Читать книгу Mississippi Roll - Джордж Р. Р. Мартин - Страница 10

By the time Billy Ray had arrived on site the MS Gustav Schröder had been anchored downriver from the New Orleans passenger ship terminals for almost two days. He and his SCARE team – part of it, anyway; the rest hadn’t yet arrived – stood on the north bank of the Mississippi River. The Schröder was anchored downstream, with the Triton, a Coast Guard cutter, anchored nearby to make sure none of the refugees slipped away. There was no doubt that the Van Rennsaeler administration was determined to keep the Kazakh refugees off American soil, though possible sanctuary in the French Quarter was only a moderate swim away.

Ray eyed the Schröder dubiously from his vantage point on the riverbank, which was adjacent to a small dock near the cruise ship terminal where a Port Police launch was moored. The freighter was too distant to discern details, but Ray was pretty sure that she was no titan of the seas.

‘How many refugees did AG Cruz say were crammed on that tub?’ he asked, frowning.

‘Nine hundred and thirty-seven,’ the Midnight Angel said quietly at his side. Her voice was empty of inflection. She could have been talking about sacks of potatoes, not people.

‘She doesn’t look big enough to lug nine hundred and thirty-seven toasters across the Atlantic, let alone that many people,’ Ray mused.

He glanced at her as she stood next to him, SCARE Agent Moon by her side. In human form Moon was a small, deformed joker who could barely crawl, but the wild card had given her the power to transform into any canid species she could envision, living or extinct, from the Chihuahua to the dire wolf. She was currently a big, fluffy sable collie whose resemblance to TV’s beloved Lassie was uncanny. Ray knew she’d chosen her most friendly form intentionally for the Angel’s benefit as it was the most comforting avatar in her repertoire. Ray caught Moon’s eye and nodded. Her tail thumped the ground sympathetically.

The Angel was staring into the distance, at nothing, really. She was gaunt, her eyes sunken and blank. That was better, Ray reflected, than the haunted look they usually had, an expression she’d rarely been able to shake since their return from Kazakhstan. A month ago, deep in a fit of despondency even greater than usual, she’d shaved off the mane of thick, dark hair that had hung down to her waist. The new growth was streaked with white. She no longer wore her leathers, even on a mission, for they reminded her too much of the nightmare of Talas. Instead she had on khaki slacks and a thick, long-sleeved, shapeless pullover. Despite the heat and humidity of the New Orleans summer day, her face was pale and sweatless.

Moon pressed against her side and whined softly, but the Angel didn’t respond. She only stared unseeingly as a tall black woman, a bit beyond statuesque, approached the three SCARE agents. The newcomer was middle-aged, with straightened hair worn in a stiff updo with descending ringlets. Her mannish tailored suit was much too heavy for the New Orleans climate and she was paying for her dubious fashion choice with droplets of perspiration running down her face. Ray’s own suit was faultlessly tailored linen, superbly suited for the local climate. Ray recognized her from the attorney general’s description.

‘Agent Jones?’

She reached into a pocket of her suit and produced a badge, holding it up for all to see. ‘Ms Evangelique Jones,’ she said, with the emphasis on the Ms. ‘Immigration and Customs Enforcement.’

‘Right, ICE,’ Ray said in an unimpressed tone. ‘Attorney General Cruz informed me that you were in charge of this …’ Ray’s voice ran down and he gestured vaguely out to the Schröder.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘My job is to ensure that these so-called refugees don’t set foot on American soil without proper authorization. That those without papers take their dirty genes back to wherever they came from or to whatever hellhole will accept them. But not here.’

‘Hellhole?’ For the first time the Angel seemed engaged. She turned and looked at Jones. ‘What do you know about hell?’

She caught Jones’s gaze with her own bleak stare and the ICE agent paused in whatever she’d intended to say. ‘Well – I –’

Ray cleared his throat and Jones’s attention shifted back to him. ‘All right. And exactly where are we in this … situation?’

Her lips tightened in a grimace. ‘Apparently this little scheme to subvert American immigration law is being perpetrated by a known prostitute, a Ukrainian national with connections to the Russian mafia named Olena Davydenko, and—’

‘Olena?’ Ray said.

‘Are you deaf, Mr Ray?’ Jones asked. ‘Or am I speaking in some foreign—’

Ray and the Angel stared at each other, ignoring the ICE agent as Moon looked on with her narrow gaze fixed on the newcomer.

‘We knew that these refugees were Kazakhs,’ Ray said thoughtfully, ‘but no one told us that Davydenko was involved in this.’

‘And if she is, he must be, too,’ the Angel said harshly.

Jones, her eyes shifting between them, frowned. ‘If by he, you mean her partner in miscegenation—’

‘Infamous Black Tongue,’ the Angel said as Ray said simultaneously, ‘Miscegenation?’

‘You two are the rudest people I have ever met,’ Jones said, ‘always interrupting—’

‘Sorry,’ Ray interrupted. ‘It’s just that the Angel and I have a history with those two – we were all at Talas, though I got there at the end. The Angel did a lot of the heavy lifting. That included a mano-a-mano battle with the Black Tongue himself.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘I wish I’d been there for that.’

‘Yes.’ Jones looked at them as if their actions were part of some kind of dubious activity. ‘I read all about it.’

‘I just mention it so you know that we’re not unaware of the refugees’ background.’

‘That’s all yesterday’s news,’ Jones said. ‘We have more important matters to deal with now.’ She looked at them thoughtfully. ‘I suppose you’d better come along. I have some news to deliver to the miscreants on the Schröder.’ Jones walked past them toward the police launch moored at the nearby dock meant for small river craft.

‘Good news, I hope,’ Ray said.

‘Oh yes.’

Jones strode over the gangway and an officer from the New Orleans Port Police helped her down into the bow of the launch that would ferry them to the Schröder. Ray and the Angel followed, with Moon bringing up the rear. The officer looked at Moon skeptically as she jumped down into the bow next to the Angel. It seemed as if he wanted to say something, but bit back his words as the Angel just looked at him. They cast off and started toward the freighter moored in the middle of the river.

As they glided along with the current, they passed demonstrators who had gathered on the riverbank in two distinct groups separated by a police barrier and a squadron of New Orleans city cops. The larger bunch were maybe a hundred strong. Most carried signs that were either anti–wild carder or pro–Liberty Party, which had unexpectedly swept Pauline van Rennsaeler to the presidency the previous November. Others waved random historical battle or political flags that had no connection to the current refugee crisis.

The smaller group numbered no more than twenty. Their banners showed sympathy for the trapped refugees, some proclaiming their allegiance to the JADL, the Joker Anti-Defamation League.

‘What a freak show,’ Ray muttered.

‘I hope you’re not referring to these fine Americans exercising their constitutional right to free speech,’ Jones said.

Ray was saved from answering her question as they reached the Schröder. She looked even more dubious from up close. The freighter was a battered, rusty, near-dilapidated wreck that had probably spent her maiden voyage dodging German submarines during World War II. Of course she flew the Liberian flag, which meant that she operated under the laxest licensing and inspection regime in the entire nautical world.

The only way to board her was a rickety ladder extending down from the main deck. The police launch sidled close and Jones led the way up the ladder. Ray followed, with the Angel carrying Moon in one arm as her paws couldn’t handle the narrow steps. Jones was puffing as she reached the end of the climb and accepted an extended hand to help her over the top and onto the Schröder’s deck.

‘Thank you—’ she began to say as she looked up, then fell silent.

The man standing before her smiled and released her hand. He was old but distinguished looking, in a gray charcoal-colored suit that Ray’s practiced eye told him cost more than twice his own. His long and still abundant silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he leaned on a heavy wooden cane. His shoes, like his suit, were handmade and expensive. The right one encased an obvious prosthesis, which extended upward into an artificial leg, the extent of which was hidden by an expertly tailored pants leg. He smiled at Jones as she gained the deck.

Three companions stood grouped behind him. One was a man of similar age, smaller, with a lined, pale face that showed no expression at all as he looked over the newcomers. The second was a striking woman in a formfitting blue silk shirt tucked into tight blue jeans that showcased her splendid figure. It was, Ray realized, a theme of a sort. Her skin was a deep rich blue, her thick, long hair a shade darker, and her eyes the clear cerulean of a cloudless summer sky. The third person was a young man in a black suit with a priest’s collar. He was serious-looking in an intense way, with regular features, dark eyes, and short dark hair.

‘Agents Ray and Angel,’ the silver-haired man said. ‘Pleased to see you. Splendid work, saving the world and all that. Splendid.’ He looked at Moon, whom the Angel had set down on the deck. ‘And this is?’

‘SCARE Agent Moon,’ the Angel said.

‘A were-canid,’ Ray explained as Moon thumped her tail against the deck.

‘Of course,’ the man said. He turned toward Jones. ‘I am Dr Pretorius. You must be Ms Jones, the ICE agent in charge. I’ve been retained to represent the Schröder refugees in their attempt to secure political asylum.’

