Ticktock (22 page)

Tick.

Tock.

Tommy sensed that their time and luck were rapidly running out, that the demon's inhuman senses would lock onto them at any second.

Sailing down from the night above the harbor, wings thrumming, as ethereal as an angel but as swift as a flash of light, a large sea gull swooped past the demon's pale hands and arced up into the darkness from which it had come.

The Samaritan-thing lowered its hands.

The gull plummeted once more, wings cleaving the chilled air and the rain in a breathtaking display of graceful aerobatics. As radiant as a haunting spirit in the frost-white light, it swept past the demon's upraised hands again, and then rocketed heavenward in a spiral.

The Samaritan-thing peered up at the bird, turning to watch it as it wheeled across the sky.

Something important was happening, something mysterious and profound, which Tommy could not comprehend.

He glanced at Del for her reaction, but her attention remained riveted on the demon, and he could not see her face.

At Tommy's side, flank pressed against his leg, the Labrador quivered.

The sea gull circled back across the harbor and swooped down into the Fun Zone again. Flying only a few feet above the surface of the promenade, it sailed past the demon and disappeared between the shops and arcades to the east.

The serpent-eyed Samaritan stared intently after the gull, clearly intrigued. Its arms hung at its sides, and it repeatedly flexed and fisted its plump hands as though working off the excess energy of rage and frustration.

From overhead and west near the stilled Ferris wheel came the thrumming of many wings, as eight or ten sea gulls descended in a flock.

The demon swung around to face them.

Breaking out of their steep dive only a few feet above the ground, the gulls streaked after the first bird, swarming straight toward the demon and then parting into two groups that swept around it, disappearing east on Edgewater Avenue. None of them cawed or shrieked in their characteristic manner; but for the air-cutting whoosh of their wings, they passed in eerie silence.

Captivated, curious, the Samaritan-thing faced east to watch them depart.

It took a step after them, another step, but then halted.

Through the wintry lamplight fell sleet-white rain.

The demon took another step east. Stopped. Stood swaying.

At the nearby docks, boats creaked on the rising tide, and a halyard clink-clink-clinked against a steel mast.

The Samaritan-thing directed its attention once more to the carousel.

Out of the west came a drumming different from—and louder than—the rain.

The beast turned toward the Ferris wheel, tilting its face up, peering into the bottomless black sky, raising its plump white hands, as though either seeking the source of the drumming or preparing to fend off an assault.

Out of the swarming darkness above the harbor, birds descended once more, not merely eight or ten, but a hundred birds, two hundred, three hundred, sea gulls and pigeons and sparrows and blackbirds and crows and hawks, even several enormous and startlingly prehistoric-looking blue herons, beaks open but producing no sound, a river of feathers and small shiny eyes, pouring down over the Ferris wheel, along the promenade, splitting into two streams to pass the demon, and then rejoining in a single surging mass to disappear east between the shops and arcades, and still they came, a hundred more and then a hundred behind them, and hundreds arcing down after them, as though the sky would disgorge birds forever, the drumming of frantic pinions reverberating off every hard surface with such formidable volume that it was reminiscent of the freight-train rumble of a medium-magnitude earthquake.

On the carousel, Tommy
felt
the vibration of the wings, waves of pressure against his face and against his marveling eyes, and his tympanic membranes began to flutter in sympathy, so that it felt as though the wings themselves, not merely the sound of them, were in his ears. The humid air carried the faint ammonia scent of damp feathers.

He remembered something that Del had said earlier in the night:
The world is full of strange stuff. Don't you watch
The X-Files?

Although the spectacle of the birds left Tommy as clueless as he was wonderstruck, he suspected that Del understood what was happening, that what was deepest mystery to him was as clear as rainwater to her.

With the apparently infinite flock swooping around the demon, it turned away from the Ferris wheel and stared east toward where the birds disappeared into the night past the Balboa Pavilion. It hesitated. Took a step in that direction. Stopped. Took another step.

