Shuttered Sky

you go the bar on the far side—since it looks like he was headed toward the upper gates. When he comes out he’ll pass one of us—hopefully you—and you’ll get a better look at him. If we’re lucky, he won’t spot us.”

“And then what? We can’t make a move on him here—there are too many exits—too many chances for him to get away.”

“We’ll have to get him alone. Trap him somewhere.”

Then something occurred to Drew. “There might be a way we can trap him,” he said. “Without having to get him alone.”

* * *

Martin Briscoe, who usually hated air travel, quickly discovered that airports were his friend. Where else could he vanish into a crowd so effectively? The fact that most people were on trajectories that took them hundreds of miles away made it even easier to be anonymous.

He could murder someone right there in the restroom, and by the time the body was found, any potential witnesses would be spread anywhere from Anchorage to Auckland. Not that he had any current intentions of homicide—but still, it was nice to know.

Locked in his stall, the toilet flushed as he stepped back. It was one of those automatic johns. The pinnacle of modern technology. He reached into his bag, pulled out the white urn, then opened the cap. His task was to spread Tory Smythe’s ashes to the corners of the earth. And so holding the urn cradled in his left arm, he dipped his right thumb and forefinger in, extracting a pinch of ash.

He turned his eyes upward. “For your glory,” he said aloud, in case the angels got off on praise—which he felt sure they did—al­though he also knew these were angels of action, not words. Long-winded psalms and the reciting of epistles would inspire impatience. He could sense that about them, so he pared his words of praise down to sound bytes.

Holding his fingertips close to the bowl, he rubbed them together, releasing the dusty ash, then stepped back. The bowl flushed auto­matically, and one more ration of Tory Smythe’s physical essence was fed back to the Earth. Deep in his mind, at that strange interface, he could feel the glow of the angels’ approval. But still they kept their distance, and he wondered what he had to do to bring them closer.

Perhaps when he was finished, they would come to him. Reward him.

As for Tory Smythe, she had a date with dissolution on a global scale. Even before laying waste to the offices of Eureka dental, Martin had pulled out all of his savings, and now he had used most of it to purchase air tickets. Dallas was his first stop, then Mexico City, then Rio de Janeiro, Johannesburg, Barcelona, Tel Aviv, New Delhi, Tok­yo, and a half dozen other ports of call in a massive globe-trotting itinerary. He fancied himself a Phineas Fogg of a new millennium; around the world in twenty-three days. And in each airport he would leave behind another dash of dust, until Tory Smythe had been dis­persed more effectively than anyone who had ever lived.

The corners of the Earth. What a cushy assignment! This would more than make up for his failure with Michael Lipranski.

And that wasn’t over, either. He would find that faggot friend of his, and julienne the truth out of him, exacting his revenge in pounds of flesh until he told Martin where Michael’s body was hidden.

But why embitter himself with that now? He had listened to enough motivational tapes in his life to know that negative energy never helped the situation. Best to focus on the task at hand. So he spent a moment tracing his hopscotch flight paths in his mind, until he could see that final destination, when he would stand on the rim of Black Canyon, where he had once stood and watched his wife and son die beneath the flood, and he would hurl the empty urn into the dry bed of the Colorado River.

When he left the restroom, he felt untouchable.

* * *

Mexico City was currently not a hot destination, and his flight was only half full. Although he would have preferred his excursion first class all the way, his funds kept him mostly in coach. When the door closed, he thought he might get both the window and aisle seat to himself—but after the plane left the gate, a black kid, who reeked of travel sweat, changed seats, dropping his ass right next to Martin. Lately Martin’s tolerance for minorities had declined, so he turned his one good eye out of the window as the plane taxied toward the runway, hoping that with any luck the black kid might find another empty seat more inviting. Perhaps it was just the thrill of his journey, but as the plane accelerated toward takeoff, he could feel his skin tingle. The hair on his arms, the skin of his scalp, his cuticles. It was a sensation that was familiar, although he couldn’t quite place where he had felt it before. Then, as the nose of the jet lifted off the runway, it occurred to him the time and place that went along with that sensation. It was a rose garden in the shadow of Hearst Castle, where one of several self-proclaimed gods held court. His flesh had crawled then as his body hair grew, and he watched roses explode from buds into full bloom in a matter of seconds.

Before the rear landing gear left the earth, he knew who was sitting next to him.

He turned his head, exaggerating the motion to give his left eye a clear sight of the passenger to his right. It was unmistakably Winston Pell, who smiled coldly at him and said, “You need a haircut.”

Martin could only stammer. “You’re dead! You’re supposed to be dead. Like Tory—like Michael and the others. Like Dillon!”

“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” he said. “Looks like your carry-on doesn’t quite fit under the seat in front of you. Mind telling me what’s inside?”

“Go to hell.”

And then a second face appeared looming over the seat back in front of him. “Well if it isn’t my buddy the one-eyed Chihuahua killer!” said Drew Camden.

“You both go to hell!” Martin blurted out.

“No,” said Drew, “I believe we’re going to Mexico City.”

By now several surrounding passengers had taken notice of their exchange, but as the plane was still on a steep ascent, no flight atten­dants stalked the aisle.

“You should get that eye looked at,” said Winston. “It’s infected, isn’t it. Those bacteria must be growing at an incredible rate right now.”

Sure enough, Martin could feel the flesh around his eye burn and his sinuses ache. Around him the gray cloud cover gave way to bright sunlight as they punched through the clouds. But there was another light now; a light deep in Martin’s mind. Light and pain and voices without words.

It was the angels.

They were furious. He was failing them. They wanted action, not praise, not excuses. They wanted his action, they demanded his action.

“Too bad Tory’s not alive,” said Winston. “Infections were her thing, she could have cleaned you up in a sec. Of course, in some ways, she’s still with us, isn’t she?”

“So why don’t you be a nice little psycho, and give us your bag.” said Drew. “Now.”

The pain in his eye grew unbearable, as did the voices, and the light. He unbuckled his seatbelt, pulled the bag out from the seat, and motioned as if to hand the bag over to Winston, but instead climbed on his seat, and leapt over its back to the seat behind him, landing on a very surprised woman. There were loud exclamations from the trav­elers around him, but he ignored them. He still had a mission, but now that mission had changed.

Drew and Winston came at him, but he evaded their grasp. Wrap­ping his bag’s strap around his arm, then gripping the bag to his chest, Martin flew down the steeply inclined aisle toward the back of the plane. There were few options left to him now. He might be able to handle the Camden kid, but he was no match for Winston Pell. The freakish boy could focus his power into a surge that would shoot his growing infection down the optic nerve, routing his brain. God knew what else he was capable of. So Martin bolted to put distance between them, even if that distance could only be a dozen yards.

The aft flight attendant had seen this coming.

She had heard the escalating argument, and knew that, whatever it was about, no good could come of it— and now they had all left their seats, heading for her. What’s more, the man with the carry-on had a desperate look about him that summoned her gooseflesh. She rose to intercept.

“You’ll all have to find a seat now!” she said, getting between the two teens and the riot-eyed man. “You’re disturbing the other pas­sengers, and are in severe violation of—'

The black teen pushed her out of the way to get at the man, who frantically eyed the hatch.