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Chapter Ten

Toronto, the Present

"What do you mean?" Richard demanded. Time was short; the delay angered him. "What other road is there?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't know, but this is to protect her."

He remembered the cryptic words on the computer screen. "How will her dying protect her? There's no sense to it."

"It just will, that's all I know."

"I won't let her go like this. Not when I can—"

"But it's only a change. She told me I've been through it hundreds of times. It can't be so bad."

Richard gaped at him, mouth dry, mind reeling. Surely not. The Goddess would do something, make things different, and save her. She wouldn't do this to Sabra, not to her. If she did . . . no. No matter what, he wouldn't let that happen. He'd do whatever was necessary to keep her alive.

But he'd defied the Goddess once before. Or tried to.

He looked at Michael, a young boy who understood too much. "I won't let her die."

It's not your choice.  

He shivered as an instantly familiar voice whispered in his mind. "Sabra?" He stared around, knowing it was futile.

All will be well. Bear this, my love. You have strength to . . .  

"I will not bear this!"

You will! For Michael! You WILL! And then the precious voice ceased. He waited, holding his breath for another word until his chest ached.

"Sabra . . . ?"

No reply.

It was the worst, most absolute silence Richard had ever known, as though he'd been struck deaf.

Michael let out a keening whimper and shuddered. Tears ran free down his face. Richard knew what happened and it hit like a sword thrust. He staggered; his insides felt ripped out, and he gave a soft cry, his soul's denial.

Bourland slowly pushed through the door. His face told all. He couldn't speak, only bow his head. He sat heavily on a waiting room chair. Michael went to him, hand on his shoulder. Without looking up, he wrapped his arms around the weeping boy and held him close.

Paralysis crept over Richard and took solid hold, trapping him in sheer, yawning emptiness. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. This was beyond endurance, beyond his strength; she was gone, yet he remained. That could not be. It was others whose lives came and went, flourished and faded, but they were always together. That never changed.

Alone.

Truly alone. Never to see her again. It was too much.

No, I cannot, will not go on . . .  

He stared down the long vanishing length of the hospital corridor. It stretched to infinity, full of harsh light, hard corners, and busy, unconcerned strangers.

"For all the good it will do, there's a full investigation on," Bourland tiredly said.

"All right," Richard acknowledged in a hollow voice so soft as to almost go unheard. He was yet in shock, he thought. He found himself reacting to things people said, but was strangely insulated from them. There was considerable sympathy floating about and some fear; quite a number of the staff had been very shaken by the incident in the ICU. Bourland's plans promised to shake things even more.

The police had come and gone, leaving behind patrolmen. Reassuring, but only to civilians. After that, some of the internal excitement diminished and routine reasserted itself to some extent. Of course, everyone knew something of what had happened, and they all knew Richard, Bourland, and Michael were closely involved. Professionalism prevented the hospital staff from asking direct questions, which was a blessing.

Midmorning had come and gone, but one could only tell by looking at a clock. They were still in a place where losing track of time was an ongoing hazard, and it was a very dark day outside.

Richard felt cold, unable to warm up at all, though there was plenty of heat in the room, and he kept his coat on. Bouts of shivering swept over him at unexpected times, and he desperately wanted to sleep, but couldn't seem to close his eyes. Whenever he did it was like turning up the volume on the ambient sounds of the place. Sitting made him restless, but he was too weary to pace. Once he left for the mens' room and for the first time in years doubled over as his belly tried to turn itself inside out. Nothing came forth, only retching misery, followed by icy sweats. He went through that drill for nearly an hour before the fit passed.

Exhausted, he crept back to be with Bourland and sat on the floor, his bowed spine pressed to a wall because he couldn't trust himself to not fall out of a chair. He turned away offers of help and suggestions to have a sedative.

Bourland understood and got people to leave him alone.

The worst, most damnable part of it was Richard could not weep.

For those raised under certain social rules, it wasn't the done thing for a man to cry, but even Bourland, grown up in that generation, had broken down for a time.

Richard tried. Nothing came forth. He rubbed his eyes to see if they were working and raised a sting of watering, but no tears.

Shock. That's all it is.  

When his gut settled and some strength returned, he crept into a chair by a small conference table and sat for a time, trying to notice other people besides himself. Bourland looked haggard, but functioning; Michael was off in a nearby hospital room, asleep, thankfully, after that first storm of reaction. A policeman stood outside, alert for one-eyed strangers.

Richard longed for the luxury of oblivion, but he would put it off; he would ignore the blackness. He had but one reason to keep moving: to find Sabra's killer . . . and deal with him.

Bourland channeled his own postponed grief in compulsive activity, doing what he did best, setting wheels in motion. He'd spoken to the top people of the hospital's administration, talked to their security, talked to the cops, talked to God knows who else, and managed to commandeer someone's office. He made a call to the special outfit that was so secret, bulled through to their director and damnation to their security protocols. He made demands and got someone to listen.

He filled Richard in. "Two of their best people are on the way to look after us, but their prime concern will be to bodyguard Michael; they're also bringing photos. They have shots of arrivals from the Yucatán. Too bad the hospital's surveillance tapes were buggered. There's some techs looking into the problem. The whole damned system . . ."

Richard nodded bleakly.

"Coffee? You look as though you could use some."

"No, thank you. I still feel woozy." Richard had no idea how coffee could possibly help.

"Richard?"

"Yes, what?" He jolted from wherever he'd gone, startled by what a wall clock told him. Apparently an hour had slipped by unnoticed while he stared into space. Focus. Wake the hell up and focus. He pulled himself together by remembering what it felt like to be that way. Fake it 'til you make it. 

"They're here."

Through the office window he observed a man and woman approaching, each in black leather coats, wearing designer sunglasses on a sunless day. They were of a kind, and Richard recognized the genus.

"What lovely people you know," he murmured to Bourland.

"Hm?"

"Those two killers." He saw that much in their body language, the way they held their heads. The man in particular, moving like a panther. The woman was better at blending, her walk influenced by her heeled boots, but still unmistakable to anyone who knew the signals. Or lack thereof.

"It's a nasty world, isn't it? But they're on our side for the time being."

Richard noted the qualifier. "Are they from . . . ?"

"Yes. For your own well-being pretend you don't know that particular department exists. They're rather appalling about keeping their security intact."

Bourland had called in serious firepower. This was a few steps beyond the guards ordered up to keep watch.

The couple simply came in; neither identified themselves. The man was lean and dark, in need of a shave and haircut. He handed over a flat, padded envelope without preamble. He didn't remove his sunglasses, but Richard knew he was being closely examined and memorized, the information to be added to whatever dossier they kept on him. He didn't give a damn.

The woman was more accessible, pushing her shades up on her forehead to hold back her straight blond bangs. She gave Richard a small, neutral smile. A lithe and lovely blue-eyed charmer, evidently trained in seduction, keeping it dampened down until needed. That was likely one of their ploys when working. One for distraction, the other for destruction, switching roles as needed for any given situation. Richard nodded once at her, to be polite, then shifted his attention to Bourland's envelope.

The man said, "Your target has been narrowed to twenty possibles." His voice was low; he barely moved his lips. Slight French accent. "They've been initially cleared by background checks, but each fitted the profile you supplied. A single man, traveling alone, possibly on a British or American passport, but we checked many others. At this point all of those who traveled to this city from the Yucatán or the rest of Mexico are accounted for and were elsewhere when the attack here was made."

Richard looked at various still shots taken from an airport security camera, obviously set up at customs. None of the men or the names on the pages attached to the photos meant anything to him. The thumbnails of each of their lives tripped no alarms.

Bourland didn't recognize any of them either, but admitted he'd never gotten a look at the invader. "Did you show these to the other witnesses yet?"

