It looked like a mechanical spider, blue metal, glittering LED lights, and it was the size of a tractor. It squatted at the bottom of the hill. Beyond it were an assortment of bones, each with a flame beside it little bigger than a candle-flame, flickering.
Wednesday gestured for Shadow to keep his distance from these objects. Shadow took an extra step to the side, which was a mistake on that glassy path, as his ankle twisted and he tumbled down the slope, rolling and slipping and bouncing. He grabbed at a rock as he went past, and the obsidian snag ripped his leather glove as if it were paper.
He came to rest at the bottom of the hill, between the mechanical spider and the bones.
He put a hand down to push himself to his feet, and found himself touching what appeared to be a thighbone with the palm of his hand, and he was . . .
. . . standing in the daylight, smoking a cigarette, and looking at his watch. There were cars all around him, some empty, some not. He was wishing he had not had that last cup of coffee, for he dearly needed a piss, and it was starting to become uncomfortable.
One of the local law enforcement people came over to him, a big man with frost in his walrus mustache. He had already forgotten the man’s name.
“I don’t know how we could have lost them,” says Local Law Enforcement, apologetic and puzzled.
“It was an optical illusion,” he replies. “You get them in freak weather conditions. The mist. It was a mirage. They were driving down some other road. We thought they were on this one.”
Local Law Enforcement looks disappointed. “Oh. I thought it was maybe like an X-Files kinda thing,” he says.
“Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid.” He suffers from occasional hemorrhoids and his ass has just started itching in the way that signals that a flare-up is on the way. He wants to be back inside the Beltway. He wishes there was a tree to go and stand behind: the urge to piss is getting worse. He drops the cigarette and steps on it.
Local Law Enforcement walks over to one of the police cars and says something to the driver. They both shake their heads.
He pulls out his telephone, touches the menu, pages down and finds the address entry marked “Laundry,” which had amused him so much when he typed it in—a reference to The Man from U.N.C.L.E, and as he looks at it he realizes that it’s not from that at all, that was a tailor’s, he’s thinking of Get Smart, and he still feels weird and slightly embarrassed after all those years about not realizing it was a comedy when he was a kid, and just wanting a shoephone . . .
A woman’s voice on the phone. “Yes?”
“This is Mister Town, for Mister World.”
“Hold please. I’ll see if he’s available.”
There is silence. Town crosses his legs, tugs his belt higher on his belly—got to lose those last ten pounds—and away from his bladder. Then an urbane voice says, “Hello, Mister Town.”
“We lost them,” says Town. He feels a knot of frustration in his gut: these were the bastards, the lousy dirty sons of bitches who killed Woody and Stone, for Chrissakes. Good men. Good men. He badly wants to fuck Mrs. Wood, but knows it’s still too soon after Woody’s death to make a move. So he is taking her out for dinner every couple of weeks, an investment in the future, she’s just grateful for the attention . . .
“How?”
“I don’t know. We set up a roadblock, there was nowhere they could have gone and they went there anyway.”
“Just another one of life’s little mysteries. Don’t worry. Have you calmed the locals?”
“Told ’em it was an optical illusion.”
“They buy it?”
“Probably.”
There was something very familiar about Mr World’s voice—which was a strange thing to think, he’d been working for him directly for two years now, spoken to him every day, of course there was something familiar about his voice.
“They’ll be far away by now.”
“Should we send people down to the rez to intercept them?”
“Not worth the aggravation. Too many jurisdictional issues, and there are only so many strings I can pull in a morning. We have plenty of time. Just get back here. I’ve got my hands full at this end trying to organize the policy meeting.”
“Trouble?”
“It’s a pissing contest. I’ve proposed that we have it out here. The techies want it in Austin, or maybe San Jose, the players want it in Hollywood, the intangibles want it on Wall Street. Everybody wants it in their own backyard. Nobody’s going to give.”
“You need me to do anything?”