Hellraisers (31 page)

“I'm going to get a new contract,” she said, sighing. “Meet me in the bullpen. Don't be long.”

Then she was gone. Marlow held Charlie's hand for a moment more.

“Just hang in there, okay?” he whispered, stroking Charlie's hand with his thumb. “I can't do this without you, man. I can't do any of it.”

He stood, preparing to go, only to feel Charlie's fingers tighten around his own. The boy's eyes were open a crack. He licked his blistered lips, croaked out something that might have been a word or a breath.

“What is it, Charlie? You need water? Some morphine or something?”

Charlie slowly shook his head, licking his lips, swallowing noisily. He was obviously in a lot of pain, grimacing as he tried to shape the words.

“Careful … Marlow…” he said.

“What?” Marlow leaned in, so close he could feel the next words against his ear.

“Be careful…” Charlie said. His eyes had closed, the heart monitor thumping along at a faster rate.

“It'll be okay, man,” Marlow said, walking to the door. “I promise you, it will be okay. I'll get the doc.”

Charlie didn't open his eyes, but his whisper reached Marlow across the room.

“They're lying to you.”

 

PART III

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

 

HOMECOMING

Pan hated touching down in America. It was always too much like going back in time.

The plane's engines powered down and she popped the clasp on her belt, stretching like a cat. She'd slept for most of the journey—they all had—and despite the fact she'd been playing leapfrog with time zones for the last couple of days she felt relatively awake, just the familiar ebb and pull of the Engine making her ache. She flexed her fingers, careful not to think too hard about what she'd traded for this time. One sideways thought and she'd take out the plane and everyone inside it.

Not to mention a good chunk of the airport.

She peered out the window as the plane taxied toward the small tower. This was the point she always dreaded—the cop cars screaming around the corner, the chopper descending. She'd been a felon the first time she flew out of the airport, and Herc had turned her into a fugitive by busting her out of her cell. She was still wanted for her original crime and it wasn't like she'd been lying low since. She'd lost track of what she was guilty of now in the eyes of the law:
arson
, check;
theft
, check;
assault
, definitely;
GTA
, many, many times;
murder
 …

That was one she hadn't lost count of. She knew exactly how many lives she'd taken and each one burned a hole in her dreams every night.

All in the name of duty though,
right
? At least that's what she told herself when they came calling, the dead faces of those she'd shot, stabbed, run over, and those who had been ravaged by demons because she'd been too slow to save them. It's what she told herself when the guilt made her want to scream herself to death. If she didn't do what she did, then the world would fall. Each of those deaths held the gates of hell closed. That knowledge was the only thing that kept her sane.

They jolted to a stop and Pan walked to the door, wrestling with the lever until it popped open. The stairs descended automatically and she hopped down them into the heat and smog and noise of a sweaty Jersey afternoon. Ostheim would have already put the word in, greased the palms of the airport officials. It was pretty hard to get into the U.S. undetected, but it wasn't like the Hellraisers were short of money—turned out that trading the Engine for a small fortune was one of the easiest contracts to break. And even the most anally retentive official was willing to turn a blind eye if you stuffed enough cash in his pocket. No, their route out of the field was guaranteed.

“I wish they'd find a way to put a Red Door over here,” said Night, massaging her back with both hands as she strolled down the stairs. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

Rerouting the pathways that accessed the Engine, rewriting the old magic that kept it out of space, out of time. It was just about the hardest thing you could attempt to do. Night had a point, though, sticking a Red Door in the middle of Manhattan would be a hell of a lot easier than a nine-hour plane trip between contracts.

At least this way, though, you didn't have to walk through pure evil to get where you were going.

Night skipped lightly down the steps and Truck followed her, almost too big to get out of the airplane door. He stomped down, heavy lidded, still half-asleep. The big guy was
always
half-asleep.

“You just take your time,” Pan said to him, tapping her foot with impatience. “Mosey on down at your leisure. Not like we're on a mission or anything.”