"Yes. They were unable to identify their attacker. Most remembered a beard and an eye patch. Recollections of height and weight differ among them. Such variations are to be expected from witnesses under extreme stress. One of them said there was no beard at all. Our best description came from the one we sent over as guard."

"Yet he could not pick anybody from your collection."

"No."

"Only twenty?" asked Richard.

"Yes."

"Unacceptable. We'll have to widen the profi . . . wait. What about this?" Richard pointed to the upper corner of one shot that showed part of a convex mirror. There was a blurred male form in it, the curved reflection misshapen, but there was enough to show he just might have a beard and eye patch. "Who's he?"

"We can find out." The man gave nothing away, though he should have been chagrinned that something as obvious as that had been overlooked by his people.

"Do so. Did you bring a copy of the videos made?"

"Of course."

The girl pulled an unlabeled CD case and a notebook computer from her shoulder bag. "When we digitized the recordings, we cleaned the images up. All the other passengers cleared our check, though." She had a pleasant, husky voice.

She put the disk in the computer's DVD player and activated it, speeding through the shifting images until Richard told her to stop. The scene matched the one in the top photo, but as it played out, the picture suddenly deteriorated and ceased. The recording kicked in again, but by then the suspect was gone. Whoever was reflected in the mirror got through without leaving a clearer shot of himself behind.

There's no such thing as coincidence.  

"Does this machine have a screen-capture program?" he asked her.

"Yes, along with photography software."

"Good. Freeze on that image in the mirror, copy it to the program and let's see what it looks like."

She seemed to understand exactly what was wanted and manipulated the process with a swift, deft touch. A few minutes' work and the screen had a larger version of the mirror on it, the pixels just starting to show. She refined, sharpened, drew out more information, then removed the distortion caused by the curvature. Even her aloof partner with the pale, narrow face came around to look over her shoulder as she progressed from one improvement to the next.

Richard snorted at the final result. If this outfit was so deadly efficient, they should have spotted him. "You'll need to upgrade for your background check procedures, I think," he said. He glared at the freeze-framed stocky man, his skin reddened by the tropical sun, his face partly obscured by an eye patch.

"Who is he, Richard?" Bourland asked, leaning in.

"It's Charon."

Bourland was silent a moment. Staring. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Who's Charon?" the woman wanted to know.

"A legend," replied her partner. "Professional assassin. A very good one."

Richard glanced at them. "And quite out of your league. I'll take it from here."

The man went still, his version of saying "oh, really?" and the woman lifted her chin seeming ready to argue, but didn't. They were probably too used to being at the top of the food chain and not pleased at the reminder that even nastier predators existed.

The man looked at Bourland. "We can locate and remove the target, if that is what you require."

"What I require is a bodyguard for my son until Mr. Dun gives the all-clear. He will deal with Charon."

"We are aware of Mr. Dun's credentials and mean no disrespect to his abilities, but our resources are considerably greater than his. We are better prepared to deal with this level of threat."

"You have no idea what the true level is." Richard was in no mood to engage in a pissing contest.

Bourland didn't hide his flare of anger, though. "Obviously not, since you let Charon breeze past your security check. That bastard could be anywhere by now."

"He'll still be in Toronto, Philip," said Richard. "He has one more target to take out. Me."

"You're not going underground to avoid him, are you?"

"No. Quite the opposite."

"That would be ill advised," said the man.

"It's the only way to find him."

"You'll want an invisible perimeter around you. We can arrange—"

"No, I won't, and you won't. Your lot is to watch the Bourlands. Don't argue, Philip. If he figures out your connection to me you'll be in the line of fire, too. I have to be Charon's only focus. If he succeeds, you should be safe enough, though I wouldn't trust that. But it's a moot point. I'll see to it he fails."

"How?"

"He won't expect me to be functioning after what's happened here. He is presently unaware we know about him. I'll use that. The tricky bit will be making sure no one else gets hurt."

"Again, how?"

"I'm working on it. In the meantime, we behave as close to normal as possible, given the circumstances. Go through the expected motions."

Bourland shook his head. "I'd rather not."

"I know, but assume we're being watched."

Richard looked at the couple. "Mr. Bourland will show you where his son is; make sure the policeman on duty there sees the right credentials from you."

"We have them," the woman assured, showing him a plastic card with her picture on it. It was an excellent forgery, proclaiming her to be an employee of his own security firm. Though one division of it dealt with the hire and employment of guards, they were of the more ordinary unarmed variety. It nettled him that such things could be so perfectly duplicated so quickly, but their organization had a reputation for frightening efficiency.

"You're the only two on this, anyone else turning up you will consider suspicious. Should that happen, use your best judgment on how to neutralize them, but keep it discreet."

"None of that collateral damage idiocy," Bourland put in. "Paul may not mind, but I do."

The girl's eyes flickered. She liked him.

Richard added, "And lose those damned sunglasses. You two look like Boris and Natasha on a bad day."

She suppressed a twitch of her pink lips and started for the door, pausing for her partner. He stared down at Richard, who was not the least bit interested in the young man's issues. The man removed his sunglasses, revealing the soulless, dead eyes of a killer. No surprises there. Richard stared right back, unimpressed.

"Hey," said the woman, breaking their lock. Evidently she was the balancing factor for the duo, keeping the guy in line when needed.

He finally followed her out the door, putting his shades back on.

"There's a bomb waiting to go off," Bourland muttered.

"And you want them around Michael?"

"No, but they're the best. They don't have to be likeable so long as they do the job, which they will do or die trying. But if Charon's the one behind this . . ."

"Then you're damned lucky you're still alive."

"And you. If I hadn't taken the night shift—"

"This place would be full of bodies. Had I been there Charon would have tried to kill me, then God knows what would have happened." Sabra might still be alive. "You know, you've not mentioned bringing the regular law into this, Philip. That's unusual for you."

"The police are out of their depth with someone like Charon."

"It's more than that."

"I know how these games are played; we're on a different kind of field with him."

"This was before we knew he was involved. You've played it close with them."

Bourland rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, but it's all very simple. You kill Charon—or whoever—and I bury him, with no one the wiser. If you want to go vigilante, it will be with my full backing, cooperation, and a quiet cleanup to follow. A coverup if necessary. Just don't ask for anything in writing."

Richard managed a wan smile. "Your word's always been good enough for me."

"What now?"

Richard blanked for a second, then the ugliness of mundane practicality kicked in. "When the coroner is finished with his postmortem, we should . . . make arrangements."

Bourland's face clouded. He turned away, hand over his eyes.

Charon's murderous foray in the hospital took less than fifteen minutes; that was how much time was missing from the hospital videotapes. The police did not know how he'd been able to sabotage all the cameras and tapes at once. Richard had an idea, but knew better than to share it with them.

Human or not, Charon was far too dangerous for ordinary law enforcement or even the extraordinary as represented by that couple. They were trained in every kind of conventional weapon and combat, but utterly unprepared for supernatural confrontations.

After Sabra drank from the Grail her healing changed her, turned her human again, but she still retained her Gifts. If anything she was stronger than ever before in them. Had the same happened to Charon? Did he even possess Gifts? Assume so. If not back then, then without doubt now.

He'd caused the Otherside disruption in Stonehenge, Chichén Itzá, and certainly must have conjured that freak wind on the highway. The alternative, that the Goddess had to do with it—had done it on purpose—Richard refused to consider. Her part in it could only have been damage control afterward.

Charon's motive was elusive, though. He had thoroughly dropped himself from sight for the last few years. Richard had patiently hunted for him, not liking to leave a job unfinished, but discovered no sign of him until now. Why had he so suddenly surfaced, and what the devil was he up to?

Sabra would have been able to figure it out.

He fought off a wave of darkness, of overwhelming grief. No tears, though, only a terrible sickness of heart.

