Final Reckoning: The Fate of Bester (25 page)

Beneath that assault-really a broad scale isolation of neurons-he had slipped in a jolt to the motor nerves. Bester couldn’t see how effective it was, but he felt an uncontrolled trembling that he imagined was a point for his side. But he was still too weak, and the wasps were back, more of them than ever. Repetition was crude-in fact, all of the hunter’s attacks relied on sheer brute strength of mind. Unfortunately, it was a strength the fellow had, and which Bester, at the moment, lacked. Sure, in top form he could beat this kid hands down, but-he was losing. His responses were slow, and inadequate. He twisted the wasps inside out, but they exploded as they did so, turning his once again naked flesh into a sheath of agony. He gritted his teeth and swore, lashing back without finesse, and without much strength, either. Like a man in the last stages of being throttled, slapping weakly at his killer’s face. And then, weirdly, all of his opponent’s power went out of him, sucked down some drain Bester could not see.

When Bester sparked out his cortex, he was able to raise only the flimsiest of barriers. The man collapsed, spitting up blood. Bester reeled against that wall as reality snapped up around him again. He hit the man with the shock stick, just to make sure he stayed down. A nearly blinding light shone in his face, and for an instant he thought he was still in the mental combat zone, that this was all an elaborate ruse setting him up for the real, final blow. Then he understood. He was standing in the street, in the path of a car. A man stuck his head out of the car.

“Hey, old-timer. You okay?”

“They attacked me,” Bester groaned, indicating the bodies.

“They…”

He lifted the gun and pointed it between the man’s eyes.

“Do exactly what I say, and you will live.”

“Sacre merde! You are the fellow on the news.”

“So pleased you recognized me,” Bester said.

“Step around and open the passenger door. Around, not through the car.”

He sidled closer. The man was probably in his fifties, greying, with a long, solemn face.

“No problem,” he said.

“Just take it easy with the gun, yes?”

“Yes. As long as you follow my instructions.”

Obediently, the man went around and carefully keyed open the passenger door. Bester followed him.

“Now, slide through to your side and shut your door.”

The man did so, and seconds later they were both in the vehicle.

“Head north,” Bester grunted.

“Whatever you say.”

They traveled east for a block, then north. Bester clenched and unclenched his good hand. Where to go? There must be barricades everywhere. He glanced out the window, and with a dull shock realized that they were on the same street as Louise’s hotel. In fact, they were passing it. He threw his blocks up, built a nothingness around himself. The darkness should help protect him from a physical sighting. There was quite a crowd in front of the hotel, he noticed. Policemen, an ambulance-had he hurt Louise more than he thought? He might have. He might

“Keep driving,” he told the driver.

“Do nothing suspicious.”

“Stay calm,” the fellow said.

Bester saw a familiar face. Garibaldi. Of course. They cruised on past, unnoticed. Three blocks later, he began to breathe easier.

“Back north,” he directed.

“Try to get on the Rue de Flandre.”

“I passed a roadblock coming in here,” the man said.

“I’ll bet they have things blocked up north, too.”

“You’d better hope they don’t,” Bester told him.

But at least he had broken the trail-that was the important thing. Even if he had to get out of the car soon. And he knew, for the moment, where Garibaldi was, and more or less what he was up against. The Rue de Flandre was blocked off, and so were the next few streets. They weren’t substantial blocks-often just one man-but in his state, Bester knew he couldn’t risk it. But what did that leave him with?

“What’s your name?” Bester asked the driver.

“Paul… Paul Guillory.”

“Paul, you live around here, don’t you? Inside this perimeter they’ve set up?”

“No. I live across town.”

“Don’t lie to me. Why else would you come here?”

“I… okay, I’m sorry. Yes, I live just a few blocks away.”

“Do you have a wife? Kids? A girlfriend?”

“I have a wife and a little boy. Please don’t drag them into this.”

“Sorry, Paul, but I’m afraid I have to. Take me there.”

He prodded Paul with the gun.

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to be so formal, Paul. After all, I’m going to be a houseguest. Call me Al.”

Garibaldi noticed the funny look on Thompson’s face.