‘By whom?’ Jones asked in a somewhat less pleasant tone.

Pretorius smiled. ‘The Joker Anti-Defamation League.’ He gestured toward the three who stood by him. ‘This is Mr Robicheaux and Ms Blue, their representatives.’ He indicated the young man. ‘And Father Joachim Aguilera of the Church of Jesus Christ, Joker.’

If Robicheaux was a joker, Ray thought, his deformities were hidden. Unlike Pretorius, his clothing was that of a working man. He wore a short-sleeved shirt tucked into worn jeans and work boots that had seen hard use. His eyes were dark and, like his expression, opaque as his gaze swept them all. He nodded. Ray nodded back.

‘We have much to discuss. The others are waiting. If you will follow me.’ Pretorius leaned heavily on his cane as he limped away.

They fell in line behind the lawyer. As he led them across the main deck, Ray’s nostrils flared. The Schröder’s interior matched its exterior in terms of grime, rust, and general decrepitude. The deck needed a new paint job, not to mention a thorough washing. Usually, Ray thought – though his experience with boats of any kind was rather limited – you see crewmen bustling about on errands and chores, taking care of vital upkeep and minor repairs. But they saw no one, crew or passengers, as they made their way to a hatch leading down into the ship’s hold. It was so quiet that it was more than a little eerie. The Schröder might as well have been manned by a crew of ghosts.

Ray and the Angel exchanged glances. She can feel it, too, he thought. He glanced at Moon and saw her sniff the air. An expression of disgust washed over her lean-jawed face. Ray lacked the acute senses that Moon had, but he could smell the stench, too. Had smelled it since they’d reached the deck. It was getting worse, and it hit them like a slap on the face when Pretorius led them down the ladder into the ship’s hold.

The vessel’s only cargo was inside. People. They were everywhere in the gloom of the poorly lit, practically unvented hold. Men, women, and children looked at them wearily as they descended the ladder, hunger, hope, and fear in their eyes. Ray guessed that this trip had been as hellish as the demon-haunted last days of their home city of Talas. Most were gaunt. Many just lay on the dirty bedding that was their only protection against the harshness of the hold’s metal floor. Ray had been in better-smelling swamps. He didn’t want to even try to imagine the privations these people had undergone during their voyage.

Ray and the Angel kept stoic expressions on their faces, but Jones recoiled and audibly gagged.

‘My God,’ she said, ‘don’t you people bathe?’

‘In what?’ asked the woman approaching them. Her voice was bitter and bore an East European accent. Ray recognized her as Olena Davydenko, the daughter of a deceased Ukrainian mobster. She’d used her dead father’s fortune to finance this desperate quest for safety and freedom. Olena looked at them cooly. She was blond and pretty, Ray thought, in a brittle, high-fashion sort of way. She was accompanied by a young woman who was a bare inch or two over five feet. She had clear pale skin that had a golden sheen to it. And she was staring at the Angel, who seemed uncomfortably aware of her gaze. At least the Black Tongue was nowhere in sight. If IBT and the Angel came face-to-face again – Ray pushed the thought away and forced himself to concentrate on the here and now.

‘We have barely enough water to drink,’ Olena continued bitterly. ‘We have no food, no fuel, no medical supplies—’

‘Not my concern!’ Jones snapped. ‘You people should have been better prepared for your little cruise.’

Pretorius held up his hands. ‘This is all beside the point.’

‘The point being,’ Jones said implacably, ‘that of all the people who decided to take this trip, very few have the proper documentation or even family members already living in the United States willing to sponsor them. No one lacking a sponsor or the proper documents will be allowed off this ship.’

Dr Pretorius gestured to an angry Olena, who handed him an expensive-looking briefcase. Ray figured that while most of the onlooking refugees probably couldn’t follow the conversation in English, they had no problems understanding the gist of it. Pretorius extracted an impressively thick document from the briefcase and handed it to Jones.

She glanced at it. ‘What’s this?’

‘A brief requesting political asylum for all my clients,’ Pretorius said. ‘The government in Kazakhstan has collapsed. The warlords are fighting over the scraps of their country, but they all agree on one thing. They fear, wrongly and unjustly, that somehow the plague that struck Talas was brought on by the wild card virus and that the madness that destroyed the city was somehow spread by the jokers living there. Nonsense, of course, but that’s not stopping them from waging genocide against all wild carders. These people couldn’t stay in Talas and be killed. They can’t go back. They’re claiming asylum.’

‘You know that this must be adjudicated at higher levels of government—’

‘I ask for an expedited hearing. In the meantime, we need food, water, medical—’

‘I’m sure they do.’ Jones started back up the ladder, taking Pretorius’s brief with her.

The joker lawyer looked at Ray. ‘That was pleasant.’

‘Yeah,’ Ray said. He was starting to have a very bad feeling about this mission. It wasn’t as cut-and-dried as it had first seemed. He hadn’t signed up to bully helpless jokers, women and children among them.

The young woman standing with Olena looked at Angel and spoke in accented but clear English. ‘I am called Tulpar. I was in Talas, too. I saw you fighting monsters. They called you the Angel of the Alleyways, the Madonna of the Blade—’

The Angel looked down. ‘I lost it.’

A look of sympathy crossed the girl’s face. ‘I see that your pain is great. But you helped us once. The people, the children, are starving—’

The Angel turned her face, stood silent for a moment, then followed Jones up the ladder.

Moon whined and went after her, taking the ladder carefully. Ray looked at Pretorius, who was watching with pursed lips, and then at the Kazakh girl. ‘She’s been hurt deeper than you know by what happened in Talas.’

‘I could see it on her face,’ she said.

Ray nodded and hurried after them. Jones had crossed the deck and was going down to the waiting Port Police launch. The Angel, again holding Moon with the agent’s front paws over her shoulder, was following.

Ray, feeling helpless, watched her. It had been a very difficult time, with the Angel growing more withdrawn and despondent despite the counseling she’d had. Ray had thought that maybe getting her out into the field might start her back on the road to who she’d once been, but, if anything, it seemed she was getting worse. He didn’t know where to turn himself, or what to do, and that helplessness was churning deep inside and turning to an anger that he couldn’t focus on any one person or thing. It was just grinding at him.

He started down after the Angel as sudden shouting from the riverbank caught his attention. A group of the anti-refugee protesters from the Liberty Party had surged against the flimsy barrier separating them from the pro-refugee JADL contingent and were breaking through the thin blue line that was all that kept the two groups apart.

‘Crap,’ Ray said.

He glanced down. The Angel, too, had paused on her way down and was watching the drama unfold on the riverbank.

‘Hurry up,’ Ray called. ‘We’ve got to stop this before someone gets hurt!’

The Angel nodded and dropped the remaining dozen feet or so to the launch’s deck, landed lightly, and set Moon down. Ray swarmed down the ladder like a monkey in a major hurry and in a moment was at the Angel’s side.

‘Cast off,’ he shouted. ‘Head for the landing across the river!’

‘I give the orders here, Ray,’ Jones said coldly. ‘Just what are your intentions?’

‘My intentions,’ he said in a dangerously level voice, ‘are to keep people from getting hurt.’ He locked eyes with the officer in charge of the launch.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said crisply.

Jones sighed. ‘Very well. Though I don’t know what you can do.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ the Angel said.

The launch cast away from the Schröder and swept out in an arc, taking them to the northern bank, as everyone onboard watched what was happening on shore with concern.

The small JADL contingent was holding their ground as the anti-refugee protesters broke through the police barrier. Ray and the others on the launch could hear their angry shouts as they ran, screaming and waving their signs. The one in the lead was a heavyset man whose sign read Go Home Genetic Waist! The ones following him shoved aside the few cops who were bobbing helplessly in the mob’s wake like corks in an unleashed torrent.

‘Oh crap,’ Ray repeated.

And as the protesters approached the JADL demonstrators – slowly, because their signs weighed them down and most weren’t in the best shape and it was a very hot and humid day – the zombies began to appear.

They didn’t pop up out of thin air, but instead hauled themselves out of the river, climbing the steps at the landing toward which the launch was heading, like corpses rising from a watery grave. And make no mistake, they all were dead as shit. Not one was complete. Some were missing only fingers or an ear or an eye, others were less whole. Their sodden clothes oozed stinking seawater, which nicely complemented their body odors – a combination of rotting flesh and astringent embalming chemicals. The protesters outnumbered them ten to one, but Ray figured that the zombies were probably more intent on their purpose.

‘Goddammit!’ Ray swore aloud. He felt a sudden twinge of despair when the Angel didn’t respond to his blasphemy. She never did, anymore. ‘Goddammit!’ he repeated.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Jones said.

‘You’ve never seen a zombie attack before?’ the Angel asked, conversationally.

‘Swing it around parallel to the shore,’ Ray shouted as the launch neared the riverbank. He climbed out on the bow.

