Hawk-That-Settles, son of Two-Dogs-Dying, of the line of Armijah. You could be a Chief of the Navaho."
"But I'm not."
"No. You are not. You are just something in my way."
"And who are you?"
The Devil smiled. "Dr Ottokar Proctor, at your service."
"The killer?"
"The Artist."
They had been circling each other. The sky was getting light. The shadows were receding. Hawk could see the Devil's face more clearly now. It was quite a famous face, a television face, a newspaper face. Bland and unreadable, it concealed his horns, his forked tongue…
"Have you heard the one about Roy Rogers?"
"No." Hawk tried to remember the Song of his Dying, but it would not come to him. He could only sing it once, and he had to do it right.
"Well, Roy is coming home from Santa Fe on the stagecoach one night—he's been away on business—and he stops off in town before heading out to his ranch…"
The Devil stood in the open, hands visible, as relaxed as a professional golfer.
"'Mr Rogers, Mr Rogers,' says the town drunk, 'where are you going?'
"'Well, Gabby, I'm going out to my ranch…'”
Hawk heard Jesse coming from a long way away. She was making her way cautiously down to the courtyard.
"'But Mr Rogers, the Apaches rode through yesterday, and they burned your ranch down!'
"'In that case, I guess I'd better go look out for my wife…'
"'But Mr Rogers, when the Apaches were gone, the Wild Bunch rode through, and they whipped your wife to death."'
Hawk saw Jesse standing behind Dr Proctor.
"'In that case, I'll mosey out and see to my three children…'
"'But Mr Rogers, after the Wild Bunch were through, Mexican bandidos came up from below the border, and they took your three children and hanged them from the old oak tree…'"
Jesse was calm, ready for the move. Hawk knew that Dr Proctor knew she was behind him.
"'In that case, I'd better look after my cattle..'
"'Oh Mr Rogers, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but once the bandidos headed out of here, the rustlers came through and stampeded your herd the hell out of the valley…'"
It was the hour of the wolf, the quiet moment between nightset and sunrise. The desert was still.
"'In that case, I'll go give Trigger his oats…'
"'But Mr Rogers, when the rustlers were finished Black Bart turned up spoiling for a fight, and he shot Trigger right between the eyes, killed him deader than a skunk…'"
Jesse walked into the open. Dr Proctor nodded to her, but kept on with the story.
"And Roy looks at the ground and says 'well, I guess I'll go out to the ruins of my ranch, count my missing cattle, and then bury my wife, my horse and my kids.'"
Jesse wasn't armed, but that shouldn't mean anything. Hawk knew she was as deadly as Dr Proctor.
"So Gabby says, 'Roy, there's just one more thing…'"
In the killing game, Dr Proctor was the Artist, but Jesse was the Grand Master.
"'What is it, Gabby?'
Dr Proctor's eyes shone. Jesse's hands rested lightly on her hips. It was her fighting stance.
"'Roy, how about giving us a song?'"
XI
Nobody laughed.
On the outside, Seth's man was a disappointment. He looked like a prosperous accountant. He had to be more than that, of course. The Elder had sent him to do a job that an entire Agency had failed to accomplish.
He turned to look at her. She looked from his ordinary face to Hawk-That-Settles. He was to stay out of it.
"Miss Bonney, how nice to meet you."
He extended his hand. She didn't take it.
"I'm Dr Proctor."
"Your name doesn't matter to me."
"You should know it before you die. I always let them know who I am."
She had a bad feeling about this one. She closed her right eye, and studied his heat pattern. He was literally cool, with none of the orange hotspots she would have expected from a man about to fight for his life.
"I've never heard of you."
That fazed him, offended him. He pursed his lips in a tiny moue. "A shame. It would mean much more."
The sun was rising over the walls. The monks should have been at their devotions hours earlier.
"I am going to give you a species of immortality, Miss Bonney. Who would remember Mary Kelly, Elizabeth Stride or Polly Nicholls had they not been blessed…"
"I don't know who those women are either."
"They were nothings, Miss Bonney. Drab tarts. But they were killed by Jack the Ripper."
"Him, I've heard of."
Dr Proctor pulled a knife out of his jacket, and threw it. She snatched it out of the air, and tossed it aside. He smiled.
"Just testing."
"You know I'm stronger than I look."
"I know a lot about you, Miss Bonney. I probably couldn't break your bones with a sledgehammer, and your flesh is reinforced with durium thread. And you have some other surprises implanted in your body. You're a proud cyborg. Your fathers made you well. Bruno Bonney made your mind, and Simon Threadneedle your body."
"I'm unbreakable, then?"
Dr Proctor cocked his head, as if considering.
"Probably. I'll concede that."
"And yet you've come here to break me?"
A sly grin appeared. "No, to kill you."
"You 're an honest man."
"That's the first time anyone's ever said that to me, but it's a perceptive comment. I am perhaps the only honest man. I do what I want, and I'm not ashamed of it. You were much the same, Jazzbeaux. I've read your records. But you've changed."
"You've said it." She clenched her fist in the air, feeling the metal through her palm.
"Not just like that. Inside," he tapped his head and heart. "You don't do what you want any more. You do what is wanted of you. That's why you have to die. If you'd been content to be just another high-speed sociopath, you might have lived to a ripe old age, but you had to get that old-time religion, you had to save the world…"
"I'm not interested in saving the world."