Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (30 page)

When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.

—Edmund Burke
Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents

Al Larson hated himself for an evil he saw no way to avoid. Crouched against the Jeffers’ wooden house, he watched flames of gold and red engulf the dwelling he had called home for more than fifteen years. Heat blackened white-painted shingles. Yellow trim disappeared beneath fire that crackled and capered like demons. And Al Larson lamented that, if the war had taught him nothing else, it had shown him how to build a successful pyre, to overcome the protestations of his conscience, and to destroy even those things he loved.

Timmy clutched his older brother’s waist, tears rolling down cherubic cheeks.

Though concerned for the child, Larson kept his eyes locked on the burning house. Soon, neighbors would mobilize. Someone would call the fire department, and Larson knew he and Timmy had best disappear long before that happened. Still, he waited, wanting to make certain his mother and sister escaped unharmed.

Timmy said nothing. He did not question Larson’s wisdom.

But Larson was questioning enough for both of them.
What am I doing? What the hell am I doing? There has to be another way to protect Mom and Pam.
Larson sighed, knowing the luxury of time might have given him a better strategy, but he had been unable to conjure one from the swirl of thoughts and emotions besieging him.
Silme never met Mom or Pam, so she can’t enter their minds to find them. But she could use Timmy’s thoughts or mine to locate this house. I had no choice. I have to force the women to leave until this is settled, to move someplace without Timmy or me knowing where.
The rationalization did not quiet his guilt.
One more crisis. Just what Mom and Pam needed. First Dad’s death, then Timmy’s and my disappearance. And now I’m burning down my own goddamned house.

The wind shifted, funneling ash and smoke into Larson’s lungs. He coughed.
I’ve waited long enough. Perhaps too long.
Grabbing Timmy, he followed a line of trees toward the road.

A screen door slammed. Someone screamed, and the village of Baychester awakened sluggishly to danger.

Larson broke into a run, hoping no one had spotted him.
Please let Mom and Pam get out safely. Please, God, let them not be home.
Larson had never thought much of religion; his jokingly forsaking Christianity for the warlike Norse pantheon just before his death in Vietnam had resulted in his being dragged into ancient history. But now he could not stop himself from appealing to a higher source.

Lawns and rows of closely-placed houses disappeared behind Larson and Timmy, replaced by streets. The wail of a siren floated over the village like an accusing scream. Every instinct told Larson to stay, to check on his mother’s and sister’s safety and keep looters from pillaging his family’s belongings, the familiar, beloved objects that were all that remained of Carl Larson and the house in Baychester. But Al Larson knew he could not afford to see his family; to give Silme even a distant glimpse of his mother’s current looks or plans would be folly. He believed the Dragonrank sorceress could glean some details from his or Timmy’s memories, but he hoped those would prove distant enough that they would only allow her to recognize the women if she found them by random chance.
In a city this size. Think of the odds.

Now outside the village, Larson slowed, not wanting his haste to draw attention. To get hauled in by the police, even just for questioning, meant remaining in one place long enough for Silme to locate him.
Sure suicide.
It also brought the possibility of being forced to confront his mother. Releasing Timmy’s hand, Larson kept his pace brisk, trying for an air of casual disinterest with little success. He could only hope the oddities of New York City would keep Silme busy until he could devise a coherent strategy against her.

Larson’s walk brought him to the enormous tract of dirt that had once been Freedom Land and would soon become Co-op City. Bulldozers and cranes huffed over the single street, adding beams to a towering skeleton of steel that, when finished, would loom over the double-story dwellings in Baychester. Construction workers scurried around the machinery, their white undershirts dampened in wide, semicircular patches at the neck and armpits. One lounged near the marked perimeter of the hard hat area, munching an apple and sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. A radio near his feet blasted the news through a wash of static.

As Larson passed by, one of the other workers approached the man on break and flopped down beside him.

Timmy gasped for air.

Larson paused, giving the boy a chance to catch his breath.

The new worker removed his yellow hard hat to rub sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “What’s the word on that lady jumper?”

The first worker spoke around a mouthful of apple. “Don’t think it’s a lady anymore. They’re saying it’s a real small guy now. And he ain’t maybe jumping. Actually climbed higher, straight up the goddamned wall.”