‘What is he doing now?’ Jones wondered.

‘He’s going to make someone pay,’ the Angel said softly, but she didn’t say for what.

Moon whined by her side.

‘Go ahead and help him, if you want.’ Moon put a paw on her knee, beseechingly. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the Angel said in a faraway voice. ‘They’re only zombies.’

By now the protesters were all quite aware of the creatures shambling toward them. The mob’s first reaction was to stumble to an uncertain halt, stand, and stare. Ray wanted to scream aloud to Hoodoo Mama – only she could be orchestrating this – but that would sound silly. ‘Josephine’ was too formal, and ‘Joey’ – he’d never called her that. The anger continued to build in him – the months and months of watching the Angel grow ever more inward, ever more detached, ever more untouchable and desolate – and he found his voice in a wordless cry of his own rage and despair.

He leaped as the launch swung around as he’d directed, setting a new unofficial world record for the standing long jump, and hit halfway up the stairway going up the riverbank. He stuck his landing and was moving a moment after his feet touched ground.

Moon followed him. She leaped from the bow, her fur flowing in the air as she dove into the water and came up swimming, reaching the foot of the staircase as Ray clambered up to the top.

By now, the shambling newcomers had inserted themselves between the two groups of demonstrators, a half score undead facing the larger contingent of the living. As the reeking zombies continued their slow approach, the demonstrators turned en masse and, bumbling and battering against one another, retreated. Many added to the chaos by screaming incoherently. Some threw away their signs, some used them to bludgeon a way to safety.

Many suddenly also realized that Ray was coming toward them with the speed of a runaway train and a look on his face that was not entirely rational. Moon followed behind him, barking ferociously. He heard Moon, but his heart sank when he realized that the Angel had remained on the launch, looking on. It all just made him even more angry.

Some protesters fled; some froze in fear, creating a major traffic jam as those behind them either blundered to a halt or tried to fight through the paralyzed clumps of humanity.

Ray hit the scrum of uncertain protesters like the running back he’d been in college. It all came back to him, like a riding a bicycle that’d been parked for forty years. He smiled crazily as he headed for an imaginary goal line, jinking and darting through the defenders, none laying a hand on him, his eyes on the prize ahead.

The biggest of the zombies, a huge man who’d once been black but was now a washed-out, grayish color, was in the lead. He had a nasty bullet hole in his forehead, but that didn’t seem to be bothering him any as he reached for the unlucky protester at the rear of the pack. She’d fallen down and the zombie was looming over her, opening wide jaws, which showed gaps where, Ray guessed, gold teeth had once gleamed.

A last moment of cognition, of recognition of danger, must have flickered through the dim recesses of the zombie’s brain, for a whisper of what looked to Ray like surprise passed over his face, and then Ray leaped over his intended victim and hit him at full speed, shoulder first, arms wrapped around him.

The zombie came apart.

Fuck, Ray thought, I’m wearing a new suit.

He clutched the top half of the zombie’s body, various organs dangling from it like really ugly candy hanging from a shattered piñata. The zombie’s bottom half, from the ass down, hit the asphalt walkway and skidded. Ray’s forward momentum shot them into another zombie and the two and a half of them hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Ray had rarely – no, never – been so disgusted in his life. He was covered by water-soaked zombie goo, his new suit was ruined, and he was still, in general, pissed off. The zombie on the bottom of the dog-pile tried to bite him, and Ray put his fist through its face, smashing it like a two-week-old Halloween pumpkin. Then he was on his feet, stamping, until the zombie’s chest was a flattened mass of fetid flesh and shattered bones.

If the remaining zombies in Ray’s vicinity had any humanity left about them, or even some low degree of animal cunning, they would’ve fled. But no. They were zombies. They converged on their new, nearest target.

Ray realized that all the protesters had gotten to safety – out of the corner of his eye he saw the cops helping some of them and Moon was harassing and gnawing off bits of other zombies – but he wasn’t done yet. He had to hit something to work the anger out of his system, and zombies made good targets.

He grabbed the right wrist of the nearest and flipped it to the ground. He put his foot – his shoes, too, were finished, Ray realized – in its armpit and twisted. The arm came off like a well-roasted chicken wing and Ray was just in time to duck and whirl and smack another attacking zombie right in the face with his unconventional yet effective flail.

The zombie’s head sailed off its rather scrawny neck and it twirled in a little uncertain dance and immediately fell over the edge of the riverbank, bounced a few times, and was swallowed by the waiting river. Ray whirled about, but the other zombies had stopped in their tracks.

‘Come on, you sons of bitches,’ Ray shouted, though two of the zombies were clearly women. He didn’t really care.

But they, or more properly, Hoodoo Mama, had had enough. She wasn’t exactly frugal with her undead soldiers, but neither did she waste them for no reason. Those left standing all turned in unison and marched toward the riverbank.

‘Come on!’ Ray shouted in frustration. ‘Come on!’

But no one heeded his challenge.

‘Shit!’ Ray yelled. Still enraged, he hurled the zombie arm at the last zombie before it could jump off the bank, hitting it in the back and knocking it into the river below. Ray took a deep breath. ‘Shit,’ he repeated, more quietly this time.

He stalked back to the clump of protesters. Moon trotted next to him, her beautiful coat soaked in zombie goo, sneezing and hacking up bits from her narrow-jawed mouth.

‘Thanks,’ Ray said.

She wagged her tail.

The launch had landed during the fight and Jones had disembarked, followed by Ray and the Port Police crew.

Jones planted herself in front of him. ‘Agent Ray—’ she began, but stopped when Ray raised his right hand and she saw the look in his eyes.

He was covered in gore, soaked in embalming chemicals and bodily fluids, smeared with rotting flesh and squashed organs.

‘I’m going back to the motel now,’ he said. He was surprised to hear the calmness in his voice. ‘I have to take a shower.’ He looked at his wife. The look in her eyes – was it sorrow? Loss? Nothing at all? – bit deeper than any wound he’d ever received in his forty years in government service.

The Angel and Moon followed him as he walked away.

‘Who told you where I live?’ Joey Hebert asked sullenly as Ray stood before the door of her shotgun shack. The picket fence around the front yard was more gray than white and had more gaps in it than a meth head’s dental work. The front porch sagged and the entire building listed uncertainly like a drunken sailor. ‘It was Bubbles, wasn’t it?’

Ray suppressed a sigh. He’d decided to take this one on alone, leaving the Angel and Moon at the Motel 6 where they were staying. He feared that Hoodoo Mama might remind her even more of Talas. Months of therapy had done little to help the Angel. Sitting around DC hadn’t helped either. He’d hoped that what he thought would be a relatively innocuous assignment might start to shake her out of her depression, but the Angel wasn’t responding at all to being in the field. The shields she’d erected around herself after Talas were still impenetrable. And now Ray had to worry about the twists the mission was taking. Well, one thing at a time.

‘Let me in, Joey.’ He decided on the informal approach. ‘We have to talk.’

Hoodoo Mama glared at him. She was a scrawny, young black woman with an expression that was mostly always angry. Ray knew the feeling.

‘We have to talk,’ he repeated flatly.

After a moment she said, ‘I guess I can’t make you shut your mouth.’ She opened the screen door and stepped aside.

The front room was a mess. Ray’s sense of neatness was offended. The room was poorly lit by a single forty-watt bulb in a floor lamp that stood next to a dirty, beat-up sofa. The coffee table in front of it was littered with old Chinese food and pizza boxes, the worn carpet was splotched with dried mud and less identifiable stains. The room smelled of dust and decay and death. ‘Jesus,’ Ray said, ‘would it hurt to have one of your zombies run a broom through this place occasionally?’

Joey shrugged defensively. ‘I just got back into town – right before I heard about the ship of refugees being held up in the harbor. They’re mostly wild carders, you know.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Ray said patiently. ‘And you’re not helping—’

‘Someone’s got to help them, Mr High-and-Mighty Government Man,’ Joey said, bitterly. ‘Someone’s got to keep them safe from those creepy-ass Liberty Party motherfuckers.’

‘That’s my job,’ Ray said.

‘Are you going to do it?’

Ray’s crooked features suddenly froze in a clenched-tooth grin. ‘You ever heard of me shirking my duty?’

‘What is your duty, Mr High-and-Mighty Government Man?’ Joey replied.

‘Trust me,’ he said, and repeated after her unamused bark of laughter, ‘trust me. If you want, keep an eye on the situation – I know you have a legion of dead pigeons and rats you use as spies. Have an entire division of zombies on hand just in case things go wrong. But for Christ’s sake, keep them out of sight. You’re not helping by having the walking dead show up at every little provocation.’

Joey eyed him, Ray thought, with more speculation than distrust. ‘You got a plan to save those poor people?’

‘I’m working on one,’ Ray said. It almost surprised him to realize that he was. But in her own unsubtle way, he realized that Joey was right.

