The Nicholas Linnear Novels (31 page)

By one-thirty he was finished and, still under the jaundiced eye of Frank, he went out with the rest of the swing crew. Out the metal doors, they turned to their right, heading toward the outside cage elevator one floor below. As he was turning the corner, the elevator at the end of the hallway sighed open and Tomkin, accompanied by Whistle, appeared.

The man paused for a moment, his dead eyes glittery. How easy it would be, he thought languidly, to take him out now. Whistle dead on his knees and the big man tumbling through the hot air to the unfinished pavement below. He liked it; it had a certain irony to it. But he did not admire it and that made all the difference in the world. It was not elegant, for one thing, and, for another, there would be little terror in it for Tomkin: just the brief moments he would be airborne, the hot wind in his face while the rubble of the sidewalk reached up for him. What would Tomkin think of in those instants, the man wondered. God? Oblivion? Hell? The man shrugged inwardly. It made little difference. He could understand none of these Western concepts. There was only karma for him. Karma and the
kami
he would inhabit when he died, waiting the prescribed time until he returned in another body, in another life, carrying his karma with him.

This concept of life that was so basic, so fundamental, was, he knew, beyond the conception of men like Tomkin. This did not make him any easier to kill; the doing was just that much less absorbing. It was the mechanics of the penetration, the sowing of the terror which occupied part of his mind; the act of killing itself would mean as much to him as stepping on a cockroach. After all, that was what Tomkin was. He could never be called a civilized man.

As to the eventual escape, the man knew that on this assignment there was a possibility that it would not happen. It did not faze him in the least, for it was something toward which he had prepared all of his life. To die as a warrior was life’s highest aspiration, after all, for history recorded the manner of one’s death and it was in this that one was remembered forever, not how one lived one’s life.

Not that he might ever be caught eliminating Tomkin. It was the other half of his plan: the part that made it all worthwhile. He was being paid a small fortune to take out Tomkin, but money meant very little to him. In fact, when he had arrived to take a look around—as he had put it to his then potential employers—he had not been certain he would take the assignment. But he had come upon something so startling, so irresistible that he could not refuse. He had learned early to take what life gave. He was being given something now that was so fantastic that he found himself salivating at the prospect. To turn away from such an opportunity would be a crime. The chance would never come again. The setup would never be so sweet.

And this had been the second reason for not taking Tomkin out at this moment. Besides, it would, by necessity, have to be sloppy; this kind of total improvisation went against his grain. He could do it and do it well but he resisted it. He hated to mop up all the loose ends after the fact. He liked things clean and neat; in another life he might have made a superb diamond cutter.

So it was that he just took a long hard look at Tomkin as he strode down the hallway unaware that death was at his left hand.

Then the man had moved on, down the unfinished corridor, ducking a loose loop of wire flex hanging from an open panel in the ceiling. In a moment he was through the door to the fire stairs, off the floor.

Once down in the atrium lobby, half in shadows, he poked a finger in his ear as if scratching an itch. In the canal was now placed a flesh-colored plastic sphere, flattened on the outside. It was totally undetectable. He touched the top of it with the tip of his index finger and began to listen.

Nicholas felt it as he turned away from the line of shining chromium phones along one wall of the station: that premonitory tickle at the base of his neck. He began to walk calmly toward a bookstore though he had had no intention of going in there. It was merely the way he was headed and he did not want to make any sudden alterations in his movements. He stood by the window, however, instead of going into the open door. People passed him going in and out. There was a short line at the cash register; there was a sale on, 20 percent off the top ten paperback best sellers.

He stood at a slight angle, not looking inside but using the plate glass as one would a mirror. He watched covertly a good section of the station behind him. Observation was made difficult by the poor refraction, the glare of the lights, the distortion of image caused by the glass itself. He accepted all of these and made allowances.

It was not good to stay here too long. He glanced at his watch. He still had fifteen minutes and he had no reason to sit for that time on the waiting train. Especially not now.