The other man grunted, scratching at a hairy beer gut beneath his shirt. “Little guy in black and gray crawling up a building? Gotta be a publicity stunt. Some company’s showing off new mountain climbing gear or looking for free advertising.”

Larson froze, images of Taziar rising to his mind, though he knew it was impossible. Still, he eavesdropped, aware that with a Dragonrank sorceress loose in the city, he had to pay attention to any reports of weird happenings.

The first man shrugged. “Yeah, well. That was my thought, too, man. But if they’re looking for publicity, why’s he climbing Sears and Roebuck? Why not the Empire State Building or some real skyscraper in Manhattan? Besides, they’re sayin‘ now they don’t think he understands English. Jabbered back at them in some sort of French or German. What kind of advertising you going to get when the guy can’t even say nothing about no product?”

A short silence fell. Larson ran their conversation repeatedly through his mind, unable to shake the certainty.
A little man who doesn’t speak English climbing a twelve-story building. Who the hell else could it be?

“So, you hear anything from your son?”

“Not since last week when they moved him to Mai Lai....”

Larson pressed on, concerned for the climber and not wanting to hear war tales. “Come on.” Seizing Timmy’s hand, he rushed the child across the lot, fumbling in his pocket for a dime. Near St. Raymond’s Parish Cemetery, where the population clustered, he had had no difficulty finding an independent cab. Here, in this section of town empty except for construction, he would need to call for a ride.

Timmy stumbled.

Larson stopped, reached to carry the child, and caught his first clear glimpse of his brother’s features since burning down the house. Tears glazed the freckled, doll-like face. His brown eyes looked hollow and haunted.

Larson had seen the same expression in the visage of a Vietnamese girl after one of his companions raped and killed her mother. He shivered, barraged with pain. Then, he had walked away, sickened. And although he had not participated, his failure to put an end to the torture made him equally guilty by his conscience’s judgment. Since that first time, he had seen the hopeless agony of surrender in the eyes of too many children, had watched innocence die in the split second it took for a blow or bullet to slaughter loved ones, had wondered what the future held for those children and their morality. The comparison ached through him.
Not Timmy. Please, not Timmy.

Larson hated the idea of stopping long enough to give Silme a transport site or of delaying his aid to a man who might be Taziar, but both seemed preferable to letting Timmy succumb to despair. He knelt, catching Timmy’s forearms, losing himself in the child’s eyes.

“I want to go home.” Timmy burst into sobs. “I want to be with Mommy and Pam. And Dad. I want to go home.”

Larson clutched Timmy to his chest, waiting for the child to calm down enough to understand his words. Timmy’s grip went convulsively tight around his brother.

Larson whispered soothingly, despising each second that ticked by, yet understanding the need.

The child’s hold loosened, but his face remained buried in Larson’s T-shirt.

Larson stroked his brother’s sandy locks. “Timmy, do you trust me?”

Timmy’s head bobbed beneath Larson’s hand.

“I had to burn the house. The witch can read our minds because she’s met us. I had to get Mom and Pam to leave so we don’t know where they are. Do you understand that?”

Timmy hesitated. His voice was muffled almost to incomprehensibility, but Larson managed to catch the main idea. The boy wanted to know why Larson had not simply told the women to relocate.

Larson chewed his lip, trying to decide how to explain. He pictured himself attempting to talk his mother and sister into abandoning their home.
Well, you see, Mom, there’s this sorceress who followed me from ancient Norway. I’m an elf there, you see.
He shook his head, on the verge of hysterical laughter.
They’d think Dad’s death drove me over the edge. They’d probably have me committed, and Silme would have all the time in the world to identify them.
“Listen, Timmy. You’re just going to have to believe me. That was the only way to keep Mom and Pam safe.”

Timmy nodded again, still clinging.

“This is kind of like the first ten minutes of a
Mission: Impossible
episode. Lots of bad things are going to happen over the next few hours or days.
If we last that long.
He kept the thought to himself. “Silme’s got magic bombs and bazookas and dragons and what-not. I may have to find a gun and shoot her.” Larson shivered at the thought. “People....” His voice cracked, and he paused to gather his composure before continuing.
It won’t help Timmy if I get overwrought.
“People may die. Even me.”