She nodded. ‘All right. If you said you had one I wouldn’t believe you, because no one can save them. They’re fucked. But I’ll be damned if I’m just going to let them quietly sail off to their doom.’

‘I’ll take your word on that.’ Ray turned to leave, stopped, and looked back. ‘And Bubbles said to call her. Your cell phone isn’t working and she’s worried about you.’

‘Damn it!’ Hoodoo Mama said as Ray let the screen door bang shut after him.

He went down the sagging wooden stairs carefully, fully aware that there could be an army of small dead things with sharp pointy teeth under them that Joey could send after him. But he felt that they had found at least a tiny bit of common ground, and zombies were one less thing he had to worry about, for now. There were plenty of others.

Like the man sitting in the locked black Escalade he’d left parked up the street from Joey’s shack. There were no working streetlights in Hoodoo Mama’s neighborhood, so Ray could barely discern the silhouette in the front passenger seat. He thought that it was a man, a small man, perhaps a boy. He seemed utterly unconcerned as Ray approached the vehicle, so Ray simply opened the driver’s side door and bent down to look in.

From close up Ray could see that he was indeed a small, slight white man, probably in his early seventies. He had a pleasant face that had been roughly treated by the passage of time. What hair wasn’t covered by his porkpie hat was white and cut short. Ray suddenly recognized him. ‘You’re the JADL guy from the boat. Robicheaux, right?’

He smiled. His teeth were even and white. ‘Right, Mr Ray.’

‘Can I help you?’

‘No, but I want to help you.’ He had a Cajun accent.

Why not? Ray thought. A small old dude was just who he needed on his side. ‘How?’ Ray slid into the car and closed the door.

‘Information, Mr Ray. I know what’s going on among the refugees – and it’s not good.’

Ray sighed as he pulled into the deserted street. ‘What’s happening?’

‘They’re scared, Mr Ray. Tired and hungry. They were hoping for sanctuary and have been turned away—’

‘Pretorius says they have a shot—’

‘No. Asylum will be granted to a token few – the Handsmith and his son, the ace Tulpar, maybe two dozen passengers in all. Aces and nats, every one.’

‘And the jokers?’

‘Van Rennsaeler made a deal with the British PM – they’re sending them to Rathlin Island.’

Ray frowned. ‘That rock off the coast of Northern Ireland?’

‘It was once a joker colony. Pretty much abandoned these days.’

‘So they’re sending them to some gulag – out of sight and out of mind.’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘I can hear the but you left unsaid.’

The old man smiled wryly. ‘Very perceptive, Mr Ray. There are several buts. The Handsmith has refused the deal, as has Tulpar. There’s talk of mutiny aboard the ship – of taking it over and trying for Brazil, Africa, maybe.’

Ray snorted. ‘Yeah, Jesus, great idea.’

‘There’s more. A few of the refugees belong to a joker terrorist gang – the Twisted Fists. Others are starting to listen to them.’

‘To do what?’ Ray asked. ‘Go up against the US Coast Guard?’

‘They are desperate.’

‘It would be a bloodbath.’

‘Which is something your job is to prevent.’

Ray pulled the Escalade over to the side of the street and slammed it into park.

‘How’d this come down to me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t speak for the government. I work for the government.’

The old man looked at him, his lined face composed. ‘If not you, who then?’

‘Shit,’ Ray said.

‘But for the fortunate turn of the card, you and I could be one of those jokers.’ If he was a joker, Ray thought, it didn’t show. An ace, maybe? Ray had never heard of him, but that meant little. Your card could turn when you were seven or seventy, or maybe he had some crappy little power that attracted no attention in the wild card world. ‘If as a nation we turn our back on a handful of brothers and sisters whose only crime was to be born in a savage land, how long will it be before other ships are sent to Rathlin, packed with those of our own nation who some people still despise? What then, Mr Ray?’

‘Shit,’ Ray said again.

‘But,’ the old man said thoughtfully, ‘all is not entirely lost. The JADL has been in contact with a man who calls himself Witness. For a million dollars he’s offered to provide haven for the refugees in Cuba. That island isn’t exactly, uh, strict when it comes to immigration, and, uh, other laws. It could easily absorb a few hundred refugees, or act as a transit point once they acquire proper identification.’

But Ray’s mind had turned back a decade. ‘This guy calls himself Witness,’ he asked, ‘what’s he look like?’

The Angel was still awake when Ray returned to their hotel room. She slept very little, ate very little, and never smiled. She was sitting on the bed, watching some Mexican talk show. Ray knew that she didn’t speak Spanish. It was all noise to her, like the rest of the world washing through her head but failing to distract her from the horrors she’d faced in Talas.

‘I’m back,’ he said, eliciting only a flicker of interest. ‘You’ll never guess who I ran into.’

Her eyes slid over to him, which was encouraging.

‘The JADL guy we met on the ship,’ he said, undressing down to his underwear and carefully hanging up his suit in the hotel room’s closet. The room was small, but neat, one of the lesser chains as SCARE didn’t have the budget to put its agents up at the really nice places with gyms and saunas and free breakfasts. But Ray didn’t much care as long as it was clean.

The night was hot and humid, but the Angel had cranked up the air conditioner until it was bordering on wintry in the room. Ray got into the bed next to her.

‘The small man? He seemed nice,’ the Angel said. There was a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Yeah.’ Ray looked at her thoughtfully. ‘But he’s in the fight, in his own way.’

‘What do you mean?’ the Angel asked.

Ray kept the smile off his face. At least he’d engaged her, aroused her curiosity. That was something.

‘He’s working with the JADL, trying to help the refugees.’ Ray relayed the information that’d been given to him, but when he was partway through the Angel turned her attention back to the television screen. ‘Only thing is, along with the nutjobs trying to keep the refugees off American soil, apparently there’s another problem festering behind the scenes. The Twisted Fists may get involved.’ That evoked no interest. ‘And a group headed by some guy who calls himself Witness.’

This captured the Angel’s attention. She turned her gaze back upon Ray. ‘The Witness?’ she asked.

Ray nodded. ‘He fits the description.’

Angel, looking thoughtful, relaxed, shifted against Ray’s chest, laying her head on his shoulder.

‘The Witness,’ she repeated.

He held her a long time as her breathing relaxed and her eyes slowly closed and at last she fell asleep. Moving slowly and carefully, he reached out for the remote and turned off the television. Now, finally, he could sleep, too.

The rest of the team arrived the next morning when Ray, the Angel, and Moon were eating breakfast in the motel’s coffee shop. The Angel was listlessly picking at her pancakes. Ray himself had almost as little appetite lately as his wife, but he managed to finish his omelet between feeding Moon cut-up bits of her breakfast steak. She was still a collie. She preferred a canid form for public appearances, and Ray was long used to dealing with recalcitrant waitresses and busybody onlookers. He handled their questions, usually, with patient explanations, but today he wasn’t in the mood and resorted to his best glare, sometimes reinforced by a flash of his official badge. It worked.

Two tall, thin, pale, well-dressed men approached their table, accompanied by another agent wearing fatigues, a camo T-shirt, and combat boots.

Ray nodded as they stopped before the table. ‘Harry, Max.’ He paused. ‘Colonel,’ he added dryly.

The ‘Colonel’ was directed at the newcomer in fatigues. He was young, as were the other two, but much more nondescript, with fair hair, a fair complexion, and light blond hair. His eyebrows were almost invisible against his pale complexion. He was a former army corporal from Fairbanks, Alaska, named Alan Spencer. He’d competed on the second season of American Hero, jumping several ranks by calling himself ‘Colonel Centigrade.’ After failing to win the game show he’d transferred out of the army into SCARE.

‘I hab a cold,’ he announced in a nasal, sniffling voice.

Ray exchanged glances with the Angel, but decided not to comment on the irony of Centigrade’s statement. Colonel Centigrade was a bit of a fuckup and his freezing powers weren’t the most reliable. He wasn’t exactly vital to the plan that Ray was evolving in his mind, whereas Harrison and Maximillian Klingensmith were. They were identical twins, down to the black eye patch each wore over his left eye and the sweep of inky black feathers that covered their scalps in lieu of hair. Their nicknames, derived from their joker aspect and from parents who had academic backgrounds in, respectively, ornithology and Nordic studies, were Huginn and Munnin.

‘You boys have breakfast yet?’ Ray asked.

‘No, sir,’ they all said in unison.

‘Take a seat,’ he said, moving closer to the Angel. He liked the Klingensmith twins. They were respectful, resourceful, and quite useful. They piled into the booth, Spencer’s ass half hanging over the bench’s edge. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do …’

The zombie intervention between the JADL demonstrators and the anti–wild card protesters had the unfortunate effect of intensifying the conflict. The ensuing publicity brought out not only more protesters on both sides – many more on the anti–wild card side – but literally hundreds of curious bystanders who were determined to view the next scene in the drama unreeling before their eager eyes. The number of police officers manning the barrier keeping the opposing groups apart had also increased dramatically, but Ray could easily read the concern on their faces. Something had to be done to defuse the situation before real violence erupted.

