A uniformed guide was gathering the Japanese group together. Mary passed him, striding along the walkway that went next to the water. Clumps of oil and dead fish floated in it, white bellies bloated. A woman was coming toward her, walking alone. She had long black hair that whipped in the wind, and she wore a red overcoat. When the woman was about six paces away, she suddenly stopped and smiled. "Hi there!" she said brightly.
Mary was about to answer, when a young dark-haired man passed her from behind. "Hi!" he answered the woman, and they linked arms. "You got away from me, didn't you?" he teased her. They turned away from Mary Terror, their bodies pressing against the railing, and Mary went on with Drummer.
She threaded her way through another clutch of Japanese tourists, cameras clicking up at the weeping lady. Her eye caught the glint of a badge, and she looked to her right. A pig in a dark blue uniform was strolling slowly along, about thirty feet from her. She veered away from him and walked to the railing, where she stood with Drummer and stared at the gray-hazed city. One hand rested on the lip of her bag, the Magnum within an instant's reach. She waited a few seconds and then turned away from the view, her heart pounding. The pig had walked on, beyond the Japanese tourists. She watched him go, the breath cold in her lungs. Not safe, she thought. Too open out here. It came to her like a blow: this wasn't the kind of place Lord Jack would have chosen for a meeting. There was no shelter here, no way out if a trap was sprung. She saw a black man in a Knicks jacket sitting on a bench, staring at her. She stared back long enough to make him look away, and then she started walking again. Mary didn't like it; this place was wrong, it wasn't Jack's style. When she glanced back, she saw the Knicks fan stand up and walk to the railing as if to keep her in sight.
Trap, she thought. An alarm began to scream inside her. The stench of pigs was in the air. The man who'd been feeding the sea gulls suddenly came into view, walking slowly beside the railing in his shined pig shoes, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. She knew the look of a pig who was carrying firepower; the weight of a gun was in the bastard's walk. Tears of rage swelled in her eyes, and her mind shrieked the warning: Trap! Trap! Trap!
Mary began striding quickly away from the Knicks fan and the bastard with the shined shoes. Drummer made a little mewling sound around his pacifier, perhaps picking up some of Mary's tension. "Shhhh," she told him. Her voice quavered. "Mania's got her baby."
Her shoulders tensed. She was waiting for the noise of a whistle or the crackle of a radio: a signal for the enemy to move in on her. She knew what to do when that happened. First kill Drummer with a single shot to the head. Then keep firing at the mindfuckers until they took her down. Reasonable. She would not die without taking some of them with her, and damned if they'd get her alive.
Mary Terror suddenly stopped walking. A small gasp left her mouth.
There he was.
Right there. Ahead of her, leaning against the railing and looking out toward the Atlantic. His body was still slim and youthful, and his long blond hair hung around his shoulders in golden waves. He wore a battered leather jacket, faded jeans, and boots. He was smoking a cigarette, the smoke swirling back over his head in the wind.
Lord Jack. Right there, waiting for her and the baby.
She couldn't move. A tear – not of rage, but born of joy – streaked down her right cheek. There was a lump in her throat; how could she speak around it? She took a step toward him, her body tormented between frost and fire. He tapped ashes out on the railing and watched a sea gull wheel in the sky. Mary could see the fine etching of his nose and chin. He'd done away with his beard, but it was him. Oh dear God it was him, right there in front of her.
Mary walked to him, trembling. He was smaller than she remembered. Of course he was, because she was larger than she'd been. "Jack?" she said softly, it came out garbled. She took a breath and tried again, ready to see the flames in his eyes when he looked at her. "Jack?"
His head swiveled.
Lord Jack was a girl.
A teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her long blond hair danced in the wind, a tiny silver skeleton dangling from her right ear. She stared at Mary Terror with the cigarette gripped in her mouth, her eyes hard and wary. "Choo talkin' ta me?" she asked.
Mary stopped, her legs freezing up. She felt her face harden, felt her joy spin away from her like a sea gull on the wind. She made a noise, but she wasn't sure what she said; maybe it was a grunt of pain.
"Crazy fucka," the girl muttered, and she brushed past Mary Terror and stalked away.
It came. Close behind her. The voice.
"Mary."
Not a question. A knowing.
She turned, cradling Drummer with one arm and the other hand in her shoulder bag. Her fingers rested on the Magnum's grip.
"Mary," he said again, and he smiled with tears swamping his pale blue eyes.
It was the man who'd been feeding the gulls. He had short brown hair flecked with gray on the sides, and he wore tortoiseshell glasses. His face was bony, his chin too long, and his nose too large. Around his eyes were webbings of lines, and two deep lines bracketed his mouth. The wind caught the folds of his beige overcoat. Mary saw that he was wearing a black pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and a red tie with little white dots on it. She glanced down at his shined black wingtips, and her first impression was that the devil of all pigs had just spoken her name.
She didn't know his face. Didn't know his eyes. The pigs had sprung their trap. His hands were still in the pockets of his coat. She saw the uniformed pig walking toward them unhurriedly. The Knicks fan was lounging against the railing, staring at the gray water. It was time to play the game out, but on her terms. Mary drew the Magnum from her shoulder bag, her finger on the trigger, and she placed the barrel against Drummer's head. The baby shivered and blinked.
"No!" the stranger said. "Jesus, no!" He blinked, too, as surprised as Drummer. "I'm Edward," he said. "Edward Fordyce."
Liar! she thought. Dirty fucking liar! He didn't look at all like Edward! The pig was coming, approaching from behind the stranger. He was about ten or eleven paces away, and Mary's finger tightened on the trigger as she saw the noose falling.
"Put it away!" the man said urgently. "Mary, don't you know me?"
"Edward Fordyce had brown eyes." The trigger needed a quarter-ounce more pressure and the gun would go off.
"They're blue contacts," he said. "The glasses are fake."
The pig was almost upon them. In another moment he'd see the gun. Mary licked her lower lip. "Make me believe you."
"I got you out. Remember where we hid?" He frowned, his mind working furiously. "We kicked at rats all night," he said.
The rats. Oh yes, she remembered them, licking at her blood.
The pig was right behind Edward Fordyce. Edward was aware of him, too, and suddenly he turned toward the pig, keeping his body in front of Mary. "Cold out here, isn't it, Officer?"
"It's a bitch," the pig said. He had a square, wind-chapped face. "Snow in the air."
"We haven't had a lot of it yet, so we're due."
"You can have the white crap! Me, I wanna go south for the winter!"
Mary had no time to debate it any longer. She slid the gun into her shoulder bag, but she kept her hand on the grip.
The pig took a step to the side, and he looked at Drummer. "Your kid?" he asked Edward.
"Yeah. My son."
"Oughta get him out of this wind. Not good for a kid's lungs."
"We will, Officer. Thanks."
The pig nodded at Mary and walked on, and Edward Fordyce stared at her with his falsely colored eyes. "Where'd you see the message?"
Him. Not Lord Jack. Him. Mary felt a wave of dizziness swirl around her, and she had to lean against the railing for support. "Rolling Stone." she managed to say.