Part 2 (1/2)

Tom brightened. 'I think I know it. On Louden, actually, just off off Atlantic.' Atlantic.'

'Right. Let's go there. We can check the TV And I want to call my wife.'

'On the room phone.'

'The room phone, check. I don't even have have a cell phone.' a cell phone.'

'I have one, but I left it home. It's broken. Rafe-my cat-knocked it off the counter. I was meaning to buy a new one this very day, but* listen. Mr. Riddell-'

'Clay.'

'Clay, then. Are you sure the phone in your room will be safe?'

Clay stopped. He hadn't even considered this idea. But if the landlines weren't okay, what would would be? He was about to say this to Tom when a sudden brawl broke out at the T station up ahead. There were cries of panic, screams, and more of that wild babbling-he recognized it for what it was now, the signature scribble of madness. The little knot of people that had been milling around the gray stone pillbox and the steps going below-ground broke up. A few of them ran into the street, two with their arms around each other, s.n.a.t.c.hing looks back over their shoulders as they went. More-most-ran into the park, all in different directions, which sort of broke Clay's heart. He felt better somehow about the two with their arms around each other. be? He was about to say this to Tom when a sudden brawl broke out at the T station up ahead. There were cries of panic, screams, and more of that wild babbling-he recognized it for what it was now, the signature scribble of madness. The little knot of people that had been milling around the gray stone pillbox and the steps going below-ground broke up. A few of them ran into the street, two with their arms around each other, s.n.a.t.c.hing looks back over their shoulders as they went. More-most-ran into the park, all in different directions, which sort of broke Clay's heart. He felt better somehow about the two with their arms around each other.

Still at the T station and on their feet were two men and two women.

Clay was pretty sure it was they who had emerged from the station and driven off the rest. As Clay and Tom stood watching from half a block away, these remaining four fell to fighting with each other. This brawl had the hysterical, killing viciousness he had already seen, but no discernible pattern. It wasn't three against one, or two against two, and it certainly wasn't the boys against the girls; in fact, one of the 'girls' was a woman who looked to be in her middle sixties, with a stocky body and a no-nonsense haircut that made Clay think of several women teachers he'd known who were nearing retirement.

They fought with feet and fists and nails and teeth, grunting and shouting and circling the bodies of maybe half a dozen people who had already been knocked unconscious, or perhaps killed. One of the men stumbled over an outstretched leg and went to his knees. The younger of the two women dropped on top of him. The man on his knees swept something up from the pavement at the head of the stairs-Clay saw with no surprise whatever that it was a cell phone-and slammed it into the side of the woman's face. The cell phone shattered, tearing the woman's cheek open and showering a freshet of blood onto the shoulder of her light jacket, but her scream was of rage rather than pain. She grabbed the kneeling man's ears like a pair of jughandles, dropped her own knees into his lap, and shoved him backwards into the gloom of the T's stairwell. They went out of sight locked together and thras.h.i.+ng like cats in heat.

'Come on,' Tom murmured, twitching Clay's s.h.i.+rt with an odd delicacy. 'Come on. Other side of the street. Come on.'

Clay allowed himself to be led across Boylston Street. He a.s.sumed that either Tom McCourt was watching where they were going or he was lucky, because they got to the other side okay. They stopped again in front of Colonial Books (Best of the Old, Best of the New), watching as the unlikely victor of the T station battle went striding into the park in the direction of the burning plane, with blood dripping onto her collar from the ends of her zero-tolerance gray hair. Clay wasn't a bit surprised that the last one standing had turned out to be the lady who looked like a librarian or Latin teacher a year or two away from a gold watch. He had taught with his share of such ladies, and the ones who made it to that age were, more often than not, next door to indestructible.

He opened his mouth to say something like this to Tom-in his mind it sounded quite witty-and what came out was a watery croak. His vision had come over s.h.i.+mmery, too. Apparently Tom McCourt, the little man in the tweed suit, wasn't the only one having trouble with his waterworks. Clay swiped an arm across his eyes, tried again to talk, and managed no more than another of those watery croaks.

'That's okay,' Tom said. 'Better let it come.'

And so, standing there in front of a shop window filled with old books surrounding a Royal typewriter hailing from long before the era of cellular communications, Clay did. He cried for Power Suit Woman, for Pixie Light and Pixie Dark, and he cried for himself, because Boston was not his home, and home had never seemed so far.

6.

Above the Common Boylston Street narrowed and became so choked with cars-both those wrecked and those plain abandoned-that they no longer had to worry about kamikaze limos or rogue Duck Boats. Which was a relief. From all around them the city banged and crashed like New Year's Eve in h.e.l.l. There was plenty of noise close by, as well-car alarms and burglar alarms, mostly-but the street itself was for the moment eerily deserted. Get under cover, Get under cover, Officer Ulrich Ashland had said. Officer Ulrich Ashland had said. You've been lucky once. You may not be lucky again. You've been lucky once. You may not be lucky again.