He walked away from the bookstore window, moving diagonally across the station. An old woman, her suitcase on wheels, crossed his path and two sailors in crisp whites passed him, one spinning the tail end of a lewd joke to the other. The young woman at the pillar was no longer there; either she had met her date or had given it up; three dark-haired children squired by a dour-looking woman scampered along, laughing and teasing each other. A man in a dark windbreaker stood by the bank of lockers, a lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. Opposite, a man in a camel-colored suit flipped through the pages of the current
Hustler
, putting it down as a man with a tan briefcase came up to him. They shook hands and walked off.

Nicholas entered a Nedick’s, wedged himself in next to a fat man devouring a slice of coconut cream pie. A dollar bill and some change were on the counter before him; his lips were dotted with pie crust and flecks of ersatz cream. The man ignored Nicholas as he sat down on the stool. He ordered a frank and an orange drink. The columns of the place were mirrored and Nicholas used these to continue his covert surveillance while he ate. He got his food, paid for it.

The feeling was still there, unmistakable. There was only one explanation. He was being observed by a
haragei
adept. The receiver was also a transmitter; there was no way to damp the two-way effect. This one had just come too close, that was all. Careless. And foolish.

Nicholas wiped his lips with the stiff napkin, took one last look in the mirror and went out. He had just over five minutes before the train left and in that time he would have to flush the adept. He had no thoughts now about missing the train; his overriding concern was for Justine. She was most assuredly in danger and he felt totally impotent being so far from her. It was one thing asking Doc Deerforth to look in on her once a day, quite another for him to be there when an emergency arose. Nicholas, rightfully, trusted no one but himself in such a situation.

He had one more thing to do. He went to the phones again, called Lieutenant Croaker.

“Yeah.” The voice was harsh and rushed.

“Nicholas Linnear, Lieutenant.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m on my way back out to the Island. Justine’s had some kind of accident.”

There was some silence. Nicholas was still checking the vicinity.

“Croaker, there’s someone following me.”

“Seeing shadows or just too much TV?”

“I haven’t seen anyone—yet.”

The singing along the line seemed like a live thing, the only thing to make a sound.

“How do you know there’s anyone there?” Croaker asked finally.

“You might not believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Its
haragei.
Bujutsu training. It’s a kind of ESP. A way of looking at the world, sensing things—you might even call it an enlarged sixth sense.”

Nicholas half expected a joke but none seemed forthcoming from the other end of the line.

“Who do you think it is?”

“The ninja.”

There was an indrawn breath. “Stay there, Linnear. I’ll be right over.”

“No good. He’d never stay put that long. Besides, he’d smell you a block away.”

“We can’t just sit tight.”

“Believe me, it’s the only way. Leave him to me.”

“To you? Where the hell do you come into it?”

“I think he’s after Tomkin; Justine, too. That’s why I’m going back out.”

“Since when did you get interested in Tomkin’s life?” The voice held a hard edge to it now.

“Since I’m working for him. Today.”

He heard the indrawn breath in his ear. “Shit! Listen, you mother-fucker—”

“No, you listen, Croaker. You have no idea of what you are up against. No idea at all. I tried to give you a taste of it today at the
dōjō
but I guess it’s true what they say about Westerners, they’re too thickheaded ever to be educated.”

He slammed the phone down and went to join the crowd moving down the stairs to Track 17. His scalp tingled all the while. Just as he left the lower level, he thought he caught a glimpse of a face. It was only a glimpse. A ghostly flash, the pale crescent of a face in semiprofile. Something about it stuck with him. He thought fleetingly of reversing his course but the crush of people was enormous.

Then he was on the train, at a window seat. The feeling was gone. Had it ever been there? He knew better than to ask that question of himself. But why would the ninja be following him? There had to be an answer but he was unable to come up with a satisfactory one. There was some jostling in the aisles as last-minute passengers squeezed on board. The air conditioning cut out for a moment and someone moaned. The lights blinked and then full power came on. Everything appeared as it should be.

The bell rang and the doors slid shut with a sigh, sealing them in. A moment later, the train had started up and the platform began to slide away. He looked out the window. A black man was sweeping up at the end of the platform. Nothing but patterns of light and shadow dictated by the controlled speed of the train.

