tried to take over, but Tommy was unreceptive. He ran; I followed. More lightning. He dodged between parked cars, knocked over a dead prostitute taking shelter from the rain in a doorway.
'Stupid motherfucker!' she screeched from a puddle-yellow satin dress soaked-her dead wares damp. 'You mother…'
Tommy ran wildly, apparently without a goal in mind. He just wanted to be anywhere away from the Arizona. I followed, rain passing through my substance without effort. More lightning. I hated lightning. I was too exposed.
Headlights, Tommy threw himself into the gutter behind a truck. I floated at the level of the passenger window. I recognized the engine. It rattled, the whole car rattled. Tommy leapt up so fast he passed through me. He ran for the street. The Chrysler bore down on him, and then slid through the rain to a halt. Tommy tore the passenger door open and jumped in.
Elmo's face was stretched with disbelief. 'Sorry, Boss…' His eyes scanned Tommy's body. 'I-I just missed you, they must'a been waitin'. I tried to break you out!' He reached for the plastic bindings at the clown's wrists
'Forget that! Drive!' Tommy screamed. 'Drive!' His fists beat the dashboard. 'Drive!'
Elmo's face was perplexed. His hands jittered over the wheel. 'Where?'
'Mother of God Cathedral, where the hell do you think?' A sob shook his bloody shoulders.
If Elmo was going to question this odd destination, he let the query die on his tongue. The Chrysler lurched ahead.
'Faster,' Tommy muttered. 'Faster.' He scratched around under the seat and found a pint bottle about half full. He drank from it. His eyes flashed to his waist, slid along the skipping rope belt. 'My gun?'
'Take mine, Boss.' Elmo pulled it from his shoulder holster with his right hand.
Tommy hugged the gat to his chest. 'We'll end it now-sanctuary or bust,' he mumbled. 'We'll end it now.' He glared at his bindings, and scowling tried to work them loose.
I'd have to wait to take over. Tommy's mind was a mess of contradiction and madness.
I had a lot of questions to ask Elmo, like: What did he see? Whom did he see? And who put the bullet holes in his chest?
Chapter 41
The Mother of God Cathedral was piled high into the flickering darkness of the storm. The lightning briefly illuminated the many stained-glass windows like half remembered dreams. A stone angel, sword in hand, flew over the enormous arched doors. His eyes were set with grim purpose. The vigilance on his features increased my curiosity. What was he guarding? What could be important enough to get an angel so worked up?
Tommy ordered Elmo to stay in the car. He flew out and up the steps. The rain was slowly scrubbing the paint from his cheeks. I looked back to where Elmo waited at the curb and saw his face jammed into the acute angle of the windshield, eyes wide. I tried to think of the day. Thursday, no, Friday now. How long did the Handyman have me before I woke up? It couldn't have been more than an hour. Things were happening too fast.
Tommy dropped to his knees in the shadow of the gigantic angel. 'Uriel, oh Uriel.' He suddenly twisted into a knot like he'd swallowed a fishhook. 'Uriel,' he sobbed, 'let me in, let me in.'
I didn't recognize the name. Through the incessant splatter of rain and grumbling sky I heard a shoe scuff pavement. Behind Tommy to the left was a man. He had the unmistakable broad beam of middle age. He was dressed in black. The collar of his long damp coat was tucked under his ear lobes and his hat was low, deepening his eyes. He hugged a briefcase and a paper bag that was oily and dark with rain. He moved quickly toward Tommy. The clown heard him and swung around with his gun at the ready. 'No, dark one!' he barked.
The man flinched, and in the action sent enough strain to his wet grocery bag to tear it to pieces. Fruit bounced off his feet, and a jar of pickles smashed-its contents rolled and bounced away like legless frogs.
'I mean no harm.' the stranger blurted; his voice as taut as wire.
'What do you want?' Tommy's was slurring noticeably, growing weak.
'I thought you needed my help.' He took a hesitant step forward.