No. I will not give in to you just yet. When it's done and that animal is dead, I will mourn.  

Then he thought of the Grail again and went cold.

Sharon Geary stirred from her nap, feeling sluggish not from her unplanned slumber, but from lack of fresh air. She'd gotten—mostly—used to the strong smell of snake, but every few hours had to let her companion know when she needed a breather. Literally. He had her sealed in tight, which was both a good and bad thing.

She'd forced herself to deal with floating in the pitch blackness, wanting to conserve her torch batteries. Stretching out, she touched nothing with hands or feet, meaning she could be an inch away from any given side, or smack in the middle of the scale-lined sphere the serpent had made from his knotted body. He really had been very decent to her, but needed reminding about certain basics. So far, he didn't seem to object.

Swimming motions didn't cut it, but she had some success getting herself moving by blowing a stream of air as though trying to inflate a really large balloon. Though most of Newtonian physics must have been tossed from this corner of the universe, the action-reaction thing still worked, more or less, in here.

A few moments of huffing and puffing and she was able to reach a curved wall and touch it, hanging on precariously by means of the roughness of the scales. To protect her palms she'd put on some fingerless gloves stowed in one of her cargo pockets, the material acting like the soft side of fabric fastening tape.

One hand in place, she banged on the living wall with the other. "Hallo! Need some air in here again!"

She'd gotten used to dealing with the god in a very short time. Must have been from being Irish.

Kukulcan was evidently awake and still obliging. A vast shift took place as on the other times before, and a long opening appeared in the darkness. It was dark outside as well, but still lighter than her little sanctuary.

Fresh air blew in, cleaning out the stale. Must have been quite a wind out there. Cold, too. Until now she'd not noticed warmth or chill.

She ventured to take a peek, trusting her large friend would eat anything nasty before it ate her. And there he was, almost within touch, one of his great eyes looking at her.

"How's it goin' ?" she asked. "Any luck gettin' us back where I belong?"

Apparently not.

She got the impression that they were moving, though. Except for the influx of wind, no hint of it transferred to her in her shelter, but the feeling was there all the same.

She decided to try her Sight. At first she'd been too preoccupied, but now that she'd become more or less used to the situation it occurred to her she should explore other venues that might lead to an escape. Not that the company wasn't good, but in much of the mythology she'd read mortals who hung around with gods often came to a bad end, and she'd rather skip the honor, thank you very much.

Sharon wriggled partway out and focused quick, not knowing how long she might have.

Wow. A rainbow lightning storm. How about that?

The colors were considerably more intense than anything she'd seen on her side of Reality. Fireworks came the closest, but they were less bright and didn't last as long. The bolts of energy shooting around here went from one side of her wide view to another, slower than what was normal to her, lightning taking its own dear time. She was able to pick out every tiny little branch and fork. Now that was just amazing.

Silent, too. The place should have been roaring and booming like a battlefield. Very strange, but fortunate for her, considering how much noise might otherwise be slamming about. Wouldn't want to blow out her eardrums.

Kukulcan might be feeling it, though. Ordinary snakes were sensitive to heat and vibration. She noticed neither; in fact, the air was getting colder by the minute, if still fresh. Must be a ton of Otherside ozone about, but she hoped the chill wouldn't slow him down. Maybe that white blood of his kept him going.

"Where you takin' us, if you don't mind my askin'?"

No verbal reply came; she didn't expect one. However, she could see some kind of disturbance far, far ahead—or what would be ahead if that's where they were heading. She couldn't tell, distance was impossible to reckon, and as for time . . . well, she knew she'd been here for hours on end, more than a day at least if she could trust her watch, yet she felt no hunger or thirst. Or other bodily needs for that matter. Either the god or this place had something to do with it, which was very fortunate.

"Thanks for the peek. I'll let you get on with things."

She pushed back in, and the crack closed, but not completely. He'd left an inch-size opening, and she didn't think it was an oversight on his part. It gave her a constant supply of fresh air to breathe, and a narrow view of things, even a bit of light. She could deal with the darkness, but would rather not have to; perhaps they were clear of the area where the giant Sharon-eating bugs swarmed.

She found a way to hold on with her palms flat on the scales, resting her chin on the back of her hand, with her weightless body bobbing gently clear so she could watch the light show. It passed the time, however time was passed here.

The disturbance seemed very small, but then the noonday sun looked small given the gap between itself and the earth. It seemed just as intense, though moving, a tiny, twisting spiral with a brightness in the center. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.

Hopefully, Kukulcan knew what he was about. In a place like this one needed friends.

Toronto, the Present

"Daniel Dean?" said Richard, looking at a fax of an American passport that had just come into the commandeered hospital office. The name and address were unknown to him, but the cheerful, beaming face—what was left of it with the scars under the patch on the right side—was Charon's.

Bourland grunted an affirmative. "His name when he landed at Pearson. He seems to have shed it the moment he left. There's an ongoing search of hotels in the area for one-eyed guests, but no luck so far. He could have shed the eye patch, too."

"In which case we are still looking for a one-eyed man, albeit with considerable facial scarring."

"Cosmetic restoration surgery? A glass eye?"

Richard remembered the damage Charon had taken that day when they'd fought over the Grail. "He could be in sunglasses, so I wouldn't put too much attention on that one feature."

"Then we'll only find him by luck or the next time he purposely shows himself."

"Or by taking note of oddities. Any more on that cab driver?"

Earlier in the morning a man had been found slumped behind the wheel of his cab, the motor still roughly chugging away, less than a block from St. Michael's. His fare records were gone, though his dispatcher had his call-in just minutes after Charon left the hospital. The destination address was the road where Sabra's cottage stood. The dead driver had bled heavily from his nose, ears, and eyes.

"The prelim postmortem indicates some kind of internal hemorrhage." Bourland slid a copy of a handwritten form across the conference table.

"Just like Sabra."

"They think he may have felt something was wrong and tried to drive himself in for help, but the violence of the bleeding . . ."

"He was murdered."

"I'd like to know how."

"No, you don't."

Bourland made no argument against that. "What about the break-in at her place?"

Richard had been on the phone with the police, having called in a possible burglary to them. Because of the special circumstances and Bourland's influence, he'd been able to listen in as two officers walked through her home, describing their progress into their radios. Richard might have gone up himself, but knew it was too soon. To see her things scattered just as she'd left them . . . no, better to have someone else do that for him.

They reported the front door being open and the security alarms shut down. Nothing taken, apparently. He relayed instructions for them to check one of the back bedrooms. They found a mess, some overturned furniture, a table fountain upset and broken. A brass bowl some six inches across? No, nothing like that here. Why?

"They're looking for fingerprints," he said to Bourland. "Doubt if they'll find any."

"But why did he go there afterwards? What did he want?"

Richard shrugged.

"You know. What is it?"

"He was after a memento of hers." Richard gave a lean description of the Grail.

"All that for a brass bowl?"

"It's an antique. Very old. Priceless in some circles. His way of rubbing my nose in it."

"Has it worked?"

"No. I'll get it back for her."

Mortality sucked. That's it, that's all there was to it. It purely, grade-A homogenized, top to bottom, in your ear, out your ass sucked.

Charon felt the gradual loss of strength creeping over him already. Damn, you'd think the drain hole would be plugged up by now with all the juice he was pouring in. He didn't believe in things like Fate and that he was destined to die from the cancer and that would explain why it was using so much freaking effort to fight it and keep going.

The power he'd taken from the cab driver was slowly failing against the stuff eating him up from the inside. His sweet little brass prize was handy at translating other energies for his needs and could indefinitely sustain him, but it was like grease through a goose. He'd have to keep the feeding tap in the on position just to maintain himself. Not a problem if he had to, but the opposition was bound to notice a thing like that and come after him.