Then the city was behind him and he was thinking about Justine. He began to doze, his head against the windowpane.

“Tickets, please.”

He started awake, his mind filled with that pale crescent of face, the features oddly indistinct as if he were staring up at the moon through a summer night’s mist.

Gelda was laughing. When she laughed her breasts shook, and when her breasts shook, Dare said, she was at her most sensual.

Dare could always make Gelda laugh, which was one of the reasons Gelda enjoyed her. Her body was the other reason.

Dare’s skin was a golden brown all over, deeply tanned with no bikini lines. Perhaps it was the natural color; Gelda never inquired. She was tall, taller at least than Gelda, who was not a small woman. She was long and lean without being thin or overly muscular. She had kinky blond hair which she wore long. It was quite natural.

Dare’s legs were even longer than Gelda’s. More slender, to be sure, but exquisite just the same. She had small, perfectly round breasts high on her chest, a narrow waist, slender hips. She was boyish and feminine at the same time; there was no touch of the bull in her or in how she dressed. She loved the Old West: the sun-browned masculinity, the fluid musculature of the galloping horse, but most of all she loved the lawlessness.

As Pear had said, this was more pleasure than business.

“I almost found one this time, G,” she was saying now. She lay back languidly in the tub; the strong scent of violets was in the air. Gelda knelt by the side of the tub, working the crystal faucets. Water crashed onto the white porcelain, between Dare’s spread legs, against the thick tangled bush of hair now darkened to the color of caramel by the moisture. Behind them, on the wall, the stained chaps hung like an effigy waiting for the fire to consume it.

“But, you know,” she continued, “even when it was about to happen, I didn’t really believe it.”

“What happened?” Gelda increased the hot water just a bit.

“What happened?” Dare wailed. “My wonderful Texan, my great Longhorn, my rider of the range turned out to be a fag.” She put her elbows outside of the tub, wiggled her ass against the water as it crept up her body. “He cried in bed with me; told me women intimidate him.” She put her head back, closed her eyes, luxuriating in the wet warmth. “Oh, I’ll never find one.” Her eyes flew open, as gray as Gelda’s were topaz. “But, you know something, I don’t think I care anymore.” Her voice had lowered to a husky whisper. “I’ve got you and there are things in this world that shouldn’t be any realer than that.” Her arms lifted and she held them out. “Come in here, darling. It’s cold outside.”

Gelda stood up, slipped off the peach satin robe which hung from her shoulders. It slid to the tile floor with a sensual whisper and Dare shuddered to see her thus naked before her.

Their hands touched as Gelda stepped into the steaming tub and Dare moved to accommodate her.

“There’s no one like you,” Dare whispered. “Not anywhere.” She stroked Gelda’s shoulder, the upper slope of her breast. “It wouldn’t make any difference how much you charged.”

Gelda’s fingers stroked the other’s thigh through the water, using just the tips of her long nails. “And what,” she said softly, “if I didn’t charge anything at all?”

Dare’s brow wrinkled in a frown and Gelda’s forefinger smoothed the skin. “Don’t do that,” she said.

“It might have mattered,” Dare said, “in the beginning. Now I don’t suppose it does.” She shrugged. “The studio gets the bill anyway but even if they didn’t…” Her wide lips curled up in a smile. “I come to see you, darling. It just happens that you cost money. Who cares? It comes in, it goes out. You’re better than a gram of coke or Russian sable by a long shot.”

Gelda smiled. “I suppose that’s a compliment.”

Dare laughed. “You know it is.” She looked around. “Where is it?”

Gelda’s fingers continued their stroking, softly but insistently. A muscle high up in Dare’s thigh jumped and she gasped. Gelda knew her pulse rate was rising. “There’s plenty of time, darling. Relax. It’s in a safe place.” Her fingers stroked the supple flesh. “It’ll come out when you’re ready.”

Dare’s head turned, her hands cupped Gelda’s bountiful breasts, her thumbs moving back and forth against the large nipples, feeling them erect. “Uhm,” she whispered. “That’s what I love about you: the duality. The fire and ice, the soft and the strong, the bitch and the little girl.”