The Company of the Dead (76 page)

Only certain regions of Central Park had been preserved by the Eastern masters of the city. The rest had been allowed to surrender to the whims of nature. Straying from the overgrown pathways into the wilder portions of the park wasn’t recommended. The zoo’s former denizens had borne progeny, and encounters weren’t unheard of.

It was late morning.

He wanted to sprawl in the grass. A cool breeze played among the leaves. A bird flew overhead where clouds gathered, disappeared above the tree tops, and then repeated the exact same manoeuvre.

He moved away from the carapace, away from where time hissed and spat like boiling fat.

Three hours would return him to the Waste Land. Finesse on Doc’s part might permit the strangest encounter yet. An appointment with Doctor Wells in the desert. Would he be sitting there picking the brains of a dying man, or would they catch him in the act of burial? Either way, Shine would put him in the ground.

Secret hope urged a late arrival. This should be decided at sea, Lightholler mused, with ice as the sole witness. Concluded in the safe harbour of New York, with the original
Titanic
’s silhouette a welcome addition to the city’s skyline.

There was the sound of soft footfall and he looked up. Morgan and Kennedy were standing by the carapace. Morgan had a long grey coat over his uniform.

Kennedy said, “Let it go. It’s too risky.”

Morgan’s reply conveyed infinite sadness. “I can’t, Major. He’s out there somewhere. We can’t just abandon him.”

Kennedy said, “He’s lost.”

“So were you.”

Kennedy placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Darren, listen to reason. He left with us on the
Shenandoah
. He sailed with you on the Atlantic. He never disappeared in New York.”

Lightholler approached them. There was a strange discordant buzzing in his head. He realised what day this was.

Morgan persisted. “And on April 15, 1912, the
Titanic
was lost, taking with it two-thousand-four-hundred souls, so what the
fuck
are we trying to do here? Why are we bothering? If we’re here to make a difference, let’s start now. And if we have to end a life in order to fix the future, then let’s save one as well.”

“John?” Kennedy turned to Lightholler. The look on his face, the whole twisted expression of his body, was a plea.

“It’s going to rain.” The bloodlust still curdled at the base of Lightholler’s brain. “What exactly did you have in mind, Darren?”

Morgan could still picture their faces. Doc and Malcolm openly appalled; their expressions conceding his hopes, but seemingly unable to forgive his intentions. Lightholler offering an oddly impassive smile.

He’d told them that he simply had no choice in the matter.

When the major reached for his own coat, there’d been mutinous protest. He’d turned matter-of-factly to Doc, saying, “We’ll be back, with or without him, in two hours. Martin will stand watch.”

Malcolm had said, “Don’t go out there,” but there’d been no force behind the words. As if the deed itself was an accomplished fact.

“We leave in just under three,” was Doc’s last cold pronouncement. “With or without you.”

They stood on 59th with the crumbling wall of the park behind them. A light drizzle pattered the street.

“First thing I want to do is slap some sense into Morgan.” The words were out before Morgan realised their import.

Kennedy gazed at him, saying nothing.

Morgan hesitated before continuing. He found it difficult to curb his anticipation. “I know,” he said, “the plan is to stay out of sight.”

Kennedy fixed him with a cheerless look. “There is no plan, Darren.”

They were both similarly garbed; heavy coats concealing their stained uniforms. The tilted brims of fedoras covered fugitive brows. Morgan felt the bulk of the pistol, an awkward lump, in his armpit.

The occasional car slid up 59th. A Japanese couple, pushing a baby carriage, scurried past. Morgan found himself tipping his hat.

It felt like the weekend.

Kennedy stepped into the street. Morgan, surprised, hurried after him.

A blue Yamamoto braked to a halt before the major’s stern figure. Kennedy walked around to the driver’s seat.

“What day is it today?”

The driver, a middle-aged man with hawkish features, peered curiously back at Kennedy. “Sunday.” His tone held the indulgence one might offer a slow learner.

Kennedy leaned into the vehicle. “And the time?”

The driver, more alarmed, said, “It’s just after ten.” He started to wind up the window.

“Wallet and keys.” Kennedy inserted his Mauser into the remaining small gap. “Now.”