Ray was hopeful that his talk with Hoodoo Mama had dissuaded her from further use of her undead hordes – at least for now – but the swelling numbers of participants on both sides of the controversy had him worried.

The pro-refugee faction had maybe doubled in size, but the numbers of those protesting against the Kazakh newcomers had swelled almost exponentially, both in numbers and in passion.

It was hard to say what looked angrier, the crowd waving their signs and screaming imprecations at the moored freighter, or the morning sky, which was black with thunderheads that threatened a cloudburst at any moment. It was not a happy morning, and Ray saw that the only thing that could possibly make it worse was about to occur.

Evangelique Jones arrived on the scene. She looked glad to see Ray, which immediately made him suspicious. ‘Well, Director Ray,’ she said with a smile that was smug and gloating at the same time, ‘word has come down from Washington. Their final decision, so to say.’

Ray flashed back to what he’d learned the night before.

‘They’ve decided on asylum? That was fast.’

Evangelique nodded. ‘Twenty-nine of them will be afforded political refugee status. The rest will be accorded sanctuary on an island off the coast of Northern Ireland—’

‘Rathlin,’ Ray interrupted.

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘How did you know?’

Ray shrugged. He didn’t want to give away his source of inside information. He should have kept his mouth shut, but it was too late. ‘Where else could it be? I mean – it’s been used as a joker sanctuary in the past.’

‘Yessss,’ the ICE agent said. Before she could add anything, a huge clap of thunder sounded and lightning streaked across the sky and it opened up to a steady fall of rain.

Ray looked up as the droplets pattered upon his face, soaking him almost instantly. ‘Maybe this’ll disperse the crowd,’ he said hopefully.

But the sudden downpour did nothing to break up the mob that was now surging back and forth in a wavelike manner. It served instead to seem to rile them up, make them even more convinced of their anger.

‘Hey,’ Ray suddenly said, ‘I know those guys!’

Jones frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Him,’ Ray said, and then corrected himself, ‘I mean them.’

He pointed to a large figure at the head of the JADL contingent. He – they – were a large joker bifurcated from the waist up with two torsos, two sets of shoulders and arms, and, of course, two heads. Each held a sign in a brawny arm. One read Welcome refugees!, the other, Foreigners go home! They seemed to be arguing with each other. Their argument quickly evolved into a shoving match that a couple of cops moved in quickly to break up, then stopped, stumped.

‘I used them as an informant back in the day – Rick and Mick.’ Ray sighed. ‘They could never get along.’

The onlookers and both batches of protesters were enjoying the show, shouting encouragement at them and egging them on. They started swatting at each other with their signs. The pair overtipped and crashed into one of the segments of waist-high fencing that separated the two groups. Their weight crushed it to the ground, bringing down a section of fence maybe ten feet long.

For a moment there was silence, then an angry surge forward by the larger anti–wild card faction, who saw a clear path to the JADL demonstrators.

‘Crap,’ Ray muttered. He realized that he was saying that a lot lately. He looked almost desperately at his team. They were too few to do much against the hundreds surging forward to take out their frustrations on the smaller number of joker counterprotesters. If only Washington had supplied him with some heavy hitters they could at least—

‘Centigrade!’ Ray suddenly barked. He couldn’t make himself add the man’s self-appointed rank.

Spencer stepped forward, a little uncertainly. ‘Sir?’ he asked in a more hesitant than military manner.

‘Do your stuff.’

‘Sir?’

Ray gestured at the scene before them. ‘Make it snow. Make it snow like it was fucking Christmas.’

It finally dawned on the colonel. ‘Yes, sir!’ He stepped away from the others.

‘What in the world?’ Jones asked as Spencer’s face froze in a mask of fierce concentration. A minute passed, then she angrily turned to Ray. ‘If you don’t tell me what that man—’

Ray pointed his right hand at her to shush her and pointed to the sky with his left.

You could just barely see it against the dark thunderheads and the streams of rain as the first snowflakes formed. A cool breeze swept down over them as in an area maybe a hundred yards across and directly above the heads of the demonstrators, sleet started to fall among the raindrops.

When the first bits of ice hit the protesters an uncertain note rumbled through the crowd. Some looked up unbelievingly at the sky. Some pointed, some cried out loud. As the rain fell it was turning to snow about fifty or sixty feet above their heads. Snow. In New Orleans. In the summer. It was … unnatural …

Within moments the surging crowd had stopped. Everyone, the bystanders, the demonstrators on both sides, the cops standing gallantly between them, looked up at the sky, mixed wonder and fear on their faces.

Ray and the others, still getting soaked by the warm rain, could nonetheless feel the chilling breeze blowing from the pocket of extraordinary weather that was now pelting down on the demonstrators as a mix of big, fluffy snowflakes and freezing sleet.

Ray looked from the sky to Colonel Centigrade. His teeth were clenched now, his face was white. Cords stood out on his neck and he was shaking. He looked about ready to collapse.

‘Hold on!’ Ray barked. ‘Concentrate! Another minute—’

The demonstrators had withstood the muggy heat, the harsh sun, even zombies, all of which were to be expected in New Orleans. But a snowstorm? No. That was freakishly grotesque. Voodoo of the worst sort. And goddamned cold.

The mass of demonstrators broke and ran, streaming away through various cross streets, along with the crowd that had gathered to watch the show, leaving only the puzzled and shivering police still manning the barricades.

‘All right, Centigrade,’ Ray snapped, ‘at ease!’

Spencer swayed on his feet and would have collapsed if Maximillian Klingensmith hadn’t grabbed him. Or maybe it was Harrison. Ray wasn’t sure.

‘He did that?’ Jones asked unbelievingly.

Ray nodded, smiling at Spencer, who was grinning weakly as he leaned on his fellow agent.

‘Yes, he did,’ Ray said proudly.

She barely, Ray noted, suppressed a shiver as a flicker of – what? – disgust, perhaps, flashed across her face. ‘All right.’ Jones looked up at the sky. It was still raining. ‘I suppose he can’t stop that?’

Ray shook his head. ‘Not part of his powers.’

‘No. Of course not.’ Jones ran her hand through her hair, which had collapsed in soggy ringlets around her face, pushing it back. ‘Well, rain or shine, it’s my duty to serve these papers.’

Ray hazarded a guess. ‘Max?’

The agent keeping Colonel Centigrade from collapsing with weariness nodded.

‘Take the colonel back to the motel.’ He’d earned that with his heroic efforts, Ray thought. ‘Get him whatever he needs – food, drink, dry clothes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Max said, and Spencer managed a tiny sneeze.

‘And for God’s sake,’ Ray added, ‘get him something for that cold.’ He looked at Jones. ‘The rest of us will accompany Agent Jones to the Schröder.’

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Jones said.

‘I’m in charge of your security,’ Ray replied, ‘and I think it is. After all, you’re going to be delivering news to a large number of people who might take it very badly.’

Jones frowned. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘Perhaps I am,’ Ray said.

The conditions aboard the Schröder hadn’t changed. It would be hard, Ray reflected, for it to get much worse, and there was no way it was going to get any better.

Jones had ordered the ship’s entire complement to gather on deck, probably, Ray thought, because she’d learned somehow that the news had already reached the refugees, who were regarding her with what could only be silent anger on their faces. Or maybe, he thought, she was just being cautious and figured that she’d be safer there than down in the hold. And also because it just smelled so bad down there.

Backed by Ray, Moon, the Angel, and the Klingensmith brother known as Huginn, she stood on a small raised platform on the bow in front of a set of hatches that led down into the hold, waiting impatiently as all crew and passengers gathered around on the main deck. Fortunately the rain had ceased just before they’d boarded the ship and the blazing sun was doing its best to dry up all the excess moisture that had leaked down from the sky. Ray could feel steam rising from his suit.

It took more than a few minutes for them all to assemble. Olena stood before Jones, who looked down impassively from the height of the raised platform from which she could survey the deck. Dr Pretorius stood with Olena, as did the young woman ace, Tulpar, and the Handsmith, a broad, chunky man with his hands wrapped in strips of burlap. His son, Nurassyl, was next to him, looking like a ghost draped in a sheet, his exposed flesh glistening with the moisture that he exuded, supported by a platform of tiny wriggling tentacles in lieu of feet. Ray recognized some others from the initial meeting, though the JADL representatives were both missing, as was the young priest.

Ray heard the Angel suddenly hiss angrily and he turned and saw Marcus Morgan, the Infamous Black Tongue, coiled behind and partly concealed by a freight derrick midway down the deck. From the waist up he was naked, exposing the body of a fit, young African-American man. He was naked from the waist down, too, but the rest of him was that of an outsized coral snake, glistening in alternating bands of black, yellow, and scarlet scales. He made the largest anaconda look like a garter snake.