Just because he'd taken out one of them while she was flat on her assets didn't mean there weren't others around to fill her hobnailed boots. And chances were they'd be able to walk all over him once they figured out what was going down. Didn't she have eight sisters wandering around out there doing their Earth Mother scene and saving the rain forests and other crap? Whether they were on this Side or not, they would close in on him.

Then there was the other thing: there was no substitute for the rush that people-energy gave him. However, he'd have to go easy snacking on human targets. Fang-boy and his friends would just love following a trail of bodies to the Cambridge's penthouse suite. They were cruisin' to give a bruisin'.

Frying witchy-girl had made one hell of a royal stinkola, much more than Charon had reckoned on. His police-band radio sputtered all night and all day with reports and traffic on this and that. He'd been in the lobby when a couple of guys in plainclothes came in flashing their badges all over the place and waving a composite picture of himself.

Oh, yeah, keeping the eye patch on for his venture had been a very good ploy. They thought they'd gotten around it by having a second photo done without it. Part of his face in that one was puckered with lines of scar tissue, but still no good to them. Mr. Snaky's oh-so-sweet blood had fixed that. He should open himself a franchise offering face-lifts to aging actresses.

But the bottom line was this city was sealed up. Lance had some heavy guns on his side for some reason. He must have increased his level of influence over the local politicos in the last few years. That meant there'd be more cops at the airports, train, and bus stations than passengers, and not all could be counted on to screw up and miss a beauty like Charon. All they had to do was correctly identify the left side of his face, then the moose shit would hit the fan. Yes, he could probably drain a few dry, but he'd still be stuck here. They'd take away his toy, lob him in jail, and then the dickster knight would come in all full of righteous vengeance . . .

Nope-nope and nada. Had to take him out and get across the border, or the other way around. Whatever. Dickie's death would keep the hounds distracted, chasing their tails, especially if they had lots of false trails to play on. Those were easy enough to arrange. How the cops loved to backtrack the forensic evidence stuff, could keep 'em busy for months.

Dun was a tough bastard, though. Have to make sure he was gone, gone, gone and bye-bye three times over. Shouldn't be too hard. Charon had had a lot of time in the last few years to work up several scenarios. Pick one.

Not standing up to his ass in snow-covered bushes, though. Charon scowled. What had he been thinking? Make that taking. Damn pills . . .

So . . . what was a good Plan B?

With the pain dulled down and some of the drugs out of his system he was able to think better. He still had hours to go yet before he'd need another refreshing hit, better make the most of them.

All Dun wanted was a push in the right direction, and he'd trip on his own feet running to his death. Push. Pushing was good. Yeah, that was a good one. Big distraction, too.

Charon worked out his deadline, measuring it against his declining strength and the tools he had at hand, deciding what he could set up the fastest with the least effort. A side trip to a special storage garage where he'd hidden some valuable professional toys a few years back was needed, but he could get the rest at Eaton Centre. Man, they had everything.

Wasn't modern living great?

In the late afternoon Richard's cell phone trilled. His caller ID display blinked 'unknown'. Useless things. Maybe it was from that young woman in the Yucatán.

"Hallo?"

"Hey, this Richard Dun?"

He shot upright as though touched by a hot wire. The voice was electronically disguised, but there was only one man who would bother with such games. But why a direct call? The smart thing would be to lie in wait and pick him off with a long rifle, then move in and finish the job. Play it carefully, old lad. Pretend you haven't a clue. "Who is this?" He hit a button on some highly specialized hardware linked to all the phones in the room, including his own. It would both record and trace the call. The sudden motion attracted Bourland's notice; he came across to listen in.

"Never mind that," said the voice. "You wanna chance to get the guy who snuffed your girlfriend?"

"Who are you?" He raised his tone, injecting the right amount of rage and rising frustration, an edgy man barely in control. "What do you know about it? How in hell did you get this number?"

"Not gonna get that info, bud. Deal with me like this or don't deal at all, but I can give you the bad guy for some cash. You want him or not?"

"Of course I do."

The harsh, robotic voice buzzed on. "Then you know how these things run. This ain't amateur night, I'm a player and wanna keep my ass right where it is and not shot off or in jail."

"Keep talking."

"I want half a million in U.S. dollars. That's the bounty. Nonnegotiable, cheap at the price."

It was nicely calculated. Enough to be worth someone's while, but not too much for a wealthy payer to lay out. "In cash?"

"Better believe it."

"Not until I have proof."

"The guy you want wears an eye patch."

"You've seen the police showing the photos around. You're just using the situation to cash in. No, thank you."

"Yo! Dun! Heads up or you'll lose your window from being too smart."

"Give me more proof, then."

"Okay-okay! This dude's got an attitude, makes pit bulls roll over and piss themselves, y'know?"

"Sorry, not enough."

"Okay-okay, the dude is called 'Charon.' Ring a bell?"

Richard held silent, as though stunned. "Are you certain?" he whispered.

"Yeah, I'm certain. Look, I'm the guy he came to to work up a new alias. I've worked for him before and got him set again, but he welshed. The thing is, he did it from a distance. He thinks he's killed me, but he shot another guy instead. A friend of mine. You pay, I tell you where Charon is, you do what you like to him, and we never see each other again. That's the best deal you're gonna get, so what d'ya say?"

"How do you even know about me?"

"Well, this was the weird part: he was talking to himself and your name came up. He seemed into nailing you flat. I've heard of you from my side of the street and knew who to call when the smoke cleared."

Richard snorted. "Oh, I'm sure."

"I mean it. The guy's gone loony. He always used to be edgy, but he's gone right over into the rapids. Creeped me out the way he was pacing around and arguing with himself. I figure that's why he wanted me offed, he knew I'd heard too much. He was like Hannibal Lector on crank, y'know? Hyper as hell and nuts. I figure he's into drugs, but his money was clean and then he dusted my pal and . . ."

"Right, and you want some pay out as well as payback."

"Hey—my life's on the line the first hint he gets that he missed me. I need money to scram myself off the map—in case you don't get him. No offence! I heard you were good, but this is Charon we're talking about."

"What's his new name and where is he?"

"You get his name and destination when I get my money. I'm square on that. I don't need the both of you chasing me. When it comes down to it I want you to win, 'cause I know you'll be square as well and let me go, y'know? If you don't like what I have to say, then you don't have to pay, y'know?"

"I know."

"We gotta deal, then?"

"Only if I like the information. I can confirm it within a few minutes of receipt, so you'll stick around that long."

"Nuh-uh, no way. I'm in, I'm out. Faster the better."

"You want your money?"

"Freakin' hell, yes, but—"

"Then that's how it's played. I've got other resources than you to find him, what I'm paying for is saved time."

"Well, okay, but you promise . . ."

"Yes. We'll meet at the CN Tower, that should be public enough."

"Can't, I'm not in town. I got a trip lined already. You come to me."

"Where?"

"Can you get to Niagara by six? With the cash?"

Richard checked a clock. "Barely. Between the bank and the evening rush hour—"

"If you leave now you got lots of time. You get on the Rainbow Bridge, you know where that is?"

"Of course I do."

"Great. I'll meet you there, halfway across on that sidewalk they got on the south side. You bring the money and your phone, and I tell you what you need. Don't be late cause I hate the cold. Brass monkeys gonna be dropping their balls right, left, 'n' center out there."

"Why not pick a warmer place?"

" 'Cause on a bridge you can see who's coming at you, especially that one. Halfway across is too long a shot for a sniper."

Not a sniper like Charon, Richard thought, but agreed. This is Charon's way of arranging things so I'll feel safe. Bollocks. 

"You get your info, and we don't see each other again, okay? Okay?"

"Very well. At six tonight." He rang off and looked at Bourland, his eyes blazing. The hunt was up.