The driver was fumbling for his effects.

Kennedy turned to Morgan, who was struggling with his own gun.

“Leave that,” Kennedy growled. “He’s at Kobe’s.”

Kennedy muscled the driver out of his car and examined the licence. He handed the pistol to Morgan and withdrew five sturdy bars of gold from a pouch at his waist. He handed them over to the terrified man. Casting the Yamamoto an appraising glance, he said, “Next time, buy American.”

Kennedy drove. Morgan felt sick. His hands shook, he needed to go to the bathroom. Strange wheels were in motion. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Lightholler ran down Second Avenue. The rain, heavier now, had cleared the street.

He’d donned a coat and some equipment and left Malcolm, Doc and Shine at the carapace. They couldn’t have stopped him if they’d tried. Somewhere out there, three grey men in grey suits were driving him to Queens, to a dark appointment with the dread Agent Cooper. Somewhere out there, a killer, cold and heartless, lurked in shadows.

He was looking for a Hotspur with one headlight.

He was looking for answers to a question that everyone else had forgotten.

He was looking to meet his saviour.

Kennedy figured they had a ten-minute window. That was a rough estimate of the time it would take Hardas to complete the journey from Kobe’s to the Lone Star on foot.

It was hard to keep his thoughts lucid. He found himself considering the disposition of his men and had to remind himself that his ghost dancers were nine days and many miles behind ... ahead ... one or the other...

When had he last slept?

The windshield wipers beat an inviting rhythm before his exhausted eyes.

They passed Stuyvesant Square and he was already scanning the streets, looking to see how much detail he could distinguish through the driving rain. Damp lanterns, unlit and forlorn, dangled from the telephone lines, announcing their arrival in Osakatown. Then it was 12th Street and Kobe’s was coming up on the right.

I’m in the desert, dying.

He turned on to 12th.

I’m in the Lone Star, waiting for Lightholler.

Morgan, beside him, was hunched forwards and leaning on the dashboard. They rolled towards Third Avenue slowly, windows down, the rain a refreshing tingle against his face.

A carriage horse stamped on the corner opposite Kobe’s joint. The windows, veiled beneath a wide awning, reflected the dreary street darkly. Kennedy pulled up beside a phone booth and peered into the storefront.

“He’s not in there.”

Morgan said, “He might be further back inside.”

“Never.” Kennedy slipped the Yamamoto into first gear. “He’d be watching the street.”

They turned down Third and doubled back along 11th Street. A white Ford was parked opposite the squalid rear entrance to Kobe’s. It had two occupants. The street was otherwise empty.

“Which way would he have gone?” Morgan’s voice had a hysterical edge to it.

“Best bet is to make for the Lone Star. Catch him before he goes in.”

“What if he’s already there?”

“Then it’s over.”

Morgan gave him a pleading look.

“For God’s sake, Darren...” Kennedy was studying the street. “The Lone Star was full of people that day. How do you think
we
—not to mention everyone else in there—are going to handle our arrival?”

“Who
gives
a shit? That’s not our problem,” Morgan replied. “The question is, how badly do you want him back?”

Kennedy gave the rear-view a swift glance. He tried to imagine the confrontation.

The Lone Star was six blocks away. He floored it and dodged through sparse traffic. The rain-swept streets were barren. Just over a block away he spied a figure closing in on the café’s entrance. Hardas.

A white Ford pulled in ahead of him, sending a spray of muddied water onto the windshield. He slammed the horn.

Morgan was already on the street and running.

The
white Ford.

Kennedy was out of the car.

Two grey suits spilled out of the Ford. Bureau agents.

Morgan was halfway down the block.

The agents broke into a run.

Hardas gained the café’s entrance and was lost from sight.

Kennedy called out to Morgan, who skidded to a halt and turned back to face him, his expression lost in the rain. The agents were almost upon him. Probably figured they’d deal with Hardas and the others after taking him down. That was Cooper’s crew for you. That was Wetworks.

There’d be no confrontation in the Lone Star. No paradox to deal with. Kennedy had the Mauser in his hand. He drew a bead. He felt sickened. He pictured Patricia and told himself,
I have to remember to drop the piece when I’m done here.

