Текст книги "Illusion"

Автор книги: Фрэнк Перетти

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

She sank onto a makeshift bench, her thoughts and feelings tending in one direction: Lord, why me?Then she smiled at herself, playing back a memory: Dane, the sorrow-worn widower, and she, the half-doped “hoper,” in his living room, and she giving him a lecture about not giving up but living the rest of the life God had for him. Boy, was that big old shoe ever on the other foot now.

Except that—and how was this for weird humor?—the rest of the life God had for her might be no more than the next hour.

Andy and Carl brought in her hula hoop and let her know her doves were on their way to the third level of the parking garage. She thanked them and they left her alone again.

Alone. Ohh, she could feel it as if it were the story of her life, feel it so strongly it had to have been planned. By whom? She sighed. Same old answer: God—which brought a nice release: where was the point in giving up? If there was going to be a big old defeat, let it come from God, not her. It was better to take hold, finish the show, and find her way back … or die trying.

All right.That was settled.

She put the loneliness to work. What I wouldn’t give to see the ranch again, even fork up some hay and manure; have a mocha at the breakfast table; dance a waltz—no, some swing!—and I’d love to get back to that kiss we never finished.

From where she sat she took hold of the hula hoop across the room and made it float in midair, turn, spin. She closed her eyes and petted her doves in their cages in the parking garage.

And for a moment she could see the aspens growing under the stage and a hint of the green pasture amid the girders in the dark.

At 1:51, Moss and DuFresne, fully aware of the eyes watching everything from behind them, maintained a confident air. Moss indicated the readings. “She’s getting it back. We have a multiplicity of timelines … weak at this point, but coming up to strength.”

DuFresne asked, “Can you cut those timelines off?”

Moss nodded with confidence. “Just giving her some rope.”

“Seamus, it looks good.”

The video monitor showed a wide shot from the top of the bleachers, taking in the gathering crowd. The bleachers and a good half of the parking lot were full.

Just then, the television showed a live feed from the local station.

“Hey, turn it up!” said one of the Watchers.

DuFresne turned up the sound.

“… on this sunny afternoon at the Orpheus Hotel Casino, live show business at its best, the Grand Illusion outdoor escape by up-and-coming magician and escape artist Mandy Whitacre. Hello everyone, this is Steve Kirschner …”

“And I’m Mark Rhodes.”

“And this is a special, live edition of Vegas Today, your instant source for the latest entertainment news from the Entertainment Capital of the World.”

* * *

Folks in the front reception area of Clark County Medical Center were paying half attention to the television in the corner while reading old magazines, texting on cell phones, and waiting.

Arnie Harrington, incognito in a jogging outfit, set aside a two-week-old Timemagazine and paid full attention as the screen switched between a high angle of the bleachers and stage, a close-up of the stage, and a traveling handheld taking in any key point of interest.

Whatever happened, he’d know.

At 2:00 P.M., Emile, in the control booth with headset in place, cued the music. A fanfare sounded, the trees onstage began to sway, the volcano rumbled and belched white smoke. The crowd cheered and whistled, here to have a good time and already into it.

For Mandy, being under the stage was like being inside a huge, cartoonish clock striking noon. Valves were hissing, hydraulics gushing, levers jerking, pulleys spinning, all just above her head. She cowered a bit, pulling her tunic around her. Seeing Emile’s marvelous brainchild from the bleachers was one thing; seeing it from inside was entirely something else and no less frightening.

Max, Carl, and Andy took it in stride. In the middle of all that busyness they hurried under the stage to their posts, Max and Carl onto the hydraulic lift, and Andy to the control panel to wait for the strains of creepy music, their cue. When the music played, Max and Carl gave a little wave, Andy hit the Up button, and up they went. The audience began to boo.

Dane eased over to the edge of the crowd at stage right and watched as Max and Carl, decked out and masked in black leather, popped out of the swaying forest and gave the booing crowd disdainful wave-offs like “bad guy” world wrestlers. They swaggered over to the pod, went through the motions of rigging it to the cable, then signaled the crane operator—once again, one had to overlook the incongruity of a monstrous, modern construction crane in a medieval setting. At least the crane itself was hidden behind a leafy, woodsy screen with only the huge boom to ignore.

The crane operator, nonchalantly sipping a cup of coffee, eased the lever back and the pod lurched skyward, shrinking, gently swinging on the end of the cable, tantalizing the audience with things to come. After a dizzying, neck-straining ascent it reached its highest point, 150 feet above the ground and directly above the volcano, a thin cable stretching down from inside the pod to the stage, another harbinger of future thrills.

Max and Carl swaggered into the trees to remain out of sight until needed.

Mandy arranged her tunic about her and took her place on the hydraulic lift immediately below the mouth of the volcano. From here she could look up and see the sky, clear and blue, the home of birds, of angels. Maybe hers, too.

“You okay?” Andy asked.