But, two blocks east of Colonial Books and still a block from Clay's not-quite-fleabag hotel, they were were lucky again. Another lunatic, this one a young man of perhaps twenty-five with muscles that looked tuned by Nautilus and Cybex, bolted from an alley just in front of them and went das.h.i.+ng across the street, hurdling the locked b.u.mpers of two cars, foaming out an unceasing lava-flow of that nonsense-talk as he went. He held a car aerial in each hand and stabbed them rapidly back and forth in the air like daggers as he cruised his lethal course. He was naked except for a pair of what looked like brand-new Nikes with bright red swooshes. His c.o.c.k swung from side to side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock on speed. He hit the far sidewalk and sidewheeled west, back toward the Common, his b.u.t.t clenching and unclenching in fantastic rhythm. lucky again. Another lunatic, this one a young man of perhaps twenty-five with muscles that looked tuned by Nautilus and Cybex, bolted from an alley just in front of them and went das.h.i.+ng across the street, hurdling the locked b.u.mpers of two cars, foaming out an unceasing lava-flow of that nonsense-talk as he went. He held a car aerial in each hand and stabbed them rapidly back and forth in the air like daggers as he cruised his lethal course. He was naked except for a pair of what looked like brand-new Nikes with bright red swooshes. His c.o.c.k swung from side to side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock on speed. He hit the far sidewalk and sidewheeled west, back toward the Common, his b.u.t.t clenching and unclenching in fantastic rhythm.

Tom McCourt clutched Clay's arm, and hard, until this latest lunatic was gone, then slowly relaxed his grip. 'If he'd seen us-' he began.

'Yeah, but he didn't,' Clay said. He felt suddenly, absurdly happy. He knew that the feeling would pa.s.s, but for the moment he was delighted to ride it. He felt like a man who has successfully drawn to an inside straight with the biggest pot of the night lying on the table in front of him.

'I pity who he does does see,' Tom said. see,' Tom said.

'I pity who sees him,' him,' Clay said. 'Come on.' Clay said. 'Come on.'

7.

The doors of the Atlantic Avenue Inn were locked.

Clay was so surprised that for a moment he could only stand there, trying to turn the k.n.o.b and feeling it slip through his fingers, trying to get the idea through his head: locked. The doors of his hotel, locked against him.

Tom stepped up beside him, leaned his forehead against the gla.s.s to cut the glare, and peered in. From the north-from Logan, surely-came another of those monster explosions, and this time Clay only twitched. He didn't think Tom McCourt reacted at all. Tom was too absorbed in what he was seeing.

'Dead guy on the floor,' he announced at last. 'Wearing a uniform, but he really looks too old to be a bellhop.'

'I don't want anyone to carry my f.u.c.king luggage,' Clay said. 'I just want to go up to my room.'

Tom made an odd little snorting sound. Clay thought maybe the little guy was starting to cry again, then realized that sound was smothered laughter.

The double doors had ATLANTIC AVENUE INN ATLANTIC AVENUE INN printed on one gla.s.s panel and a blatant lie- printed on one gla.s.s panel and a blatant lie-BOSTON'S FINEST ADDRESS- printed on the other. Tom slapped the flat of his hand on the gla.s.s of the lefthand panel, between BOSTON'S FINEST ADDRESS BOSTON'S FINEST ADDRESS and a row of credit card decals. and a row of credit card decals.

Now Clay was peering in, too. The lobby wasn't very big. On the left was the reception desk. On the right was a pair of elevators. On the floor was a turkey-red rug. The old guy in the uniform lay on this, facedown, with one foot up on a couch and a framed Currier & Ives sailing-s.h.i.+p print on his a.s.s.

Clay's good feelings left in a rush, and when Tom began to hammer on the gla.s.s instead of just slap, he put his hand over Tom's fist. 'Don't bother,' he said. 'They're not going to let us in, even if they're alive and sane.' He thought about that and nodded. 'Especially 'Especially if they're sane.' if they're sane.'

Tom looked at him wonderingly. 'You don't get it, do you?'

'Huh? Get what?'

'Things have changed. They can't keep us out.' He pushed Clay's hand off his own, but instead of hammering, he put his forehead against the gla.s.s again and shouted. Clay thought he had a pretty good shouting voice on him for a little guy. 'Hey! 'Hey! Hey, in there!' Hey, in there!'

A pause. In the lobby nothing changed. The old bellman went on being dead with a picture on his a.s.s.

'Hey, if you're in there, you better open the door! The man I'm with is a paying guest of the hotel and I'm his his guest! Open up or I'm going to grab a curbstone and break the gla.s.s! You hear me?' guest! Open up or I'm going to grab a curbstone and break the gla.s.s! You hear me?'

'A curbstone?.' curbstone?.' Clay said. He started to laugh. 'Did you say Clay said. He started to laugh. 'Did you say curbstone? curbstone? Jolly Jolly good.' good.' He laughed harder. He couldn't help it. Then movement to his left caught his eye. He looked around and saw a teenage girl standing a little way farther up the street. She was looking at them out of haggard blue disaster-victim eyes. She was wearing a white dress, and there was a vast bib of blood on the front of it. More blood was crusted beneath her nose, on her lips and chin. Other than the b.l.o.o.d.y nose she didn't look hurt, and she didn't look crazy at all, just shocked. Shocked almost to death. He laughed harder. He couldn't help it. Then movement to his left caught his eye. He looked around and saw a teenage girl standing a little way farther up the street. She was looking at them out of haggard blue disaster-victim eyes. She was wearing a white dress, and there was a vast bib of blood on the front of it. More blood was crusted beneath her nose, on her lips and chin. Other than the b.l.o.o.d.y nose she didn't look hurt, and she didn't look crazy at all, just shocked. Shocked almost to death.

'Are you all right?' Clay asked. He took a step toward her and she took a corresponding step back. Under the circ.u.mstances, he couldn't blame her. He stopped but held a hand up to her like a traffic cop: Stay put. Stay put.