He squeezed the trigger.

The lights were out. The tunnel stank of automobile fumes and horse manure. Wet tyre tracks, lit by the bright cones of passing headlights, left runes on the asphalt.

Lightholler raised the collar of his coat against the cold and fastened his air filter mask. He tasted sand and felt his face twist into a peculiar smile.

He stood behind a pylon and waited.

Kennedy and Morgan were on their way to Kobe’s to rescue Hardas. They were also waiting for him at the Lone Star.

He stood in the shadowed twilight of a tunnel.

He sat squeezed in the back of a Hotspur.

He was due back at the carapace.

This dark knowledge he pursued was insane.

He turned to leave, and had gone twenty yards when a red light, somewhere overhead, began to flash, casting the tunnel in hellish hues of scarlet. He looked back to gaze down the vacant, shit-strewn lane of aristocrats. In the distance, the single headlight of a white Hotspur bobbed into view.

He pulled up behind a pylon, his heart in his mouth. The last thing he needed was to be seen by the guard or his younger, foolish self, for that matter.

The Hotspur slowed down. He tried to remember how it had felt. The fear, the impotence of it all. That vague spark of hope when they were slowing down. Agent Collins would have his cash out.

Where was his saviour?

The Hotspur rolled to a halt.

This dark knowledge...

Lightholler stepped out into the beam of its headlight.

Kennedy swung the Yamamoto onto Lafayette and hooked left onto Bond. He took another left at the Bowery and then cut back along 14th. No one was following.

Morgan said, “You left the gun?”

“Of course I left the gun. How the hell else is Patricia going to think I was framed.”

“How long do we have?”

“Three-quarters of an hour.” He tossed Morgan a look. “We’ll make it.”

The rain fell in sheets. One of the sedan’s wiper blades was faulty. It scraped its remorse on the scored windshield.

He turned up Fifth Avenue. It was a straight run to the park from here.

“Are you okay, Major?”

“I think so.”

They covered the next few blocks in silence. Morgan fiddled with the radio briefly. He strummed the dash.

“What do you think would have happened if we’d walked on in there?”

“Let’s not play that game, Darren.”

“You think Hardas would have come with us?”

Hardas’s loss was a yawning pit in his gut. This wasn’t helping.

Kennedy said, “There might have been more agents in the area. They were Wetworks. We’d be in body bags right about now.”

“I’m just saying, what do you think would have happened? Would Hardas have come with us?”

All Morgan needed was the right answer.

“I think so,” Kennedy replied. “I just don’t know how I could have left any of them behind.”

Morgan nodded dolefully.

“Except for you, of course.”

“Huh?” Morgan was examining his face.

Kennedy permitted a curl at the edge of his lips.

“Come to think of it,” Morgan said, “two of you is more than I could handle.”

Kennedy laughed outright. The park appeared ahead.

“I’m sorry, Darren. About Hardas.”

“I know.”

They left the sedan on 58th and walked the block to the park. They scaled the brittle brickwork and began working their way through the undergrowth to the glade.

“What are you going to tell Patricia?”

“You saw the look on her face when we were leaving.” Kennedy slowed his steps. “I think she already knew.”

“Does this mean we’re going to fail?” Morgan asked.

“If there’s anything the last few days have taught me, it’s this.” Kennedy reached over and squeezed Morgan’s shoulder. “
Nothing
is set in stone.”

They pressed on through thickening brushwood. Kennedy, somehow attuned, felt the carapace’s presence before sighting its alien bulk crouched amid the dripping green. Patricia and Shine sat on a spread of canvas beneath its squat carriage. Doc was examining one of the struts. Kennedy could see that the surface of the machine was scorched black in places, perhaps caught in the backwash of Lightholler’s rocket-launcher.

It was fifteen minutes till extraction.

Malcolm gazed up at him with mournful eyes. “Are you okay, Joseph?”

Kennedy nodded. “You aren’t surprised?”

She blinked slowly. “No.”

He couldn’t repress the next question. It left him bare and raw. “Do you hate me?”

She shook her head but her lips were pursed in anguish.

He cast about the gathering, adrift. “Where’s Lightholler?”