That brought her back to business. She crouched slightly to allow the effects that would happen above her and steeled herself. “Let’s give ’em a show.”

Andy threw some levers, actuated some valves.

To the delight of the crowd, the music turned bold and magical and, to the delight of every eye, a huge bubble slowly rose out of the volcano and perched with a soapy quiver in the volcano’s mouth. It filled with smoke, making it look like a huge white marble, and then, with a puff of fireworks, it popped, the smoke cleared away, and there was Mandy Whitacre on a circular, silver platform, holding a glimmering silver hoop to frame her body and face.

Applause!

She’d never seen this big an audience in one place in the daylight, in front of her on the bleachers, to either side of her on the ground. For an instant she could identify with a trained whale at one of those big sea aquariums, holding a hoop, surrounded by laughing, applauding people in sunhats and sunglasses, sitting row upon row in the sun.

The music cue. Time for her routine. Okay, here we go, let’s do it!

She went into dance moves, twirling the hoop above her head, making it spin like a coin atop her fingertips, then– Come on, grab hold!—setting it spinning like a wheel, wobbling a few degrees off axis for the cool look of it, suspended above her. The folks were with her, loving it.

She stepped out of the volcano and onto the stage, the hoop moving out before her until it hung in the air, wobble-spinning perpendicular to the bleachers, its silver coating flashing in the sun.

Now for the birdies!

She found, could feelCarson, Maybelle, Lily, and Bonkers as they launched from their handlers on the third level of the parking garage. Such troupers, day after day, aiming to please and all for a cuddle and some treats! Celery leaves all around when this is over, guys and gals!

She went to them on the waves of time and space, flew with them, guided them, and by now they understood her gentle proddings. They flew abreast in a wide formation over the audience, then fell into single file as they circled down and flew loop after loop through the hoop. Loop the Hoop!

The folks loved it.

On command, the doves broke out of the loop and flew a horizontal circle high above the stage while Mandy let the hoop flop sideways and wobble down to her waiting hands. As she held the hoop in outstretched arms to frame her body and face, the doves came down to rest, two on each arm, a charming portrait inside the hoop.

Ta-da! The crowd was hers.

Too bad it couldn’t last. The “bad guys”—now Andy made three—came back onstage, emerging from the woods. The audience booed again. With a sorrowful face—only half acting—she sent the doves back to their handlers and dropped the hoop so that she stood within its circle. She tossed off her tunic and tried to appearready. The music dropped to an ominous low drone signaling Oh-oh, be careful, look out, this is dangerous …

Tell me all about it.

Getting into the restraints wasn’t the scary part. Max clamped on the leg irons with the same care he always used; Carl cuffed her hands with every regard for her comfort and safety. Andy brought the cable and hook over with the same caution and attention. They’d been through stunts like this many times before.

It was the pod, that tiny little box way up there. As she lay on the stage and Andy fixed the hook to her shackles and body harness, she could see straight up into that cavity no bigger than she was and not see the end of the darkness inside.

She’d never gotten used to that thing, never felt right about it, and concrete blocks out in the desert were fine, she could handle them, but this … it brought back every trapped feeling she’d ever had.

Her legs were bound. She couldn’t move her hands. This time it scared her.

Use it!

“Ready?” Andy whispered.

The truth? No,she thought but couldn’t say. No, wait, I can’t find it, I can’t, I can’t think …

She was hanging upside down. The crowd, every face upside down, was dropping away below her. The blood was pounding into her head. She was gasping, clenching her fists, trying not to.

It’s a go, he said. It’s a go.

I’m not going to get out of there! I’m not ready! Oh, God, don’t let them …

There was no way Dane could put aside the fear, not with her so small up there, arms and legs bound, hooked and dangling like a helpless fish. All he could do was stay put and stay steady, keep his mind on the details, make sure things happened when they should.

Fifty more feet to go, and then …

It was so far to fall.

She looked up past her feet. The pod was a predator with jaws wide open. A breeze played over her. She felt herself gently swinging, getting sick. The crowd was buzzing, stirring up. She could see straight down the volcano. It was huffing, smoking. Pilot flames burned inside the rim.

From a block away, Preston and his crewmen could see Mandy rising toward the pod, a flea on a thread with no appeal to turn back, slow down, find another way. History, her life, Dane’s, theirs, the Grand Illusion, were relentlessly moving forward. All they could do was keep up.

Preston and three men were ready at their stations on the platform atop the semi, Preston holding one end of the net, a crewman holding the other end, and two crewmen evenly spaced along the length, supporting the middle. Two crewmen remained on the ground, waiting for Preston’s signal.

She tried once more to reach for her birds, to touch them—

Her feet passed within the open petal doors, then her legs, her waist, her shoulders. Her shackled feet came up against the ceiling of the pod. She hesitated, let her head flop, and looked down. It was a sunny day. People were ant-size and alive down there, looking up at her through sunglasses, from under visors and sunhats. Kids were pointing. Big Max, now a tiny round spot of black, stood by the oversize hourglass, waiting to turn it over.