'I want in, I think it's time to go.' Tommy began to wilt.
'You're injured, let me help you.' The priest moved another step. 'You can come in.'
Tommy's gun drooped. 'I'm fine. There's no need for alarm. Nothing to see here. The show's over.' He raised himself to one trembling leg, tried to get the other under him but failed. He sprawled over the spattering puddles, the gun sliding from his grasp. An epileptic spasm shook him as he made a last desperate attempt to rise. He failed. Tommy was unconscious in the rain.
The man hurried over, knelt by him. I could see his eyes study Tommy's form from boots to hair. He touched the plastic bindings on his wrists, shook his head. 'Dear Father,' he muttered. His arms slipped under Tommy and with great effort lifted him. 'Another castaway. Such a storm, Holy Father. What else will it wash up?'
I floated along overhead. The fellow took Tommy into the cathedral through a nondescript side door, then down a long, ornately paneled hallway. He stopped beside a door recessed in the wall. He had to lean Tommy's weight against the frame to struggle for the key. The door opened, the man turned on the light and then dropped Tommy on a large bed.
'My Goodness,' he muttered rubbing at his back. He produced a penknife from his pocket, easily released the clown's hands. Then he stripped Tommy of his clothes. 'What in Heaven?'
He stared at the wound on Tommy's head and shoulder, clicked his tongue then left momentarily. He returned with a small, metal box emblazoned with a Red Cross. He paused and studied a number of quarter-sized pockmarks that ran across Tommy's chest. 'Hmm, this is strange,' he murmured, then gently bathed and bound the new wounds. The vicious tear in his shoulder still oozed blood.
I was amazed. I couldn't remember the scars on Tommy's chest, and yet now that I'd seen them they raised a grim indeterminate specter in my mind. Perplexed, I watched the fellow produce a large cloth and soak it in alcohol. He worked it over Tommy's face. The makeup already streaked with blood and rain came away easily. I watched as the face appeared for the first time. It was strange. Almost boyish around the eyes, yet lines of age and the rough skin of maturity covered his cheeks. Again I asked myself, 'Why the makeup?' Christ, he didn't even have a hair lip. Then, the strangest thing happened. The priest smiled with recognition.
'Of course!' He nodded, resting a palm on Tommy's cheek. 'You again. The scars.' Fingertips like butterflies lit on them briefly. That was all he said. But it was the most profound thing I'd heard all night. With Tommy's wounds tended the priest gingerly slid him beneath the covers. The clown's black hair made a dark halo on the pillow.
'Sleep,' said the Priest. He left us then, and I heard him retrace his footsteps. I thought he would go to retrieve his briefcase and groceries, perhaps he would see Elmo, ask him questions.
I had to think before I let my hallucinogenic trance take over. I was weary of existing-bone tired without any bones. Who had been waiting for me at the Arizona? What the hell did they want me for? I suddenly remembered the charm on the Handyman's wrist. The ankh circling a swastika. The Twelve Stars? And I'd seen it before in Adrian's office.
My thoughts returned to the spectator. I couldn't forget the image of the glasses staring at me while the Handyman worked. The reflection of a cigarette calmly smoked while hidden eyes watched my torment. The voice had been too familiar. What had happened to Van Reydner? Who shot Elmo? If questions were currency, I'd be a rich man.
The door opened. The priest walked in. New moisture dripped from his hat, he took it off, and placed it on the floor beside him. He pulled a chair to the bedside.
'I spoke with your friend, Mr. Wildclown. The dead fellow. He was beside himself with worry.' He smiled, knowing his words were going unheard. He continued nonetheless, for his own comfort if not Tommy's. 'I sent him home, told him to return in the morning. To bring you some fresh clothing.' he sighed, pressed his hand to the clown's forehead. It was flushed with fever.
'Oh dear.' The priest picked up his hat then set it and his coat over a chair in the far corner. Returning to the