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Ten

Toronto, the Present

"What do you mean?" Richard demanded. Time was short; the delay angered him. "What other road is there?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't know, but this is to protect her."

He remembered the cryptic words on the computer screen. "How will her dying protect her? There's no sense to it."

"It just will, that's all I know."

"I won't let her go like this. Not when I can—"

"But it's only a change. She told me I've been through it hundreds of times. It can't be so bad."

Richard gaped at him, mouth dry, mind reeling. Surely not. The Goddess would do something, make things different, and save her. She wouldn't do this to Sabra, not to her. If she did . . . no. No matter what, he wouldn't let that happen. He'd do whatever was necessary to keep her alive.

But he'd defied the Goddess once before. Or tried to.

He looked at Michael, a young boy who understood too much. "I won't let her die."

It's not your choice.  

He shivered as an instantly familiar voice whispered in his mind. "Sabra?" He stared around, knowing it was futile.

All will be well. Bear this, my love. You have strength to . . .  

"I will not bear this!"

You will! For Michael! You WILL! And then the precious voice ceased. He waited, holding his breath for another word until his chest ached.

"Sabra . . . ?"

No reply.

It was the worst, most absolute silence Richard had ever known, as though he'd been struck deaf.

Michael let out a keening whimper and shuddered. Tears ran free down his face. Richard knew what happened and it hit like a sword thrust. He staggered; his insides felt ripped out, and he gave a soft cry, his soul's denial.

Bourland slowly pushed through the door. His face told all. He couldn't speak, only bow his head. He sat heavily on a waiting room chair. Michael went to him, hand on his shoulder. Without looking up, he wrapped his arms around the weeping boy and held him close.

Paralysis crept over Richard and took solid hold, trapping him in sheer, yawning emptiness. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. This was beyond endurance, beyond his strength; she was gone, yet he remained. That could not be. It was others whose lives came and went, flourished and faded, but they were always together. That never changed.

Alone.

Truly alone. Never to see her again. It was too much.

No, I cannot, will not go on . . .  

He stared down the long vanishing length of the hospital corridor. It stretched to infinity, full of harsh light, hard corners, and busy, unconcerned strangers.

"For all the good it will do, there's a full investigation on," Bourland tiredly said.

"All right," Richard acknowledged in a hollow voice so soft as to almost go unheard. He was yet in shock, he thought. He found himself reacting to things people said, but was strangely insulated from them. There was considerable sympathy floating about and some fear; quite a number of the staff had been very shaken by the incident in the ICU. Bourland's plans promised to shake things even more.

The police had come and gone, leaving behind patrolmen. Reassuring, but only to civilians. After that, some of the internal excitement diminished and routine reasserted itself to some extent. Of course, everyone knew something of what had happened, and they all knew Richard, Bourland, and Michael were closely involved. Professionalism prevented the hospital staff from asking direct questions, which was a blessing.

Midmorning had come and gone, but one could only tell by looking at a clock. They were still in a place where losing track of time was an ongoing hazard, and it was a very dark day outside.

Richard felt cold, unable to warm up at all, though there was plenty of heat in the room, and he kept his coat on. Bouts of shivering swept over him at unexpected times, and he desperately wanted to sleep, but couldn't seem to close his eyes. Whenever he did it was like turning up the volume on the ambient sounds of the place. Sitting made him restless, but he was too weary to pace. Once he left for the mens' room and for the first time in years doubled over as his belly tried to turn itself inside out. Nothing came forth, only retching misery, followed by icy sweats. He went through that drill for nearly an hour before the fit passed.

Exhausted, he crept back to be with Bourland and sat on the floor, his bowed spine pressed to a wall because he couldn't trust himself to not fall out of a chair. He turned away offers of help and suggestions to have a sedative.

Bourland understood and got people to leave him alone.

The worst, most damnable part of it was Richard could not weep.

For those raised under certain social rules, it wasn't the done thing for a man to cry, but even Bourland, grown up in that generation, had broken down for a time.

Richard tried. Nothing came forth. He rubbed his eyes to see if they were working and raised a sting of watering, but no tears.

Shock. That's all it is.  

When his gut settled and some strength returned, he crept into a chair by a small conference table and sat for a time, trying to notice other people besides himself. Bourland looked haggard, but functioning; Michael was off in a nearby hospital room, asleep, thankfully, after that first storm of reaction. A policeman stood outside, alert for one-eyed strangers.

Richard longed for the luxury of oblivion, but he would put it off; he would ignore the blackness. He had but one reason to keep moving: to find Sabra's killer . . . and deal with him.

Bourland channeled his own postponed grief in compulsive activity, doing what he did best, setting wheels in motion. He'd spoken to the top people of the hospital's administration, talked to their security, talked to the cops, talked to God knows who else, and managed to commandeer someone's office. He made a call to the special outfit that was so secret, bulled through to their director and damnation to their security protocols. He made demands and got someone to listen.

He filled Richard in. "Two of their best people are on the way to look after us, but their prime concern will be to bodyguard Michael; they're also bringing photos. They have shots of arrivals from the Yucatán. Too bad the hospital's surveillance tapes were buggered. There's some techs looking into the problem. The whole damned system . . ."

Richard nodded bleakly.

"Coffee? You look as though you could use some."

"No, thank you. I still feel woozy." Richard had no idea how coffee could possibly help.

"Richard?"

"Yes, what?" He jolted from wherever he'd gone, startled by what a wall clock told him. Apparently an hour had slipped by unnoticed while he stared into space. Focus. Wake the hell up and focus. He pulled himself together by remembering what it felt like to be that way. Fake it 'til you make it. 

"They're here."

Through the office window he observed a man and woman approaching, each in black leather coats, wearing designer sunglasses on a sunless day. They were of a kind, and Richard recognized the genus.

"What lovely people you know," he murmured to Bourland.

"Hm?"

"Those two killers." He saw that much in their body language, the way they held their heads. The man in particular, moving like a panther. The woman was better at blending, her walk influenced by her heeled boots, but still unmistakable to anyone who knew the signals. Or lack thereof.

"It's a nasty world, isn't it? But they're on our side for the time being."

Richard noted the qualifier. "Are they from . . . ?"

"Yes. For your own well-being pretend you don't know that particular department exists. They're rather appalling about keeping their security intact."

Bourland had called in serious firepower. This was a few steps beyond the guards ordered up to keep watch.

The couple simply came in; neither identified themselves. The man was lean and dark, in need of a shave and haircut. He handed over a flat, padded envelope without preamble. He didn't remove his sunglasses, but Richard knew he was being closely examined and memorized, the information to be added to whatever dossier they kept on him. He didn't give a damn.

The woman was more accessible, pushing her shades up on her forehead to hold back her straight blond bangs. She gave Richard a small, neutral smile. A lithe and lovely blue-eyed charmer, evidently trained in seduction, keeping it dampened down until needed. That was likely one of their ploys when working. One for distraction, the other for destruction, switching roles as needed for any given situation. Richard nodded once at her, to be polite, then shifted his attention to Bourland's envelope.

The man said, "Your target has been narrowed to twenty possibles." His voice was low; he barely moved his lips. Slight French accent. "They've been initially cleared by background checks, but each fitted the profile you supplied. A single man, traveling alone, possibly on a British or American passport, but we checked many others. At this point all of those who traveled to this city from the Yucatán or the rest of Mexico are accounted for and were elsewhere when the attack here was made."

Richard looked at various still shots taken from an airport security camera, obviously set up at customs. None of the men or the names on the pages attached to the photos meant anything to him. The thumbnails of each of their lives tripped no alarms.

Bourland didn't recognize any of them either, but admitted he'd never gotten a look at the invader. "Did you show these to the other witnesses yet?"

