He looked at Grillo and the faintest murmur of a smile was on his face.
"Take my son, gentlemen," he said. "Keep him out of the line of fire."
"What?"
"Just go, Grillo," Tesla said. "Whatever happens from here on it's the way he wants it to be."
They took Howie out through the window as instructed, Hotchkiss stepping ahead to receive the boy's body, which was as limp as a fresh cadaver. As Grillo relinquished the boy's weight he heard Tesla speak behind him.
She simply said:
"The Jaff!"
The other escapee, Fletcher's enemy, was standing at the perimeter of the parking lot. The crowd, which had swelled to five or six times its earlier size, had parted, without being overtly requested to do so, leaving a corridor between the enemies. The Jaff had not come alone. Behind him were two Californian perfects Grillo could not name. Hotchkiss could.
"Jo-Beth and Tommy-Ray," he said.
At the name of one, or both, Howie raised his head.
"Where?" he murmured, but his eyes found them before there was time for a reply. "Let me go," he said, struggling to push Hotchkiss off. "They'll kill her if we don't stop them. Don't you see, they'll kill her."
"There's more than your girlfriend at stake," Tesla said, leaving Grillo once again wondering how she'd got to know so much so quickly. Her source, Fletcher, now stepped out of the market, and walked past them all—Tesla, Grillo, Howie and Hotchkiss—to stand at the other end of the human corridor to the Jaff.
It was the Jaff who spoke first:
"What is all this about?" he demanded. "Your antics have woken half the town."
"The half you haven't poisoned," Fletcher returned.
"Now don't talk yourself into the grave. Beg a little. Tell me you'll give your balls if I let you live."
"That was never much to me."
"Your balls?"
"Living."
"You had ambition," the Jaff said, starting to walk towards Fletcher very slowly. "Don't deny it."
"Not like yours."
"True. I had scope."
"You must not have the Art."
The Jaff raised his hand and rubbed thumb and forefinger together, as though preparing to count money.
"Too late. I feel it in my fingers already," he said.
"All right," Fletcher replied. "If you want me to beg, I'll beg. Quiddity must be preserved. I beg you not to touch it."
"You don't get it, do you?" the Jaff said. He had come to a halt some distance from Fletcher. Now the youth came, bringing his sister.
"My flesh," the Jaff said, indicating his children, "will do anything for me. Isn't that right, Tommy-Ray?"
The boy grinned.
"Anything."
Intent on the exchange between the two men, Tesla had not noticed Howie slipping free of Hotchkiss until he turned to her and whispered:
"Gun."
She'd brought the weapon out of the market with her. Reluctantly she passed it into Howie's wounded hand.
"He's going to kill her," Howie murmured.
"That's his daughter," Tesla whispered in reply.
"You think he cares?"
Looking back, she saw the boy's point. Whatever changes Fletcher's Great Work (the Nuncio, he'd called it) had wrought in the Jaff they'd taken the man over the brink of sanity. Though she'd had all too short a time drinking down the visions Fletcher had shared with her, and had only a tenuous grasp of the complexities of the Art, Quiddity, Cosm and Metacosm, she knew enough to be sure that such power in this entity's hands would be power for immeasurable evil.
"You lost, Fletcher," the Jaff said. "You and your child don't have what it takes to be...modern." He smiled. "These two, on the other hand, are at the cutting edge. Everything is experiment. Right?"
Tommy-Ray had his hand on Jo-Beth's shoulder; now it moved down to her breast. Somebody in the crowd began to speak out at this, but was hushed as the Jaff looked in their direction. Jo-Beth pulled away from her brother, but Tommy-Ray was not about to relinquish her. He pulled her back towards him, inclining his head towards hers.
A shot stopped the kiss, the bullet plowing the asphalt at Tommy-Ray's feet.
"Let go of her," Howie said. His voice was not strong, but it carried.
Tommy-Ray did as he was instructed, looking at Howie with mild puzzlement on his face. He slid his knife from his back pocket. The imminence of bloodshed was not lost on the crowd. Some backed away, especially those with children. Most stayed.
Behind Fletcher, Grillo leaned over and whispered to Hotchkiss.
"Could you take him out from here?"
"The kid?"
"No. The Jaff."
"Don't bother to try," Tesla murmured. "It won't stop him."
"What will?"
"Christ knows."
"Going to shoot me down in cold blood in front of all these nice people?" Tommy-Ray said to Howie. "Go on, I dare you. Blow me away. I'm not afraid. I like death and death likes me. Pull the trigger, Katz. If you've got the balls."
As he spoke he slowly walked towards Howie, who was barely keeping himself upright. But he kept the gun pointed at Tommy-Ray.
It was the Jaff who brought the impasse to an end, seizing hold of Jo-Beth. His grip brought a cry. Howie looked towards her, and Tommy-Ray charged him, knife raised. It took only a push from Tommy-Ray to throw Howie down. The gun flew from his hand. Tommy-Ray kicked Howie hard between the legs then threw himself upon his victim.
"Don't kill him!" the Jaff commanded.
He let Jo-Beth go, and advanced towards Fletcher. From the fingers in which he'd claimed he could already feel the Art quickening beads of power oozed like ectoplasm, bursting in the air. He had reached the fighters, and seemed about to intervene, but instead simply cast a glance down at them, as at two brawling dogs, then stepped past them to continue his advance upon Fletcher.
"We'd better back off," Tesla murmured to Grillo and Hotchkiss. "It's out of our hands now."
Proof of that came seconds later, as Fletcher reached into his pocket, and pulled out a book of matches, marked Martin's Food and Drug. What was about to happen could not have been lost on any of the spectators. They'd smelled the gasoline. They knew its source. Now here were the matches. An immolation was imminent. But there were no further retreats. Though none of them comprehended much, if any, of the exchange between the protagonists there were few among the crowd who didn't know in their guts that they were witnessing events of consequence. How could they look away, when for the first time they had a chance of peeking at the gods?
Fletcher opened the book; pulled a match from it. He was in the act of striking when fresh darts of power broke from the Jaff's hand and flew at Fletcher. They struck his fingers like bullets, their violence carrying match and matchbook out of Fletcher's hands.
"Don't waste your time with tricks," the Jaff said. "You know fire's not going to do me any harm. Nor you, unless you want it to. And if you want extinction then all you have to do is ask."
This time he took his poison to Fletcher rather than letting it fly from his hand. He approached his enemy, and touched him. A shudder went through Fletcher. With agonizing slowness he turned his head far enough around to be able to see Tesla. In his eyes she saw so much vulnerability; he'd opened himself up to perform whatever end-game he had in mind, and the Jaff's malice had direct access to his essence. The appeal in his expression was unambiguous. A message of chaos was spreading through his system from the Jaff's touch. The only way he sought to be saved from it was death.
She had no matches, but she had Hotchkiss's gun. Without a word she snatched it from his hand. Her motion drew the Jaff's glance, and for a chilling moment she met his mad eyes—saw a phantom head swelling around them; another Jaff in hiding behind the first.
Then she aimed the gun at the ground behind Fletcher, and fired. There was no spark, as she'd hoped there'd be. She aimed again, emptying her head of all thoughts but the will for ignition. She'd made fires before. On the page, to catch the mind. Now one for the flesh.