“What is it’?”

“Just felt somebody walking on my grave.”

“What?”

“Bester.”

He turned his head, slowly. His gaze settled briefly on the taillights of a passing ground-car.

“He’s in that car,” he whispered.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. You were right, about me being able to sense him. His tinkering with my brain left a kind of - wound. It just started hurting again. When I look at the car, it hurts even more.”

“That would be like Bester,” Garibaldi said.

“Driving by the scene of the crime, so he could watch us all shaking our heads in confusion. So he could gloat.”

“Shall we go after him?”

“On foot?” Girard spoke up.

“I can have a car here in a few moments.”

Garibaldi shook his head.

“No. No car chase. Look, we know where he is right now, and he thinks he’s pulled one over on us. This is the best break we’ve had.”

He looked sidewise at Thompson.

“You’re sure it isn’t some sort of decoy?”

“Sure as I can be.”

“Okay. Girard, can you have that car followed?”

Girard nodded briskly, pulled out his phone, and spat some French into it. Garibaldi recognized the make and model of the car, and the identification number.

“It ought to have a transponder,” he explained.

“Most people have them put in, in case of theft.”

He got some sort of answer a few moments later.

“Yes. They have a lock on its signal,” he said.

“Good.” Garibaldi rubbed his hands together.

“Now about that car you said you could get us…”

Chapter 12

“Nice place you have here, Paul. Good day, Ms. Guillory.”

Guillory’s wife was a stout, pleasant - looking woman with very dark hair and very pale skin. She nodded at Bester politely, though clearly she was puzzled.

“Paul should have told me he was bringing company. I just got off work, and picked up some dinner, but I’m afraid there isn’t very much. I hope you like Chinese food.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bester said.

“Papa!”

A boy, perhaps five years old, came scuttling out of an adjoining room and leapt into Paul’s arms. Bester strolled over and glanced in the boy’s room, as father and son hugged.

“Pierre, this is my friend Al. He’s going to be visiting with us tonight, and I want you to be good, yes?”

“Ha!” the mother said.

“He’s not only good, he’s excellent - at getting into trouble. Pierre, tell papa what happened in school today.”

“Oh, eh, well nothing really happened, Papa. Nothing, really.”

Bester stepped into the boy’s room. The floor was strewn with toys, books, coloring books, and random bits of paper. He found a single window, shuttered with Venetian blinds. He lifted the blind and peered out. The view was of the second floor of another, very similar apartment building across the street.

“Now, Pierre, either you tell him or I tell him-excuse me? Can I help you?”

The woman suddenly noticed what he was doing.

“Sorry,” Bester said.

“It’s just been so long since I’ve been in a child’s room, and I didn’t want to interrupt what you all were talking about.” He smiled.

“It sounded important.”

“Well, that’s okay, but I would have made Pierre straighten up if I knew you were coming.”

“So what did you do at school, Pierre?”

Bester asked, reentering the room and squatting next to the boy.

“I, eh, I put some glue in this girl’s hair. Jesse.”

“Oh, dear. Why did you do that?”

“Cause she’s dumb.”

He looked down at his feet.

“I dunno.”

Bester smiled and mussed Pierre’s hair.

“Kids,” he murmured.

He looked up at the mother.

“I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Marie,” she answered.

“And you were AI?”

“Yes. Marie, I think Paul has something to tell you. Pierre, why don’t you show me some of your toys while they talk?”

“Okay.”

“What?” Marie asked.

“Do as he says, dear,” Paul told her, his voice strained.

Bester followed the little boy back into his room as a hushed conversation followed in the kitchen.

“I think I’m in trouble,” the boy confided, shuffling through his things.

He extracted a toy Starfury from an agglutinated mass of clothes and crumpled paper.

“Here’s a toy.”

“Yes, it is,” Bester said.

“I used to fly one of those.”

“Nu-uhl”

“Yes, I did.”

“In the war?”

“Yes. In several wars, actually.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Sure I did,” Bester replied.

“I want to fly one day. Do you think I can?”

“Well,” Bester replied, “that depends upon your parents. And whether or not you stop putting glue in girls’ hair. They frown on that kind of thing in EarthForce.”