"Yes. They were unable to identify their attacker. Most remembered a beard and an eye patch. Recollections of height and weight differ among them. Such variations are to be expected from witnesses under extreme stress. One of them said there was no beard at all. Our best description came from the one we sent over as guard."

"Yet he could not pick anybody from your collection."

"No."

"Only twenty?" asked Richard.

"Yes."

"Unacceptable. We'll have to widen the profi . . . wait. What about this?" Richard pointed to the upper corner of one shot that showed part of a convex mirror. There was a blurred male form in it, the curved reflection misshapen, but there was enough to show he just might have a beard and eye patch. "Who's he?"

"We can find out." The man gave nothing away, though he should have been chagrinned that something as obvious as that had been overlooked by his people.

"Do so. Did you bring a copy of the videos made?"

"Of course."

The girl pulled an unlabeled CD case and a notebook computer from her shoulder bag. "When we digitized the recordings, we cleaned the images up. All the other passengers cleared our check, though." She had a pleasant, husky voice.

She put the disk in the computer's DVD player and activated it, speeding through the shifting images until Richard told her to stop. The scene matched the one in the top photo, but as it played out, the picture suddenly deteriorated and ceased. The recording kicked in again, but by then the suspect was gone. Whoever was reflected in the mirror got through without leaving a clearer shot of himself behind.

There's no such thing as coincidence.  

"Does this machine have a screen-capture program?" he asked her.

"Yes, along with photography software."

"Good. Freeze on that image in the mirror, copy it to the program and let's see what it looks like."

She seemed to understand exactly what was wanted and manipulated the process with a swift, deft touch. A few minutes' work and the screen had a larger version of the mirror on it, the pixels just starting to show. She refined, sharpened, drew out more information, then removed the distortion caused by the curvature. Even her aloof partner with the pale, narrow face came around to look over her shoulder as she progressed from one improvement to the next.

Richard snorted at the final result. If this outfit was so deadly efficient, they should have spotted him. "You'll need to upgrade for your background check procedures, I think," he said. He glared at the freeze-framed stocky man, his skin reddened by the tropical sun, his face partly obscured by an eye patch.

"Who is he, Richard?" Bourland asked, leaning in.

"It's Charon."

Bourland was silent a moment. Staring. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Who's Charon?" the woman wanted to know.

"A legend," replied her partner. "Professional assassin. A very good one."

Richard glanced at them. "And quite out of your league. I'll take it from here."

The man went still, his version of saying "oh, really?" and the woman lifted her chin seeming ready to argue, but didn't. They were probably too used to being at the top of the food chain and not pleased at the reminder that even nastier predators existed.

The man looked at Bourland. "We can locate and remove the target, if that is what you require."

"What I require is a bodyguard for my son until Mr. Dun gives the all-clear. He will deal with Charon."

"We are aware of Mr. Dun's credentials and mean no disrespect to his abilities, but our resources are considerably greater than his. We are better prepared to deal with this level of threat."

"You have no idea what the true level is." Richard was in no mood to engage in a pissing contest.

Bourland didn't hide his flare of anger, though. "Obviously not, since you let Charon breeze past your security check. That bastard could be anywhere by now."

"He'll still be in Toronto, Philip," said Richard. "He has one more target to take out. Me."

"You're not going underground to avoid him, are you?"

"No. Quite the opposite."

"That would be ill advised," said the man.

"It's the only way to find him."

"You'll want an invisible perimeter around you. We can arrange—"

"No, I won't, and you won't. Your lot is to watch the Bourlands. Don't argue, Philip. If he figures out your connection to me you'll be in the line of fire, too. I have to be Charon's only focus. If he succeeds, you should be safe enough, though I wouldn't trust that. But it's a moot point. I'll see to it he fails."

"How?"

"He won't expect me to be functioning after what's happened here. He is presently unaware we know about him. I'll use that. The tricky bit will be making sure no one else gets hurt."

"Again, how?"

"I'm working on it. In the meantime, we behave as close to normal as possible, given the circumstances. Go through the expected motions."

Bourland shook his head. "I'd rather not."

"I know, but assume we're being watched."

Richard looked at the couple. "Mr. Bourland will show you where his son is; make sure the policeman on duty there sees the right credentials from you."

"We have them," the woman assured, showing him a plastic card with her picture on it. It was an excellent forgery, proclaiming her to be an employee of his own security firm. Though one division of it dealt with the hire and employment of guards, they were of the more ordinary unarmed variety. It nettled him that such things could be so perfectly duplicated so quickly, but their organization had a reputation for frightening efficiency.

"You're the only two on this, anyone else turning up you will consider suspicious. Should that happen, use your best judgment on how to neutralize them, but keep it discreet."

"None of that collateral damage idiocy," Bourland put in. "Paul may not mind, but I do."

The girl's eyes flickered. She liked him.

Richard added, "And lose those damned sunglasses. You two look like Boris and Natasha on a bad day."

She suppressed a twitch of her pink lips and started for the door, pausing for her partner. He stared down at Richard, who was not the least bit interested in the young man's issues. The man removed his sunglasses, revealing the soulless, dead eyes of a killer. No surprises there. Richard stared right back, unimpressed.

"Hey," said the woman, breaking their lock. Evidently she was the balancing factor for the duo, keeping the guy in line when needed.

He finally followed her out the door, putting his shades back on.

"There's a bomb waiting to go off," Bourland muttered.

"And you want them around Michael?"

"No, but they're the best. They don't have to be likeable so long as they do the job, which they will do or die trying. But if Charon's the one behind this . . ."

"Then you're damned lucky you're still alive."

"And you. If I hadn't taken the night shift—"

"This place would be full of bodies. Had I been there Charon would have tried to kill me, then God knows what would have happened." Sabra might still be alive. "You know, you've not mentioned bringing the regular law into this, Philip. That's unusual for you."

"The police are out of their depth with someone like Charon."

"It's more than that."

"I know how these games are played; we're on a different kind of field with him."

"This was before we knew he was involved. You've played it close with them."

Bourland rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, but it's all very simple. You kill Charon—or whoever—and I bury him, with no one the wiser. If you want to go vigilante, it will be with my full backing, cooperation, and a quiet cleanup to follow. A coverup if necessary. Just don't ask for anything in writing."

Richard managed a wan smile. "Your word's always been good enough for me."

"What now?"

Richard blanked for a second, then the ugliness of mundane practicality kicked in. "When the coroner is finished with his postmortem, we should . . . make arrangements."

Bourland's face clouded. He turned away, hand over his eyes.

Charon's murderous foray in the hospital took less than fifteen minutes; that was how much time was missing from the hospital videotapes. The police did not know how he'd been able to sabotage all the cameras and tapes at once. Richard had an idea, but knew better than to share it with them.

Human or not, Charon was far too dangerous for ordinary law enforcement or even the extraordinary as represented by that couple. They were trained in every kind of conventional weapon and combat, but utterly unprepared for supernatural confrontations.

After Sabra drank from the Grail her healing changed her, turned her human again, but she still retained her Gifts. If anything she was stronger than ever before in them. Had the same happened to Charon? Did he even possess Gifts? Assume so. If not back then, then without doubt now.

He'd caused the Otherside disruption in Stonehenge, Chichén Itzá, and certainly must have conjured that freak wind on the highway. The alternative, that the Goddess had to do with it—had done it on purpose—Richard refused to consider. Her part in it could only have been damage control afterward.

Charon's motive was elusive, though. He had thoroughly dropped himself from sight for the last few years. Richard had patiently hunted for him, not liking to leave a job unfinished, but discovered no sign of him until now. Why had he so suddenly surfaced, and what the devil was he up to?

Sabra would have been able to figure it out.

He fought off a wave of darkness, of overwhelming grief. No tears, though, only a terrible sickness of heart.