The Angel clenched her teeth, took a step forward. Ray laid a warning hand on her shoulder and she angrily shrugged it off. She and IBT, as he called himself, had fought a personal duel at the conclusion of the Talas episode that had left her badly wounded. It had taken her months to recover from her injuries and that had coincided with her long slide into post-traumatic stress.

Ray was unsure what effect seeing him again would have on her. Basically, it seemed to be making her angry, which was something at least. He didn’t know if it was good or bad, but at least his presence was eliciting some sort of reaction.

Jones cleared her throat and began to speak.

‘I am Evangelique Jones, of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I have passed on to Washington your lawyer’s’ – and here she fixed Dr Pretorius with a hard stare that he calmly returned – ‘brief, which has been considered at the highest levels of government. The request for asylum has been granted—’

At this seemingly miraculous reversal of their fortunes an eruption of cheers exploded from the refugees, which built higher and higher as those who understood English translated for those who didn’t. Jones fell silent and looked on with a small smile on her face until the cheering and hugging and cries of joy slowly died down.

Ray could hardly believe the evident glee she was taking in delivering her message in this provocative manner. Even the Angel seemed to forget about IBT and stared at her incredulously.

‘—to the following individuals,’ Jones continued in a loud, satisfied voice. ‘Olena Davydenko. The individual known as the Handsmith. His son, Nurassyl. Inkar Omarov, also known as the Tulpar—’

She continued to read off the names, slowly, sonorously, enjoying the looks on the faces below her as the hope began to drain out of them as they realized that all of those who’d been granted asylum were the few nats among them, the even fewer aces, and those rare jokers with useful abilities or money. After reading off the twenty-ninth name Jones folded the document and looked up impassively.

‘The rest of you,’ she intoned, ‘will remain aboard the Schröder until such time she can be refueled, whence she shall leave the territorial water of the United States and set course to Rathlin Island off the coast of Northern Ireland, where you shall be granted permanent refuge.’

‘This is outrageous!’ Pretorius shouted. ‘I shall appeal!’

Jones looked at him calmly. ‘As I told you, this has been considered at the highest levels of the American government. There is no appeal.’

‘I will not leave my people,’ the Handsmith shouted.

His cry was echoed by others whom Jones had named, anger in every voice.

‘Moon,’ Ray said quietly. ‘Get ready to change.’

The collie standing by the Angel’s side nodded.

The crowd of refugees made an almost instinctive surge forward. Jones, nonplussed, blinked at the anger and hatred she saw on the hundreds of faces before them.

‘Now,’ Ray said, and instead of a friendly collie, a dire wolf stood on the platform with them, six hundred pounds of sin with fangs like a saber-toothed tiger.

The crowd stopped as one, though IBT slithered forward, shouldering aside refugees as he pushed his way to the front. Inkar Omarov transformed as quickly and smoothly as Moon had, becoming the Tulpar of Kazakh legend, the golden-coated, eagle-winged horse with razor-sharp hooves.

‘Stop!’ Dr Pretorius limped forward, pushing himself to stand between Jones and the SCARE agents and the seething crowd of refugees. ‘Nothing will be solved by violence! There is another way. There must be another way.’

The aging lawyer dominated the scene by the sheer force of his personality, stemming the tide of rage before it overwhelmed the situation.

‘You expect us to turn away and slink off into the darkness,’ Olena said heatedly, ‘when we have no fuel, no food? How can we even hope to recross the Atlantic—’

‘As I told you,’ Jones said with surprising calmness, ‘the United States will be more than pleased to fill your fuel tanks. It’s a cheap enough price to pay to be rid of you.’

‘But the food,’ Olena added, ‘we’re almost out—’

Jones shrugged. ‘Can’t help you there,’ she said. ‘There’s been no official requisition for supplies—’

Ray had suddenly had enough. ‘Screw that,’ he said. He reached into his back pants pocket, took out his wallet. ‘Harry,’ he said to the agent by his side, ‘take this.’ He handed him a credit card. ‘Go clean out a 7-Eleven or something. Get a boatload of food—’

‘Director Ray,’ Jones said in a hard voice.

‘We’re talking about children, here,’ Ray said stiffly. ‘Children, women, old people – hell, no one deserves to starve.’

‘Wait,’ Pretorius said. He took his own wallet out of a pocket in his jacket and extracted a card. ‘I appreciate the generous offer, Agent Ray.’ He held out a card. ‘But take mine. It probably has a higher limit.’

It was black.

Ray and Pretorius locked gazes, and Ray nodded. ‘Do it,’ he said to the young agent. He quirked an eyebrow, and Huginn nodded. He stepped away from the others and took the card Pretorius offered. He turned, headed for the police launch that was awaiting them.

‘Well,’ Jones said. ‘Is anyone accompanying us to shore?’

There was a ripple in the crowd, as if a wind were blowing, but not one of the named refugees stepped forward.

Jones swept them with her gaze. ‘Fools,’ she said. She followed Huginn to the launch.

‘Let’s go.’ Ray took the Angel’s arm, and she started at the touch, like a nervous horse. She looked at him with something of the old fire in her eyes, then nodded.

‘Moon,’ Ray said, ‘you’d better power down. I don’t think there’s enough room in the launch for you in this form.’

The agent was a collie before Ray could blink. She smiled and wagged her tail.

Ray turned to Pretorius. ‘Harry will be back with the food as soon as he can.’

‘Thank you,’ Pretorius said simply.

Ray shrugged. ‘Like I said. None of these people deserve to starve.’ Then he added in a low voice that only the lawyer could hear, ‘One of the boys is going to stick around for a while. Kind of keep an eye on things.’

‘I understand,’ Pretorius said. ‘He’ll be safe.’

‘Maybe,’ Ray said, ‘there is a way where we can work this out.’

Evangelique Jones was as good as her word. By that afternoon a tanker had moseyed up to the Schröder and was pumping enough fuel into her tanks to get them back across the Atlantic.

Ray and the rest of the SCARE team waited on the riverbank. Some protestors from both sides had reassembled, but the earlier storm had taken the starch out of their attitude. Rick and Mick were not to be seen. Probably, Ray thought, off arguing about what to have for dinner.

Ray realized that it would all eventually build up until it started to chafe and something set it off again. More violence was inevitable as long as the Schröder was moored in sight of everyone. He hoped that she wouldn’t be there much longer. He was sympathetic to the plight of the refugees, but there wasn’t much he could do for them, other than ensure their safety when they were still under his watch. And that he was going to do.

They waited patiently until Harry Klingensmith returned with a rental truck full of food and supplies.

They helped the crew of the police launch, moored as usual at the small dock near their vantage point, load the supplies. It took several trips for the launch to ferry it all across to the Schröder. Obviously, there wasn’t enough to provide provisions for the refugees for a voyage across the ocean, but for now it would furnish them with a decent meal after days of rationing.

It took a couple of hours to get all the groceries unloaded. When the task was finished Ray thanked the launch’s crew for their help and then he and the others headed back to the motel. No one noticed that Max Klingensmith had remained on the Schröder.

They all crowded into the room shared by Ray and the Angel. Colonel Centigrade was lying on the bed, still exhausted and fighting his bad head cold. Moon, still in her collie form, curled up next to him on the bed, but watched alertly as Harrison Klingensmith took the room’s only comfortable chair, settled into it. The Angel looked on with some interest while Ray paced restlessly back and forth across the small room.

‘What can you see?’ he asked the pale, scarecrow-thin SCARE agent.

Huginn screwed both eyes shut tightly, frowning with concentration. When he opened them he stared at the plain, dull green drapes drawn across the hotel room window.

‘I see,’ he intoned in a soft, faraway voice, ‘people eating.’

Ray made an impatient sound.

‘Munnin,’ he added, ‘is panning the room. It looks mostly calm. Most seem resigned, some are angry.’

He went on, narrating the scene as if it were a movie, relaying what his twin brother could see with his own left eye. His right eye saw just the blank cloth of the drapery he was staring at. This mixed vision shared by two minds could be disorienting as hell, which was why he concentrated his own sight on a neutral view. His brother also saw what he saw from his left eye. Their ace had no distance limit and could never be turned off. Unfortunately – or, for them, perhaps fortunately – vision was the only sense they shared, and it had taken long and hard practice to get used to the disorientation this collective sight caused. It was, of course, an ideal means of instantaneously transferring information.

‘Hold on – something’s happening. Max is leaving the hold where most of the refugees are encamped.’

‘Why?’ Ray stopped pacing.

‘Hard to say. He’s being stealthy, though. Sneaking. He’s good at that. Sticking to shadows, ducking. He’s on deck. It’s dark now, nighttime. He’s watching a small launch approach. Men are coming aboard.’

‘How many?’

