Wild Cards V (6 page)

“Oh, that?” Fadeout waved a hand. “He solved it. Wraith apparently didn't like Gruber too much. Never even told him her real name. But she did let her birthday slip once. And Deadhead is a talented sketch artist—hard to think of him as having any real human qualities. We have deep connections in a lot of government agencies, the DMV, for example. Her birthday and Deadhead's sketch will be enough to nail that bitch to the wall.”

A wave of fear washed through Brennan, sweeping away the fatigue that weighed heavily on his body and spirit. To hide it he rubbed his face and yawned hugely.

“Well,” he said, desperately trying to sound casual, “it sounds pretty important. I'd like to be in on it.”

Fadeout looked at him closely, but nodded. “Sure, Cowboy. You earned it. It won't come down for a day or two, but you look like you could sleep that long.”

Brennan forced a grin. “I could at that.”

They dropped Brennan at his Jokertown apartment, where he slept around the clock, then worried for another day before he got the call. It was Whiskers's mushy voice at the other end of the line.

“We got her name, Cowboy, and we got her address.”

“Who's in on it?”

“You and me and two of my Werewolf pals. They're watching her place now.”

Brennan nodded. He was glad that Lazy Dragon wouldn't be along. He had ample respect for the ace's power and adaptability.

“There's a problem, though.” Whiskers hesitated. “She can turn into a ghost or something and walk right through walls and shit, so we can't even really threaten her.”

Brennan smiled. Jennifer was extraordinarily difficult to deal with.

“Fadeout's got a plan though. We break into her place and see if we can find this book he's looking for. If not, we can try to deal with her. Buy it back or something. Then,” Whiskers said, some satisfaction in his voice, “she can always catch a bullet in the back of her head sometime. She ain't always going to be a ghost.”

“Good plan,” Brennan made himself say. And it was. They knew her name. They knew where to find her. He had to do something or she wouldn't live out the month, even if they turned over the diary. His mind raced. “I'll meet you in an hour, at her place. Give me the address.”

“Right, Cowboy. You know, it's too bad she can turn into a ghost. She's real good-looking. We could have a real party with her.”

“Yeah, a real party.” Brennan hung up after Whiskers gave him directions to the apartment. He stared at nothing for a moment, marshaling all his Zen training to calm his mind, to soothe his racing pulse. He needed calmness, not a brain drenched in hate, anger, and fear. Part of him wondered at his strong reaction to Whiskers's news. Part of him knew the reason, but the biggest part told him to forget it for now, to bury it and examine it later. There was a way out of this mess … there had to be.…

He sunk his consciousness in the pool of being, seeking knowledge through perfect tranquility, and when he brought his mind back from zazen, he had his answer. It was Kien, and what he knew of the man, his fears, his strengths, his weaknesses.

Some of the details would be tricky, and painful, to work out. He picked up the phone, dialed a number. It rang, then he heard the sound of her voice on the other end of the line: “Hello?” He held the phone tightly, realizing that he had missed her voice, and despite the circumstances, he was glad to hear it again. “Hello?”

“Hello, Jennifer. We have, to talk…”

Snow was falling in blinding sheets and the wind was roaring like lost souls through the gray city canyons. Somehow winter seemed colder here than in the mountains, Brennan thought, colder and dirtier and lonelier. The maskless Werewolves, dressed as maintenance men, were waiting in the lobby of Jennifer's apartment building. One was tall and thin with acne-scarred cheeks. His joker deformities were hidden by the baggy coveralls he wore. The other was short and thin, his deformity evident in his sharply twisted spine that rotated his torso abnormally from his hips. Whiskers and Brennan, also wearing coveralls, stamped the snow from their boots.

“Cold as hell,” Whiskers offered. “She's gone?” he asked in a low whisper.

The tall and thin one nodded. “She left no more'n ten minutes ago. Caught a cab.”

“Okay, let's do it.”

No one saw them go up to Jennifer's apartment. Her front door yielded easily to the Werewolves' burglary tools. Brennan told himself that he'd have to speak to her about that, if, he amended, they were both still around when this caper was finished.

“We'll toss the bedroom first,” Whiskers said as they entered the apartment. He stopped and frowned at the bookshelf-lined walls. “Shit, finding a book in this will be like looking for a needle in a goddamned haystack.”

He led the way into a small bedroom that contained a single bed, a nightstand with a lamp, an ancient wardrobe, and more bookshelves.

“We'll have to check all those damn books,” Whiskers said. “One might be hollowed out or something.”

“Jeez, Whiskers,” the short and thin Werewolf said, “you've seen too many mov—”

He stopped, stared, as a tall, slim, good-looking blonde in a black string bikini stepped out of the wall. She wavered, solidified, and pointed a silenced pistol at them. She smiled. “Freeze,” she said.

They froze, more in astonishment than fear.

Whiskers swallowed. “Hey, we, we just want to talk. We were sent by important people.”

The woman nodded. “I know.”

“You know?” Whiskers asked, bewildered.

“I told her.”

Everyone turned to stare at Brennan. He had opened the drawer of the nightstand, and he, too, had a gun. It was a long-barreled, peculiar-looking pistol. He pointed it at Whiskers.

The joker's eyeballs bulged from his furry face.

“What the hell are you doing, Cowboy? What's going on?”

Brennan looked at him with no expression at all. He flicked his wrist, squeezed the trigger twice. There were two small, nearly soundless explosions of air, and the Werewolves stared in astonishment at the darts implanted in their chests. The tall, thin one opened his mouth to say something, sighed, closed his eyes, and slipped to the floor. The other didn't even try to speak.