He noticed Paul and Marie were back in the living room.

“Oh, hello. Done talking?”

Marie’s face was paler even than when he had first seen it.

“Pierre…” she said, her voice rattling.

“Why don’t you get that Chinese food ready?”

Bester said, softly.

“I’ll be fine with Pierre. Which reminds me, Paul, didn’t you have some errands to run?”

“Oh, yes. I clean forgot. I’ll, ah, bring back some more food, too.”

“Why don’t I kick in for that?”

“No need. You’re our guest.”

“Well, thank you. I must say, you make me feel very welcome.”

After Paul left-his reluctance and worry were actually almost painful in Bester’s reviving senses - Bester turned back to the boy.

“Pierre, let me tell you about flying a Starfury, and you show me the rest of the house, okay?”

It was a small place. The master bedroom had a window with the same view as Pierre’s bedroom. The combined kitchen-dining room was decorated in a cheerful eclecticism, with a vase of tulips, a cheap imitation Aztec wall calendar, a bowl of papier-mache fruit, and a laughing Buddha carved from Martian hematite. Marie was forking kung-pao chicken and lo-mein from cardboard containers onto yellow ceramic plates. She glanced up at Bester, often.

“Go wash your hands, Pierre,” she said.

“Oh, yeah!” the boy responded, and ran off to do so.

Then he turned and bouncing on one foot, beckoned to Bester.

“I forgot to show you the best thing!” he said.

With a what-can-you-do? shrug to Marie, Bester followed Pierre into the cramped bathroom.

“See? See?”

What Bester saw at first was that the wallpaper had come off one of the walls and hadn’t been replaced. But the boy was gesturing at something more specifica sort of drawer set into the wall. He pulled it open, revealing a shaft that dropped straight down and then curved off after a few feet.

“What is it’?” Bester asked.

“Dad says these apartments are real old, and m the old days they used t’put their garbage down this. He said this must have been part of the kitchen before they made smaller rooms.”

“Huh…” Bester peered down the shaft.

“So that probably goes all the way to the basement somewhere.”

“Yeah. I wanted to slide down…”

“Supper!”

Marie called from the next room.

“Are your hands washed?”

“Better wash them,” Bester said.

“What about you?”

“I’m grown up. I don’t have to if I don’t want.”

He went back to the kitchen.

“What do you want with us?”

Marie whispered.

“I just need a place to rest for a little while,” he said.

“You’ll hardly notice I’m here.”

She started to say something, hesitated, started again.

“We aren’t political here,” she said.

“I mean, we don’t… “

“Don’t what? Vote? Why should I care about that?”

“All I mean is, I know they’re after you, but it’s something political, and we don’t care about that. Just don’t-don’t hurt my son.”

“Dear me. Why would I do a thing like that? And to someone showing me such hospitality?”

“I-guess you-wouldn’t?”

“Let’s say I’d rather not, and leave it at that, shall we?”

Bester replied.

“See? Clean!”

Pierre said, running back in from the bathroom.

“Well,” Marie said, composing herself.

“Let’s eat.” “There he is,” Garibaldi grunted.

“You guys cover me.”

He got out of the car and crossed the street to where another man was just leaving his car, the same tan Cortez sedan they had followed to these apartments, then back out to a grocery store and a train station, then back here.

“Hey, buddy. You speak English? Can you help me out with something?”

The fellow looked up warily.

“I’m in a hurry,” he said, shouldering a backpack.

“Sure, sure. I just need some directions.”

“Where are you trying to go?”

“To wherever you’ve got Alfred Bester stashed. Shhh”

He made sure the man-Paul Guillory, his registration called him - noticed the PPG. The man froze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s that war criminal they’re looking for, no?”

“He’s that war criminal we ‘re looking for, yes, and he’s up in your apartment.”

“No, I don’t think so. That’s silly.”

“Sorry, buddy.”

The man heaved a deep sigh, and to Garibaldi’s mortification, a tear slipped from one eye.

“Monsieur, he has my wife and my little boy up there. He has a gun. He will kill them if anything goes wrong, I am quite certain of it”