No. I will not give in to you just yet. When it's done and that animal is dead, I will mourn.  

Then he thought of the Grail again and went cold.

Sharon Geary stirred from her nap, feeling sluggish not from her unplanned slumber, but from lack of fresh air. She'd gotten—mostly—used to the strong smell of snake, but every few hours had to let her companion know when she needed a breather. Literally. He had her sealed in tight, which was both a good and bad thing.

She'd forced herself to deal with floating in the pitch blackness, wanting to conserve her torch batteries. Stretching out, she touched nothing with hands or feet, meaning she could be an inch away from any given side, or smack in the middle of the scale-lined sphere the serpent had made from his knotted body. He really had been very decent to her, but needed reminding about certain basics. So far, he didn't seem to object.

Swimming motions didn't cut it, but she had some success getting herself moving by blowing a stream of air as though trying to inflate a really large balloon. Though most of Newtonian physics must have been tossed from this corner of the universe, the action-reaction thing still worked, more or less, in here.

A few moments of huffing and puffing and she was able to reach a curved wall and touch it, hanging on precariously by means of the roughness of the scales. To protect her palms she'd put on some fingerless gloves stowed in one of her cargo pockets, the material acting like the soft side of fabric fastening tape.

One hand in place, she banged on the living wall with the other. "Hallo! Need some air in here again!"

She'd gotten used to dealing with the god in a very short time. Must have been from being Irish.

Kukulcan was evidently awake and still obliging. A vast shift took place as on the other times before, and a long opening appeared in the darkness. It was dark outside as well, but still lighter than her little sanctuary.

Fresh air blew in, cleaning out the stale. Must have been quite a wind out there. Cold, too. Until now she'd not noticed warmth or chill.

She ventured to take a peek, trusting her large friend would eat anything nasty before it ate her. And there he was, almost within touch, one of his great eyes looking at her.

"How's it goin' ?" she asked. "Any luck gettin' us back where I belong?"

Apparently not.

She got the impression that they were moving, though. Except for the influx of wind, no hint of it transferred to her in her shelter, but the feeling was there all the same.

She decided to try her Sight. At first she'd been too preoccupied, but now that she'd become more or less used to the situation it occurred to her she should explore other venues that might lead to an escape. Not that the company wasn't good, but in much of the mythology she'd read mortals who hung around with gods often came to a bad end, and she'd rather skip the honor, thank you very much.

Sharon wriggled partway out and focused quick, not knowing how long she might have.

Wow. A rainbow lightning storm. How about that?

The colors were considerably more intense than anything she'd seen on her side of Reality. Fireworks came the closest, but they were less bright and didn't last as long. The bolts of energy shooting around here went from one side of her wide view to another, slower than what was normal to her, lightning taking its own dear time. She was able to pick out every tiny little branch and fork. Now that was just amazing.

Silent, too. The place should have been roaring and booming like a battlefield. Very strange, but fortunate for her, considering how much noise might otherwise be slamming about. Wouldn't want to blow out her eardrums.

Kukulcan might be feeling it, though. Ordinary snakes were sensitive to heat and vibration. She noticed neither; in fact, the air was getting colder by the minute, if still fresh. Must be a ton of Otherside ozone about, but she hoped the chill wouldn't slow him down. Maybe that white blood of his kept him going.

"Where you takin' us, if you don't mind my askin'?"

No verbal reply came; she didn't expect one. However, she could see some kind of disturbance far, far ahead—or what would be ahead if that's where they were heading. She couldn't tell, distance was impossible to reckon, and as for time . . . well, she knew she'd been here for hours on end, more than a day at least if she could trust her watch, yet she felt no hunger or thirst. Or other bodily needs for that matter. Either the god or this place had something to do with it, which was very fortunate.

"Thanks for the peek. I'll let you get on with things."

She pushed back in, and the crack closed, but not completely. He'd left an inch-size opening, and she didn't think it was an oversight on his part. It gave her a constant supply of fresh air to breathe, and a narrow view of things, even a bit of light. She could deal with the darkness, but would rather not have to; perhaps they were clear of the area where the giant Sharon-eating bugs swarmed.

She found a way to hold on with her palms flat on the scales, resting her chin on the back of her hand, with her weightless body bobbing gently clear so she could watch the light show. It passed the time, however time was passed here.

The disturbance seemed very small, but then the noonday sun looked small given the gap between itself and the earth. It seemed just as intense, though moving, a tiny, twisting spiral with a brightness in the center. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.

Hopefully, Kukulcan knew what he was about. In a place like this one needed friends.

Toronto, the Present

"Daniel Dean?" said Richard, looking at a fax of an American passport that had just come into the commandeered hospital office. The name and address were unknown to him, but the cheerful, beaming face—what was left of it with the scars under the patch on the right side—was Charon's.

Bourland grunted an affirmative. "His name when he landed at Pearson. He seems to have shed it the moment he left. There's an ongoing search of hotels in the area for one-eyed guests, but no luck so far. He could have shed the eye patch, too."

"In which case we are still looking for a one-eyed man, albeit with considerable facial scarring."

"Cosmetic restoration surgery? A glass eye?"

Richard remembered the damage Charon had taken that day when they'd fought over the Grail. "He could be in sunglasses, so I wouldn't put too much attention on that one feature."

"Then we'll only find him by luck or the next time he purposely shows himself."

"Or by taking note of oddities. Any more on that cab driver?"

Earlier in the morning a man had been found slumped behind the wheel of his cab, the motor still roughly chugging away, less than a block from St. Michael's. His fare records were gone, though his dispatcher had his call-in just minutes after Charon left the hospital. The destination address was the road where Sabra's cottage stood. The dead driver had bled heavily from his nose, ears, and eyes.

"The prelim postmortem indicates some kind of internal hemorrhage." Bourland slid a copy of a handwritten form across the conference table.

"Just like Sabra."

"They think he may have felt something was wrong and tried to drive himself in for help, but the violence of the bleeding . . ."

"He was murdered."

"I'd like to know how."

"No, you don't."

Bourland made no argument against that. "What about the break-in at her place?"

Richard had been on the phone with the police, having called in a possible burglary to them. Because of the special circumstances and Bourland's influence, he'd been able to listen in as two officers walked through her home, describing their progress into their radios. Richard might have gone up himself, but knew it was too soon. To see her things scattered just as she'd left them . . . no, better to have someone else do that for him.

They reported the front door being open and the security alarms shut down. Nothing taken, apparently. He relayed instructions for them to check one of the back bedrooms. They found a mess, some overturned furniture, a table fountain upset and broken. A brass bowl some six inches across? No, nothing like that here. Why?

"They're looking for fingerprints," he said to Bourland. "Doubt if they'll find any."

"But why did he go there afterwards? What did he want?"

Richard shrugged.

"You know. What is it?"

"He was after a memento of hers." Richard gave a lean description of the Grail.

"All that for a brass bowl?"

"It's an antique. Very old. Priceless in some circles. His way of rubbing my nose in it."

"Has it worked?"

"No. I'll get it back for her."

Mortality sucked. That's it, that's all there was to it. It purely, grade-A homogenized, top to bottom, in your ear, out your ass sucked.

Charon felt the gradual loss of strength creeping over him already. Damn, you'd think the drain hole would be plugged up by now with all the juice he was pouring in. He didn't believe in things like Fate and that he was destined to die from the cancer and that would explain why it was using so much freaking effort to fight it and keep going.

The power he'd taken from the cab driver was slowly failing against the stuff eating him up from the inside. His sweet little brass prize was handy at translating other energies for his needs and could indefinitely sustain him, but it was like grease through a goose. He'd have to keep the feeding tap in the on position just to maintain himself. Not a problem if he had to, but the opposition was bound to notice a thing like that and come after him.