Timmy looked up, a grimace of horror covering his features.

Larson wanted to support Timmy, but lies and false reassurances would only lead to later betrayals. “If that happens, I want you to run to the nearest policeman as fast as you can. Can you handle that?”

Timmy lowered and raised his head once in an uncertain nod. “I don’t want you to die. Are you going to die?”

“I don’t want to die, either. I’m going to do everything I can to keep that from happening. But I brought Silme here. She’s my responsibility.” He tousled Timmy’s bangs. “We can’t go back to Mom and Pam until Silme’s taken care of.”
I wish I could have gotten Timmy elsewhere, too.
Larson shook his head in frustration.
But Silme’s already entered his mind once. She can find him anywhere.
Only one solution came to the forefront of his thoughts. “Timmy, I can try to get the police to put you in protective custody.”
God only knows what I’d say. In their place
, I
sure as hell wouldn’t believe my story.

Timmy went rigid. “I want to stay with you.”

Larson considered, understanding the child’s motives. Having lost his father, sister, and mother, he was clinging desperately to his only remaining family member, the brother he had always emulated as the ideal of masculine cool. “All right. Fine. But there’s going to have to be some rules.”

Timmy whipped his head up and down in a frenzied promise.

“First, you have to trust me. Bad things are going to happen. No matter what, you have to believe I’m doing my best to be the good guy. Second, if I’m killed, you run. Third, you have to do whatever I tell you, no matter how weird it sounds.” Larson rose. Placing an arm across Timmy’s shoulders, he steered the boy across the lot. “I love you, you little turd.”

Timmy stuck out his lip. The hunted look disappeared from his features. “Yah. You big jerk.” He ducked under Larson’s hold.

“Creep,” Larson returned, flipping Timmy’s hair into his eyes.

“Dumbhead.” Timmy shook his locks back.

“Jerkface.”

“Retard.”

Larson laughed, hardly daring to believe he had discussed his death only three breaths back, and now he was exchanging insults with an eight-year-old. He took Timmy’s hand as they came to the lot’s end and crossed the street toward the supermarket. “Listen, this guy who’s climbing the building. If it’s who I think it is, you’ll like him. He’s kind of an Errol Flynn type.”

“Earl who?”

“Robin Hood.” Larson pulled open one of the glass doors. He ushered Timmy through, then followed the boy inside. “You remember that movie where the guy steals from the rich and gives to the poor.”

Timmy danced in a circle, waving an imaginary weapon. “You mean he’s real fast and jumps around and people can’t catch him and he fights good with a sword?”

“Not exactly.” Larson approached the pay telephone, grabbing the book dangling from its chain. Only then did it strike him how near Timmy’s description had actually come to the truth. “But real close.” Larson flipped through the yellow pages to the Taxicab section, seeing no reason to tell Timmy that his older brother could beat Taziar in any sword spar, even with one hand tied behind his back.

Finding a number, Larson dropped his dime into the slot and dialed.

When Larson’s cab approached the corner of Webster and Fordham, they discovered a snarl of traffic behind a milling horde of gawking pedestrians. Patting Timmy’s knee reassuringly, Larson leaned over the seat to address the driver. “I’m going to get out here. Take my brother to Marion and 193rd and wait there with the meter running. I’ll be back.”

Timmy opened his mouth to protest, but Larson cut him short.

“I’ll return as soon as I can. Hopefully with Taz. Remember what I told you about listening to me.” Freeing his wallet from his pants pocket, Larson fished through the bill section, finding only a ten and four ones remaining. Though only two dollars and change showed on the meter, he handed over the ten. Then he opened the door and charged out onto the sidewalk.

Behind him, the cab backed into the jam.

Larson hated leaving Timmy with no protection other than a strange cabby, yet he knew the boy’s presence would make rescuing Taziar even more impossible than it already seemed.
If it’s even Shadow doing the climbing. This is crazy. There’s no possible way he could have gotten here.
Still, the description fit too well. Despite logic’s contradiction, Larson’s intuition told him the climber could be no one else.