As though finally interpreting the winged visitation as a sign that it could not ignore, the beast broke into a run, drawn by the birds in the night ahead of it, encouraged by the birds rocketing past on both sides of it, harried by the birds behind it. The torn raincoat flapped like great tattered wings, but the Samaritan-thing remained earthbound, borne east by birds and bird shadows.

For perhaps a minute after the Samaritan-thing passed out of sight, the birds continued to descend from the stormy sky above the Ferris wheel to the west, sail along Edgewater Avenue past the carousel, and disappear to the east. Gradually the flock grew thinner, until it ended with a few blackbirds, two gulls, and a single blue heron at least three feet tall.

The blackbirds abruptly broke from their pell-mell eastward flight, spiraled over the dining terrace as if battling one another, and then fell to the promenade, where they fluttered on the wet concrete as though stunned.

The two sea gulls landed on the pavement, stumbled forward, flopped on their sides, squawked in distress, sprang to their feet, and wobble-walked in circles, bobbing their heads, apparently dazed and confused.

Stalk-legged and ungainly in appearance, the giant blue heron was nevertheless a graceful creature—except in this instance. It tottered off the promenade onto the dining terrace, weaving around the boles of the palm trees, curling and bending its long neck as if the muscles were so loose that it couldn't hold its head up, in general performing as if inebriated.

One by one the blackbirds stopped flopping on the concrete, hopped onto their feet, shook themselves, spread their wings, and soared into the air.

The pair of gulls regained their composure. They also took wing and disappeared into the deep-black sky above the harbor.

Having regained its equilibrium, the heron sprang onto one of the tables on the dining terrace and stood erect, its head held high, surveying the night on all sides, as if surprised to find itself in this place. Then it, too, departed.

Tommy sucked in a deep cool breath and blew it out and said, “What the hell was
that?
”

“Birds,” Del said.

“I know they were birds, even a blind man would know they were birds, but what were they doing?”

The dog shook itself, whined, and padded to Del, rubbing against her as if for comfort.

“Good Scootie,” she said, crouching to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Him were so quiet, so still. Him good baby, him is, mommy's little Scootie-wootums.”

Scootie wagged his tail happily and chuffed.

To Tommy, Del said, “We better get out of here.”

“You haven't answered my question.”

“You have so
many
questions,” she said.

“Right now, only this one about the birds.”

Rising from beside the dog, she said, “Will you feel better if I scratch behind
your
ears too?”

“Del, damn it!”

“They were just birds. Agitated about something.”

“More than that,” he disagreed.

“Everything is more than it seems, but nothing is as mysterious as it appears to be.”

“I want a
real
answer, not metaphysics.”

“Then you tell me.”

“What the hell is going on here, Del, what have I gotten into the middle of, what is this all about?”

Instead of answering, she said, “It might come back. We better get moving.”

Frustrated, he followed her and Scootie off the carousel and into the rain. They went down the steps to Edgewater Avenue along which the thousands of birds had flocked.

At the end of the wall and the iron railing that defined the raised area where the carousel stood, they stopped and peeked out warily along the Fun Zone, east to where the demon had disappeared. The beast was nowhere to be seen. All of the birds were gone as well.

Scootie led them onto the promenade.

A few dozen feathers in different hues were stuck to the wet concrete or floated in the puddles. Otherwise, it would have been easy to believe that the birds had not been real, but a phenomenal and phantasmagoric illusion.

“This way,” Del said, and she headed briskly west, the opposite direction from that in which the Samaritan-thing had gone.

“
Are
you a witch?” Tommy asked.

“Certainly not.”

“That's suspicious.”

“What?” she asked.

“Such a direct answer. You never give them.”

“I always give direct answers. You just don't listen to them properly.”

As they passed between the Fun Zone Game Room and the Fun Zone Boat Company, between Mrs. Fields Cookies and the deserted Ferris wheel, Tommy said exasperatedly, “Del, I've been listening all night, and I still haven't heard anything that makes sense.”