‘I count eight. Max is going to the bridge. Olena’s there with the captain and some of his officers and the man you described as the JADL liaison, who’s talking to them. He looks worried, like he’s trying to tell them something they’re not believing. Max is concealed outside the bridge, but he can hear them. Hold on. He’s writing something – we carry pads to communicate complicated messages. I can read it as he writes. Robicheaux says that you can’t trust the man called Witness. He’s gotten in touch with his contacts in Cuba – someone from the Gambione family. No one in Havana knows anything about the Schröder getting asylum there. But they know this guy Witness – he’s heavily into human trafficking.’

‘I knew it,’ the Angel said between clenched teeth. ‘I knew they couldn’t trust the bastard.’

‘Wait – the men are coming to the bridge. Max is retreating into deeper cover. The one leading them is big, blond, muscles like a weightlifter. Handsome, except for a smashed nose. The men with him are armed. They’re dragging the old guy from the bridge, Olena is trying to stop them but they’re pushing her down. She’s screaming. They’re – they’re throwing the old guy off the side of the ship. That guy, that snake guy is coming fast, to the bridge. They’re shooting at him—’

‘Damn!’ Ray said. ‘We’ve got to get there, fast! We should have staked out someplace closer, dammit!’

‘The Schröder’s engines are starting. There’s commotion on the Coast Guard cutter. Lights are going on all over her!’

‘Angel—’ Ray said.

‘I can’t help you,’ she said numbly. ‘You know I can’t.’ She couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Ray stood before her, took her arms, and lifted her from her chair. Supporting her weight, he held her upright before him.

‘You have to,’ he said. ‘But not me. You have to help those people on that goddamned boat. There’s no telling what will happen to them.’

‘I’m sorry—’

‘I know you are,’ Ray said earnestly. ‘And I know you’re hurt. I understand if you can’t do this anymore. But if you have anything left, now’s the time to dig down deep and find it. Just get me there – that’s all you have to do. I promise.’

Ray could feel her body stiffen, her legs take her weight, and she stood upright, on her own.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘but we’d better step outside.’

Ray smiled. ‘Good point,’ he said. He turned to the others. ‘Follow as quickly as you can.’

He tossed the keys to the Escalade to Huginn and hand in hand he and the Angel ran out the motel room door, down the hallway, and to a side exit off the first floor.

The night was hot and muggy, as usual for New Orleans. They stood together in the parking lot, bathed in the light of the incandescent bulbs illuminating the rows of cars.

The Angel put her arms around him. ‘I could drink a case of you,’ she murmured, and pulled him close.

He put his arms around her and they kissed. Ray felt as if he could feel the hurt and need in her and kissed her as if to draw it all out of her and into himself. After a moment he felt heat all around him and he knew it for the touch of the unburning flames that covered her wings, and suddenly they were airborne. Ray could feel the rush of the breeze from her beating wings upon his face and he laughed aloud as the Angel’s strength bore him effortlessly through the sky.

The city of New Orleans was spread below them, its streets outlined by lamplights and rows of car headlights moving like tracers over the ground. After the Angel gained sufficient altitude she turned toward the river and the bend bordering the French Quarter. It took only a minute or two, traveling as the angel flies, until they could see the lighted deck of the Schröder moving on the river, being pursued by half a dozen launches as well as the Coast Guard cutter Triton, which was quickly gaining on her.

‘She’s under way,’ Ray said.

The Angel’s expression was serene as a Madonna’s. Ray felt a stab of happiness to see her so. All the cares and worry and anxiety were washed away from her face as she bore them both through the sky.

Ray frowned as he looked down at the ship. ‘She’s moving pretty fast,’ he said. ‘The cutter is trying to block her way – they’re going to collide!’

The ships hit with the anguished scream of shrieking metal as the Angel spiraled down to the Schröder’s main deck. The much larger freighter smashed the cutter aside as if she were a plastic toy. The Coast Guard vessel buckled where the freighter’s prow struck her amidships. The Schröder continued to plow serenely upstream as the Triton broke into two pieces. The launches trailing the runaway freighter stopped to pick up sailors who’d abandoned the wrecked and rapidly sinking Triton.

The Angel touched down on the stern of the freighter, unnoticed in the darkness.

‘All right,’ Ray said quietly. ‘You stay here. I’m going to go see what the hell is going on.’

The Angel shook her head. ‘No, I’m coming with you.’

‘You going to be all right?’ he asked, his expression concerned.

‘Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know that there’s someone I wouldn’t mind seeing again.’

‘All right. If you’re sure.’

‘I already said that I’m not.’ Ray didn’t mind the impatience in her voice and in her expression. It was at least a sign of engagement, of a return to the world. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’ She smiled and Ray liked that even better. ‘One sword at least thy right shall guard.’

Ray remembered those same words spoken a dozen years ago and moved off into the darkness feeling whole for the first time in a long time.

The decks were deserted and quiet. His first thought was for the refugees. They found a companionway headed down into the hold and cat-footed it into the eerily lit space where they bivouacked. The lighting was provided by strung bulbs of low wattage that gleamed like will-o’-the-wisps hovering over a swamp. The air still smelled terrible. As they went silently down the ladder, they could see the mass of people sitting and standing in close ranks in the cramped hold, three men covering them with automatic rifles.

‘Jesus,’ one of them was saying, ‘what a sorry-assed lot. Be lucky if one in ten of them was worth keeping.’

‘They are a pretty useless bunch of rag-heads. Still, I reckon some of them will bring a nice price. The rest, well, fuck ’em. They can go down with the ship when we scuttle it.’

‘Hey,’ said the third, the one in the middle, ‘give me a cig, will you? I need something to cover up the stench in here.’

Ray reached the hold’s floor, maybe twenty feet behind them.

‘I need a light myself.’ The three men sidled together, keeping their rifles pointed at the mass of people in front of them. Many of the refugees, at least those who hadn’t sunken into complete lethargy, must have seen Ray creeping as stealthily as a panther, but no one gave him away with either a look or a gesture.

One of the men cradled his rifle to his side under his arm while he bent down to light his cigarette with the match offered him by the middle man, while the third reached for a packet he kept in his shirt pocket.

Morons, Ray thought, and when he was six feet away sprang with his arms widespread.

He grabbed the collars of the man to the right and to the left and smashed both their heads into that of the man in the middle. The colliding skulls made satisfyingly loud sounds. Ray held the two up by their collars as their knees sagged while the third slipped silently to the hold’s floor.

The refugees looked almost as stunned as Ray’s victims as he shook the two guards like a terrier with rats in its jaws, just to make sure they were out, then swiftly checked them all for more weapons. ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ he told the refugees, ‘someone tie them up.’

Twenty-odd prisoners leaped forward in response. It probably would have gone more efficiently if they didn’t keep getting in one another’s way, but Ray let them have their fun. In a few moments the three were tied and gagged and Ray had distributed their guns to refugees who professed familiarity with the weapons.

‘Keep your eye on them while we take care of the rest,’ Ray told them.

‘Let us go with you,’ one of the Kazakhs offered.

Ray shook his head. ‘This job is for professionals. You stay here and guard these bozos.’

They reluctantly accepted his advice, and Ray returned to the stairway, where the Angel stood watching him.

‘I didn’t think you’d need my help,’ she said.

Ray snorted. ‘Not with those idiots. But there’s five left. Let’s check the bridge.’

The Angel nodded, and they went up the walkway to the deck above, where all was still darkness. Ahead, in the bow, they could see the lit bridge and the figures who occupied it, who were unidentifiable at this distance.

They moved quietly toward the light. Halfway there, Ray put out his arm in warning and he and the Angel stopped. They could hear something slithering before them in the darkness.

‘The snake,’ the Angel said quietly, and suddenly before them loomed IBT.

Ray thrust himself forward between him and the Angel.

‘Stop right there,’ Ray said coldly, ‘or I will seriously fuck you up.’

The human part of IBT’s body was raised up. He was as tall as a tall man standing, while the coils of his snake body writhed behind him.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Billy Ray,’ Ray replied, ‘and I owe you big for what you did to my wife.’

‘Wife?’ The expression on the joker-ace’s face went puzzled. ‘I don’t—’ He suddenly caught sight of the Angel beside Ray. ‘She’s your wife?’

‘That’s right,’ Ray said in a flat voice.

‘I remember,’ the Infamous Black Tongue said. ‘It was in Kazakhstan, on the battlefield. Neither of us were in our right minds then.’

‘Whatever—’ Ray said, and the Angel took his arm, stopping him before he could move.

‘He’s right, Billy,’ the Angel said. ‘It’s what you’ve been telling me all this time.’

‘I am sorry for what happened,’ IBT said.

‘As am I,’ the Angel replied. ‘But there’s no time for apologies now. What’s happening on the bridge?’

‘We made a deal with the man who calls himself Witness. A million dollars to take us to refuge in Cuba. But it was all a trap – he just wanted the money and people he could sell into servitude. He plans to scuttle the ship once we’re out to sea, take off the ones he thinks would be useful, and let the old and infirm drown.’

‘Where’s the Witness?’ Ray asked.