“Keep your hair on, Pan,” Truck said, swaying down the steps. He glanced at her short locks and snorted. “Oops, too late.”

“Sides, splitting,” she said, feeling too exposed here in the airport, feeling like she was back in the past, blood on her hands and the cops on their way. “Seriously, we need to go. And would somebody get Marlow out of the goddamned toilet.”

*   *   *

The safe house was a walk-up in Hoboken and it obviously hadn't been used in a while. It was like stepping into a mausoleum, thick with dust and dark, the heavy drapes drawn tight against the heat outside. The only piece of furniture in the combined living room was a couch, still in its plastic wrap, and Truck shouted “Dibs!” before launching himself at it. Pan was amazed that the pair of them didn't disappear through the floor into the apartment below. She waited for everyone to step inside before closing the door and turning the dead bolt.

“Why do these places always have to be so dreary?” Night said, tugging at the drapes. The light flooded in like a dam had been breached, waves of dust billowing out. Pan was pretty sure she saw some mice darting into the skirting. Yeah, the Hellraisers might have been richer than Croesus but they were stingier than Scrooge McDuck. It's not like a room at the InterContinental would have broken the bank.

She coughed out a lungful of dust and walked to the kitchen, slinging her bag onto the counter. Through the greasy window she could see another building, a mirror reflection of their own. Past that, across the Hudson, lay Manhattan, drenched in sunlight. She wondered what would happen if she just walked down the stairs, crossed the river, disappeared into the heat, did her best to forget about the Engine and Ostheim and the dead. She checked her watch.
654:32:20:11.
It would be twenty-six days of bliss, then an eternity of hell. It was one of the rules—go AWOL during a contract and the Lawyers won't break it.

Not worth it, Pan.

Besides, it really did look like they had a chance to catch Patrick. The fight in Budapest had injured him, but this was something else. He thought they were responsible for his sister's death and it looked like it had driven him insane, looked like it had forced him to go renegade. If Patrick was gunning for revenge, then he'd be alone, and thoughtless, and all of that would make him easier to find. Maybe this would be the mission that ended it all, the one that set her free. She opened her bag, blinking sunlight out of her eyes. The laptop was state-of-the-art and she booted it up, connecting with the Pigeon's Nest through a secure satellite connection. Herc's face appeared, and he didn't look so hot.

“Sorry, must have the wrong number,” said Pan. “I think I've connected to an old people's home.”

“Pan,” said Herc.

“Is your grandson around? His name's Herc, white hair, face like a dog-chewed catcher's mitt—”

“Pan, it's late, and I'm tired, and I will gladly murder all of the Lawyers in this place and leave you to the demons if you don't quit it.”

“Sorry, Gramps,” she said, unable to stop the smile from spreading. “We've arrived, you got anything?”

“He's in Manhattan,” Herc said, rubbing his stubble. “We've been monitoring all channels and he's uptown. He isn't hiding, Pan.”

“Any sign of Mammon?”

“Nothing, but keep your eyes open. That bastard snuck right up on us last time.”

“Will do, boss. You rest up, get your slippers on, put something nice on the gramophone.”

“Go fu—”

She cut the connection, stretching in the little pool of sunlight by the window. It truly was filthy in here, reminding her of the apartment she'd grown up in, a hellhole in Queens. The memory made her skin crawl and she turned her back on it, walking into the sitting room. Night and Marlow were staring out the window, chatting quietly. Truck looked like he'd fallen asleep. She almost smiled at the sight, then she remembered the others—the fallen, those who'd been murdered right in front of her eyes, and those who'd been dragged kicking and screaming to hell. You couldn't have friends in this line of work. You couldn't get attached.

“Herc's going to let us know when they've zeroed in,” she said. Marlow turned to her, just a silhouette against the glowing city.

“How long will it be?”

“Not soon enough,” she replied, walking to the sofa and kicking Truck until he grudgingly made room. She collapsed, her leg jiggling impatiently. The waiting was always the worst part. “Just get some rest. And Marlow?”