“That just proves what bad ears you have. You better make an appointment to see a good audiologist. But you sure do kiss a lot better than you hear, tofu boy.”

He had forgotten the kiss that they had shared on the carousel. How could he possibly have forgotten the kiss? Even with the sudden arrival of the Samaritan-thing followed by the astonishing flock of birds, how could he have forgotten that kiss?

Now his lips burned with the memory of her lips, and he tasted the sweetness of her darting tongue as though it were still in his mouth.

Her mention of the kiss left him speechless.

Maybe that had been her intention.

Just past the Ferris wheel, at the intersection of Edgewater Avenue and Palm Street, Del stopped as if not sure which way to go.

Directly ahead, Edgewater was still a pedestrian promenade, though they were nearing the end of the Fun Zone.

Palm Street entered from the left. Though no parking was allowed along it, the street was open to vehicular traffic because it terminated at the boarding ramp to the Balboa Ferry.

At this hour no traffic moved on Palm, because the ferry was closed for the night. In the docking slip at the foot of the ramp, one of the barge-type, three-car ferries creaked softly, wallowing on the high tide.

They could turn left on Palm and leave the Fun Zone for the next street to the south, which was Bay Avenue. In the immediate vicinity, it was not a residential street, but they might still find a parked car or two that Del could hot-wire.

Tommy was thinking like a thief. Or at least he was thinking like a thief s apprentice. Maybe blondes—at least this blonde—were every bit the corrupting influence that his mother had always believed them to be.

He didn't care.

He could still taste the kiss.

For the first time, he felt as tough and adaptable and suave as his detective, Chip Nguyen.

Beyond Bay Avenue was Balboa Boulevard, the main drag for the length of the peninsula. With police no doubt still coming and going from the scene of the shooting farther east, Tommy and Del would be too noticeable on the well-lighted boulevard, where at this hour they would probably be the only pedestrians.

Scootie growled, and Del said, “It's coming back.”

For an instant Tommy didn't understand what she meant, and then he understood too well. Bringing up the shotgun, he spun around to face east. The promenade was deserted as far as he could see, and even at night in the rain he could see past the carousel and as far as the Balboa Pavilion at the entrance to the Fun Zone.

“It doesn't know exactly where we are yet,” she said, “but it's coming back this way.”

“Intuition again?” he asked sarcastically.

“Or whatever. And I don't think we can outrun it.”

“So we've got to find a car,” he said, still keeping a watch on the east end of the Fun Zone, expecting the Samaritan-thing to come racing toward them, birdless and furious.

“Car, no. That's too dangerous. That means going out toward the boulevard where a cop might pass by and see us and think we're suspicious.”

“Suspicious? What's suspicious about two heavily armed people and a big strange black dog on the street at three in the morning in the middle of a storm?”

“We'll steal a boat,” Del said.

Her announcement drew his attention away from the promenade. “A boat?”

“It'll be fun,” she said.

Already she and Scootie were on the move, and Tommy glanced east along the deserted amusement area once more before scrambling after the woman and the dog.

Past the entrance ramp to the ferry was Balboa Boat Rentals, a business that offered a variety of sailing skiffs, small motorboats, and kayaks to the tourist trade.

Tommy didn't know how to sail, wasn't sure that he would be able to operate a motorboat, and didn't relish paddling out onto the rain-lashed harbor in a kayak. “I'd prefer a car.”

Del and Scootie ran past the shuttered rental facility and departed the open promenade. They passed between a couple of dark buildings and went to the sea wall.

Tommy followed them through a gate and along a pier. Though he wore rubber-soled shoes, the rain-soaked planks were slippery.

They were in what appeared to be a small marina area where docking space could be rented, though some of the docks to the west were evidently private. A line of boats—some commercial party boats, some charter-fishing craft, and a few private craft big enough to be classified as full-blown yachts—were tied up side by side in the pounding rain, dimly revealed by the pier security lamps.