“Cowboy!”

Brennan shook his head. “My name isn't Cowboy. It isn't Yeoman either, but that will do.”

Whiskers's face took on an almost comical look of terror. “Look, let me go. Please. I won't tell anyone. Honest. Trust me—” He sagged to his knees, his hands clasped imploringly, tears soaking his furry cheeks.

Brennan's air pistol spat another dart, and Whiskers slipped facedown on the carpet. Brennan turned to Jennifer.

“Hello, Wraith.”

She dropped the gun on the bed. “Can't you … can't you let them go?”

Brennan shook his head. “You know I can't. They know who I am. It'd blow my cover. It'd also ruin our plan.”

“They have to die?”

He approached within reach of her but made his arms stay at his side. “This is deadly business you're involved in.” He gestured at the drugged Werewolves. “No one can walk away from this, except me, if you want to live.” He stopped, looked troubled. “Even then, there's no guarantee…”

Jennifer sighed. “Their lives are on my head—”

“
They
made the decisions and led the lives that brought them here. They were prepared to rape, maim, and kill you. Still”—Brennan looked away from Jennifer, looked inward to himself—“still…”

His voice ran down to silence. Jennifer put her hand on his cheek, and he looked up, his dark eyes haunted by memories of death and destruction that despite his Zen training, despite his dogged concentration, were never far from the surface of his thoughts.

Jennifer smiled slightly. “I like your new eyes.” Brennan smiled back and almost unwillingly covered her hand with his.

“I have to get going. It'll be dark soon and I have to take care of them”—he nodded at the unconscious Werewolves—“and … other details.”

Jennifer nodded. “Will I see you again? Soon, I mean.”

Brennan took his hand away, half-turned, shrugged. “Don't you have enough problems?”

“Hey, the crime lord of New York City has marked me for death. How much worse could it get?”

Brennan shook his head. “You couldn't even
begin
to guess. Look, you'd better disappear. I have to take care of things.”

Jennifer looked at him silently.

“I'll call you.”

“Promise?” she asked.

Brennan nodded. She gave the Werewolves a final troubled glance, then faded through the wall again. Brennan had no intention of keeping the promise. None. Not at all. But by the time he'd hoisted the first unconscious joker to his shoulders, his resolve was already fading.

V

Fadeout, Siu Ma, and Deadhead were in conference when Brennan was admitted to the audience chamber. Deadhead was babbling lists of names, addresses, telephone numbers, bank accounts, and government connections. Everything that Covello had kept in the storehouse of his brain was Deadhead's. Everything the don had known.…

A sudden insight struck Brennan. Only the dead, he thought, could know everything. They were finished and done with. Their lives were complete. Only the dead could know Jokertown, totally and completely, for they had no need of new knowledge. Like him, when he'd been in the mountains. His life had been peaceful, unchanging, and serene. And quite dead. Now he was living again. The sense of uncertainty and loss of control that had increasingly been plaguing him was the price he paid for living. It was a high price, but so far, he realized, he could afford it.

Fadeout and Siu Ma exchanged concerned glances when Brennan entered the chamber alone.

“What happened? Fadeout asked.

“Ambush. That crazy Yeoman bastard. Killed Whiskers and the other Werewolves. Pinned me to the wall by my damn hand.” Brennan held out his right hand. It was wrapped in a bloody rag torn from his shirt. It had hurt like hell to drive the arrow through his palm. It'd been, Brennan reflected, penance of a sort for what he'd done since his arrival in the city.

“He let you live?” Siu Ma asked.

“He wanted me to deliver this. He said it was no good to him.” He held up Kien's diary, which had been blanked when Jennifer had ghosted it from Kien's wall safe. He hated like hell to give it back and let Kien know that he was safe from the secrets he'd written therein, but he had to give Kien something concrete to get him off Jennifer's back.

Fadeout took the diary from him and, mystified, riffled through its blank pages. “Did … did Yeoman do this?”

Brennan shook his head. “He said it happened when Wraith stole it.”

Fadeout smiled. “Well, that's great. That's really great.”

Even Siu Ma looked pleased.

“There was one more thing.” Brennan forced himself to speak like a dispassionate messenger when he really wanted to brand the words on Fadeout's forehead so Kien would be sure to understand the iron behind them.

Fadeout and Siu Ma looked at him expectantly.

“He also had a message. He said to tell Kien—yeah, the name was Kien—that he knows where Kien lives, just as Kien knows where Wraith lives. He said to tell Kien that their feud goes beyond life and death, that it is one of honor and retribution, but that he will be satisfied with Kien's life if anything happens to Wraith. He says he has an arrow with Kien's name on it waiting … just waiting.”

He'd delivered a similar promise a few months ago in behalf of another. But perhaps justifiably she had refused to accept his protection and chose instead to go away. Jennifer, though, had simply nodded when he'd told her his plan, had accepted it as if she truly, totally trusted him.

“I see.” Fadeout and Siu Ma exchanged worried glances. “Well, yes, I'll pass that on.” Fadeout nodded decisively. “I will indeed.” He pulled worriedly at his lower lip.

Siu Ma stood up. “You have proven yourself worthy,” she said. “I hope that your association with the Shadow Fists will be long and prosperous.”

Brennan looked at her. He permitted himself to smile. “I'm sure it will,” he said. “I'm sure it will.”