‘On the bridge. He has Olena.’ IBT looked desperate. ‘We have to rescue her, but he has guns.’

For the first time Ray noticed that blood was oozing out of several segments of IBT’s colorful banded serpent body.

‘You’ve been shot,’ Ray said.

IBT shook his head. ‘That’s not important. He has Olena. We must rescue her.’

‘All right. Calm down,’ Ray said as he saw the desperate look return to the joker’s face. ‘Let’s see. There’s five of them—’

IBT shook his head. ‘Three. He sent out three men to guard the refugees in the hold—’

‘We took care of them,’ Ray said.

‘—and then two sentries to patrol the deck,’ IBT said, then added with some satisfaction, ‘and I took care of them.’

‘Okay,’ Ray said. He didn’t ask for details. ‘Uh, you didn’t run into a tall, pale, skinny guy in a dark suit, did you? Probably wearing a patch over one eye.’

‘No,’ IBT said.

‘Good. He’s one of us.’

IBT nodded.

‘All right,’ Ray said. ‘Time to take the bridge.’

It took only moments to arrange the ambush. IBT led them to a place of concealment where they had a decent view of the control room through the front windows shielding the bridge deck. The windows were already shot out, shattered in IBT’s original hopeless assault. They could see six people in the dim light of the chamber. Two were thugs with guns, one was Olena, the other two were the captain of the Schröder and his mate, who was steering the ship. The last—

‘It’s him,’ the Angel said.

It was the Witness. Ray had encountered him first during the mission on which he’d met the Midnight Angel. He knew that this Witness and the Angel had a history between them, but she’d never revealed the extent of it and he’d never asked her. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘no sense in putting this off.’ He looked at IBT. ‘Get in place. Move when you hear the shots.’

‘Give me three minutes,’ IBT said.

‘You got it,’ Ray said, and the Tongue slithered off into the darkness.

‘You don’t want to do this,’ the Angel said.

‘Kill these guys?’ Ray shrugged. ‘Not particularly.’

‘No.’ The Angel smiled. ‘You’re not cold-blooded. Hot-blooded, yes. But you can’t kill from ambush.’

‘There’s always a first time,’ Ray said.

‘Not if there’s another way.’

‘I told you. All you had to do is get me here. I would take care of the rest.’

‘I love you,’ the Angel said.

Ray smiled. ‘That’s good to hear.’

‘I know.’ She bowed her head. ‘Save me from evil, Lord,’ she prayed for the first time in months, ‘and heal this warrior’s heart.’

Her wings appeared and she shot up into the sky. She was above the sight line from the bridge in a second, a reverse meteor burning through the sky. In her hands, Ray saw, was her flaming sword. She flew above the bridge, cut her way through the roof, and dropped down on top of them. The sword cut two swaths through the air, left and right, and the barrels of the guns dropped, severed in two. She broke her grip on the sword’s hilt and it disappeared, going wherever the hell it went when she didn’t need it. Then she used her fists on them. They didn’t stand a chance.

‘You!’ the Witness said.

‘Me,’ the Angel agreed, and advanced on him.

He backed away, saying, ‘Not again, not again!’

‘Hmm,’ Ray said, and fired two shots into the air.

IBT burst through the door and threw a couple of loops of his body around the Witness.

‘The serpent!’ the Witness screamed. ‘Oh, God, not the serpent! Save me, oh, God, save me!’

IBT started to squeeze and the Witness screamed like a little girl.

Next to Ray, Maximillian Klingensmith appeared from out of the shadows.

‘Where you been?’ Ray asked.

‘Hiding from that snake guy,’ he said. ‘Everything under control?’

‘I guess so,’ Ray said.

But, no, Ray realized. Their troubles were far from over.

He stood in what remained of the bridge, with the Angel, Olena, IBT, and the Schröder’s captain and mate. The Witness, who’d fainted dead away when the IBT had grabbed him, was tied up with his surviving men in the hold. The Schröder was still steaming upriver, being chased by more launches and followed on the road running alongside the river by a line of screaming police cars, their sirens wailing in the night.

‘Now what?’ Olena said miserably. ‘Our last hope is gone. Cuba was our last haven. What can we do now? We can’t let them be taken to Rathlin. That’s a prison sentence, a virtual death sentence.’

They all exchanged glances.

‘Well,’ Ray said, ‘far be it from me to encourage illegal behavior, but I think your best chance is to run for it.’

‘What?’ Olena said.

Ray shrugged. ‘Find someplace, run the ship aground, and leg it. Some of the refugees will probably be caught, but you can hardly have a more emotionally heart-touching revelation of their plight. The publicity will be killer. In the meantime, many will get away. It’s a big country. I’m sure there’s people out there willing to help, one way or another.’

‘But you, you say this? You represent the government.’

Ray sighed. ‘I’ve represented the government for forty years, and if it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the government isn’t always right. The right thing for them in this case was to help your people, not turn their backs on them.’

‘The Lord,’ the Angel said quietly, ‘helps those who help themselves.’

‘There you go,’ Ray said.

Olena and IBT looked at each other. Then she looked at the captain.

‘Can this be done safely?’

‘Relatively,’ he said.

‘But your ship?’

He sighed. ‘My ship is old and so am I. I think we are both ready to retire.’

Olena took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Are we doing the right thing here, Angel?’ Ray asked as they watched the crowd of refugees swarm the deck.

‘I think you’ve given them their best chance,’ she said.

They looked at Munnin. The patch was back over his left eye. ‘I see nothing,’ he said.

‘That’s probably for the best,’ Ray said. ‘Better hang on.’

They all grabbed onto the derrick in the center of the deck as the captain ran the ship aground. It hit the riverbank in the midst of a dark industrial area that consisted of large buildings set in a warren of narrow streets and alleys. The ship shuddered with a groaning cry of old metal tearing. Although the three kept their feet, on the deck below them many of the refugees went down. Some skidded and rolled, but most all got to their feet immediately and it was every man, woman, and child for themselves. They swarmed down gangplanks and ladders. The confident swimmers went over the side and into the water below.

The launches following them stopped dead, the police cars racing up the road skidded to a halt. The three SCARE agents watched the show unfold. It was like watching a surrealistic version of an old Keystone Kops movie with sound effects.

The refugees, vastly outnumbering their pursuers, were fleeing in all directions. Some few, of course, were caught.

Gunfire erupted from one police boat as someone started shooting at those who were swimming for it. Suddenly a vast, dark form erupted out of the river. It slammed into the launch, half lifting it out of the water. The launch rocked uncontrollably, and to Ray’s astonishment he realized that the attacker was a giant alligator. It was the largest gator that Ray had ever seen, fifteen feet long if it was an inch. The gator managed to hook a leg over the edge of the boat and clambered aboard like an avenging demon. It swept the boat clean of cops using its tail and then bellowed, its cry roaring eerily into the night. Using its snout as a battering ram, it sank the boat, then slipped under the water.

‘That’s not something you see every day,’ Ray remarked.

A barge rowed by zombies cut through the water, picking up a handful of refugees. Ray could see the Handsmith and his son among them before it disappeared into the darkness.

A golden creature, the winged Tulpar, appeared on the shore and charged the lead car in the police caravan that was chasing refugees who were fleeing into the warren of warehouses and industrial plants, smashing in its hood with her razor-sharp hooves. She leaped up onto the car’s roof, crumpling it, and managed to cripple half a dozen more before vanishing into the night.

The show was interrupted when Evangelique Jones appeared in one of the launches, looking up at them on the Schröder’s deck and shouting.

‘What’s going on here?’ she cried. ‘Why aren’t you helping to round up these illegal aliens?’

‘Not my assignment,’ Ray called down.

‘I’ll have your badge for this!’ Jones screamed at him.

‘All right,’ Ray said. He took it out and scaled it down at her. As usual, his aim was impeccable. It hit her in her ample bosom and fell down at her feet. She stared at him, her jaw dropping.

Ray looked at the Angel. She laughed aloud for the first time in way too long. Ray smiled at her. Her aim wasn’t as good. Hers plunked down into the river somewhere near the launch’s bow. Ray looked at Max.

‘You might want to hang on to yours.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the young agent said stoically.

‘It was nice working with you,’ Ray said.

‘Nice working with you, sir,’ Max replied.

Arm in arm, Ray and the Angel walked down one of the gangplanks leading to the riverbank. He felt relieved. Almost light-headed. For the first time in years it seemed as if nothing, not a single part of his body, hurt.

‘What now?’ the Angel asked.

Ray pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and saying it felt very good.

They’d walked a couple of miles down the riverbank back toward New Orleans, when Ray suddenly stopped.

‘Crap,’ he said. ‘I forgot all about the Witness and his men tied up in the Schröder’s hold.’

The Angel looked at him. ‘Would you think less of me if I told you that I hadn’t?’

Ray shrugged. ‘Oh well. Maybe someone will find them.’

Laughing, they resumed their stroll, heading toward the rising sun.