Just because he'd taken out one of them while she was flat on her assets didn't mean there weren't others around to fill her hobnailed boots. And chances were they'd be able to walk all over him once they figured out what was going down. Didn't she have eight sisters wandering around out there doing their Earth Mother scene and saving the rain forests and other crap? Whether they were on this Side or not, they would close in on him.

Then there was the other thing: there was no substitute for the rush that people-energy gave him. However, he'd have to go easy snacking on human targets. Fang-boy and his friends would just love following a trail of bodies to the Cambridge's penthouse suite. They were cruisin' to give a bruisin'.

Frying witchy-girl had made one hell of a royal stinkola, much more than Charon had reckoned on. His police-band radio sputtered all night and all day with reports and traffic on this and that. He'd been in the lobby when a couple of guys in plainclothes came in flashing their badges all over the place and waving a composite picture of himself.

Oh, yeah, keeping the eye patch on for his venture had been a very good ploy. They thought they'd gotten around it by having a second photo done without it. Part of his face in that one was puckered with lines of scar tissue, but still no good to them. Mr. Snaky's oh-so-sweet blood had fixed that. He should open himself a franchise offering face-lifts to aging actresses.

But the bottom line was this city was sealed up. Lance had some heavy guns on his side for some reason. He must have increased his level of influence over the local politicos in the last few years. That meant there'd be more cops at the airports, train, and bus stations than passengers, and not all could be counted on to screw up and miss a beauty like Charon. All they had to do was correctly identify the left side of his face, then the moose shit would hit the fan. Yes, he could probably drain a few dry, but he'd still be stuck here. They'd take away his toy, lob him in jail, and then the dickster knight would come in all full of righteous vengeance . . .

Nope-nope and nada. Had to take him out and get across the border, or the other way around. Whatever. Dickie's death would keep the hounds distracted, chasing their tails, especially if they had lots of false trails to play on. Those were easy enough to arrange. How the cops loved to backtrack the forensic evidence stuff, could keep 'em busy for months.

Dun was a tough bastard, though. Have to make sure he was gone, gone, gone and bye-bye three times over. Shouldn't be too hard. Charon had had a lot of time in the last few years to work up several scenarios. Pick one.

Not standing up to his ass in snow-covered bushes, though. Charon scowled. What had he been thinking? Make that taking. Damn pills . . .

So . . . what was a good Plan B?

With the pain dulled down and some of the drugs out of his system he was able to think better. He still had hours to go yet before he'd need another refreshing hit, better make the most of them.

All Dun wanted was a push in the right direction, and he'd trip on his own feet running to his death. Push. Pushing was good. Yeah, that was a good one. Big distraction, too.

Charon worked out his deadline, measuring it against his declining strength and the tools he had at hand, deciding what he could set up the fastest with the least effort. A side trip to a special storage garage where he'd hidden some valuable professional toys a few years back was needed, but he could get the rest at Eaton Centre. Man, they had everything.

Wasn't modern living great?

In the late afternoon Richard's cell phone trilled. His caller ID display blinked 'unknown'. Useless things. Maybe it was from that young woman in the Yucatán.

"Hallo?"

"Hey, this Richard Dun?"

He shot upright as though touched by a hot wire. The voice was electronically disguised, but there was only one man who would bother with such games. But why a direct call? The smart thing would be to lie in wait and pick him off with a long rifle, then move in and finish the job. Play it carefully, old lad. Pretend you haven't a clue. "Who is this?" He hit a button on some highly specialized hardware linked to all the phones in the room, including his own. It would both record and trace the call. The sudden motion attracted Bourland's notice; he came across to listen in.

"Never mind that," said the voice. "You wanna chance to get the guy who snuffed your girlfriend?"

"Who are you?" He raised his tone, injecting the right amount of rage and rising frustration, an edgy man barely in control. "What do you know about it? How in hell did you get this number?"

"Not gonna get that info, bud. Deal with me like this or don't deal at all, but I can give you the bad guy for some cash. You want him or not?"

"Of course I do."

The harsh, robotic voice buzzed on. "Then you know how these things run. This ain't amateur night, I'm a player and wanna keep my ass right where it is and not shot off or in jail."

"Keep talking."

"I want half a million in U.S. dollars. That's the bounty. Nonnegotiable, cheap at the price."

It was nicely calculated. Enough to be worth someone's while, but not too much for a wealthy payer to lay out. "In cash?"

"Better believe it."

"Not until I have proof."

"The guy you want wears an eye patch."

"You've seen the police showing the photos around. You're just using the situation to cash in. No, thank you."

"Yo! Dun! Heads up or you'll lose your window from being too smart."

"Give me more proof, then."

"Okay-okay! This dude's got an attitude, makes pit bulls roll over and piss themselves, y'know?"

"Sorry, not enough."

"Okay-okay, the dude is called 'Charon.' Ring a bell?"

Richard held silent, as though stunned. "Are you certain?" he whispered.

"Yeah, I'm certain. Look, I'm the guy he came to to work up a new alias. I've worked for him before and got him set again, but he welshed. The thing is, he did it from a distance. He thinks he's killed me, but he shot another guy instead. A friend of mine. You pay, I tell you where Charon is, you do what you like to him, and we never see each other again. That's the best deal you're gonna get, so what d'ya say?"

"How do you even know about me?"

"Well, this was the weird part: he was talking to himself and your name came up. He seemed into nailing you flat. I've heard of you from my side of the street and knew who to call when the smoke cleared."

Richard snorted. "Oh, I'm sure."

"I mean it. The guy's gone loony. He always used to be edgy, but he's gone right over into the rapids. Creeped me out the way he was pacing around and arguing with himself. I figure that's why he wanted me offed, he knew I'd heard too much. He was like Hannibal Lector on crank, y'know? Hyper as hell and nuts. I figure he's into drugs, but his money was clean and then he dusted my pal and . . ."

"Right, and you want some pay out as well as payback."

"Hey—my life's on the line the first hint he gets that he missed me. I need money to scram myself off the map—in case you don't get him. No offence! I heard you were good, but this is Charon we're talking about."

"What's his new name and where is he?"

"You get his name and destination when I get my money. I'm square on that. I don't need the both of you chasing me. When it comes down to it I want you to win, 'cause I know you'll be square as well and let me go, y'know? If you don't like what I have to say, then you don't have to pay, y'know?"

"I know."

"We gotta deal, then?"

"Only if I like the information. I can confirm it within a few minutes of receipt, so you'll stick around that long."

"Nuh-uh, no way. I'm in, I'm out. Faster the better."

"You want your money?"

"Freakin' hell, yes, but—"

"Then that's how it's played. I've got other resources than you to find him, what I'm paying for is saved time."

"Well, okay, but you promise . . ."

"Yes. We'll meet at the CN Tower, that should be public enough."

"Can't, I'm not in town. I got a trip lined already. You come to me."

"Where?"

"Can you get to Niagara by six? With the cash?"

Richard checked a clock. "Barely. Between the bank and the evening rush hour—"

"If you leave now you got lots of time. You get on the Rainbow Bridge, you know where that is?"

"Of course I do."

"Great. I'll meet you there, halfway across on that sidewalk they got on the south side. You bring the money and your phone, and I tell you what you need. Don't be late cause I hate the cold. Brass monkeys gonna be dropping their balls right, left, 'n' center out there."

"Why not pick a warmer place?"

" 'Cause on a bridge you can see who's coming at you, especially that one. Halfway across is too long a shot for a sniper."

Not a sniper like Charon, Richard thought, but agreed. This is Charon's way of arranging things so I'll feel safe. Bollocks. 

"You get your info, and we don't see each other again, okay? Okay?"

"Very well. At six tonight." He rang off and looked at Bourland, his eyes blazing. The hunt was up.

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