“Yeah?”

She gave him the fiercest look she could muster.

“I don't wanna see you do your vanishing act again, okay?”

He grinned at her.

“Sure.”

 

DOING THE VANISHING ACT AGAIN

Being back on Staten Island felt like waking up from a dream, and it was a good feeling. Walking out of the ferry terminal into the cool, golden evening, Marlow found himself wishing that the events of the last few days were some kind of hallucination. A machine that let you play with the fundamental laws of physics? Demons that came after you when you did? It was insane. Maybe he'd fallen asleep on the ferry, lulled into nightmares as it swayed across the upper bay. Here, now, with people bustling past him—tourists snapping pictures, suits heading home from late nights in the city, tired children yelling—there could be no such thing as monsters. It was just him, in the place he'd lived his whole life.

Then his new cell buzzed for the fourth time and he saw Pan's text there—
Get your stupid ass back here, Marlow, last chance
—and the world flipped upside down again like a stunt plane. Of course it was real. He'd seen it, felt it, been beaten half to death by it. He could still feel the power of the Engine thrumming inside him, knew that he only had to start running and time itself would slow down to accommodate him. He checked his watch, those numbers counting down relentlessly, thought about what would happen when it reached zero, what would come after him.

Yeah, there were
definitely
monsters.

He batted back a quick text,
wont be long.
Then he pocketed the cell and set off. Technically he hadn't disobeyed Pan, she'd said she didn't want to see him disappear, and she hadn't—she'd been fast asleep on the couch when he left. Besides, he needed to go home, needed to check on his mom.

He could have taken a bus, but at this time of day it would be quicker to walk. It was farther than he thought, though, and by the time he reached his street the sun was hovering over the rooftops, nesting in the trees, making it look like the island was on fire. His legs were grumbling as he walked up the steps to his house, but there was a song in his heart he hadn't heard for what felt like forever. He was smiling as he pushed open the door.

“Yo, Mom,” he said, walking into the cool interior. “Donovan, here boy!”

There was a familiar scrabble of claws on wood, a gentle
ruff
from the dining room. Donovan skittered around the corner, tongue dangling, tail wagging, and Marlow dropped to one knee, slapping his legs.

“Come here, D, I missed you.”

The dog stopped, his tail dropping like a guillotine blade. He took a few clumsy steps back, cocking his head and whining from the darkness at the end of the corridor.

“Hey, stupid, what's up?” Marlow said, scooching closer. The fur on the dog's neck began to rise, the skin around his mouth pulling back to reveal teeth. Donovan whined again, then barked, twice, the kind of bark usually reserved for yappy dogs in the park.

Or for strangers.

“Hey, dude, it's me,” Marlow said, patting his legs again. When he disappeared for a couple of days Donovan usually had him on the floor by now, that pink tongue trying to lick his face off. The dog's eyes were huge and white and there was a definite growl throbbing in his throat. Marlow stood up and Donovan flinched, retreating to the wall, that growl like a generator. He barked again, white foam flecking his mouth.

“Better get out,” came a voice from the back of the house, his mom, her words slurred. “Dog'll tear you a new one.”

“Mom, it's me,” he yelled. “It's Marlow.”

Footsteps, soft and slow. The dog looked to the side, whined, licked its lips. Then his mom was there, squinting around the corner. There was a glass of Bacardi in her hand and she was swaying like they were at sea. But it was good to see her. Marlow smiled, taking a step toward her, but Donovan barked again, his hackles fully raised.

“Jesus, Mom,” he said, trying to laugh it off. “What you been feeding him?”

His mom didn't answer, just stared at him, studying him like he was a TV show with crappy reception. The only noise in the house was that pulsing growl from Donovan's throat.

“Mom?” Marlow said, his gut churning. She leaned forward, her face screwing up.

“Marly?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It's me. What's going on? I'm sorry I went away. I've been somewhere. I've got a … a job. I should have called but you wouldn't believe—”