The volcano, a gaping, smoking orifice, was waiting.

It’s a go.

She hung the shackles on their hook and tripped them open, then pressed a button with her toe to close the petal doors. They closed around her head and shoulders much tighter than she remembered, shutting out the world where the sun shined and life was happening. She was encased in the dark.

On the stage, with a growl and an impressive display of muscle, Big Max hefted the hourglass and flipped it upside down. As the deep rumble of an impending eruption came over the sound system, he, Carl, and Andy feigned panic and ran from the stage only seconds before the propane jets opened wide and the volcano sent up a tower of flame, igniting the fake trees. It was as frightening as anyone could ask for. Everybody screamed.

The sand in the hourglass was running: Mandy had one minute.

It was hard to breathe.

She could hear and feel the rumble below her, faintly discern the excited cries of the people. Less than one minute. Think, girl, think.

Bend your elbows!The cuffs opened, fell aside.

Reach. Reach. Control, now. Be there, touch them, guide them …

Nothing.

So dark, so tight, she couldn’t move, could only muster one thought: Oh, God, let me out of here!

Her hands, shaking, went for the grips. She squeezed the lever on the right grip and felt the hoist cable click free.

What if … what if I can just …

She bent her knees against the escape hatch. Maybe. Maybe. Oh, please …

The hatch was a wall. It didn’t budge.

The realization hit her like a punch in the stomach. The packing bolt. Someone did exactly what Dane expected they would do and there was no turning back. She wasn’t ready to believe it. Her heart was racing, beating against her sternum. She cried, then screamed and kneed the hatch again. Again.

Sealed tight.

chapter

51

It was now 14:16:23 local time.

“Go, go, go!” said Preston.

His crewmen on top of the semi stretched the netting tight and above their heads. With the netting stretched, thicker strands were visible, running in courses across the net at sixteen-inch intervals, strands just the right size to be clutched by …

The two crewmen on the ground flung the big trailer doors open. Inside each ventilated trailer was a living, bustling, cooing hiveof white doves perched like beads on row upon row of abacuslike frames—not hundreds of doves, thousands,startled by the opening of the doors and the sunlight beaming into the trailer’s depths. Hundreds and hundreds took to wing and rushed out the trailer doors like a blizzard, white wings flashing. They rose into the air as one body, then scattered, swirled around in every direction, alighted on the roofs of the trailers, settled on the ground to look for grit or goodies, landed on the fence that bordered the lot, flew across the street to land on window ledges, streetlights, signs, the sidewalk. They stopped traffic, wowed the pedestrians, perched on anything and everything, flitted, preened, strutted, and bobbed …

But that was all they did. As for the thousands still perched in the trailers, they didn’t seem to know what to do other than perch there.

Preston and his men stared blank-faced at the doves and then looked at each other.

In the lab, as DuFresne, Carlson, and the Men of Power watched, Loren Moss initiated the retrace with one keystroke. The whole room lurched enough to throw those standing off balance. They recovered, hands on chairs, the wall, a table, mindful to remain icy, ruthless, in charge.

Moss whistled in thrilled amazement, eyes on the monitors.

Mandy had only an instant to take back control of her situation, to shed the panic and see it through. She pressed her hands against the confining walls of the pod to steady herself. She breathed evenly, prayed …

Come on, girl, be cool, think, finish the show—

Ohh!

Mandy felt the pod lurch as if hit by a gust of wind and at that moment awokefrom being in the pod, in the dark, so hemmed in she could hardly move to being in the pod, in the dark, so hemmed in she could hardly move, but different, as if she’d stepped out of the universe for an instant, then stepped back into the same place to find the place had changed. It was weird, far from normal, and yet … she’d felt this before. Where?

Something was rubbing, tickling her ears and neck. She thought her angel costume had popped out at her shoulders. She checked with her fingers …

Her hair was long and straight, hanging into the narrowing cavity below her. The realization stunned her, tightened her insides: the fairgrounds, under the tree, that’s where!

Dane ran around the edge of the crowd, looking for any change, any indication. He got on the radio. “Preston, anything?”

Preston, his men, and their birds were becoming nuisances but that was all. “I’ve got nothing! No control whatsoever.”

I’ve gone back,Mandy realized. I’m starting over. I’m going to die in here.

The pod was so tight she couldn’t spread her arms from her body, could not bend her knees enough to kick. A scream only bounced back in her face, as trapped in here as she was.

“Look at that,” said Moss, indicating a monitor. “She’s stuck. No activity.”

“Like an interdimensional flatline,” DuFresne mused. “Dead to time and space.” He looked over his shoulder. “Finally.” The Watchers were pleased.

“Oh, Dane,” she cried out loud, “I’m so sorry. It could have worked, it should have worked …”

Dane.

He was still in her mind like a permanent resident, a dear, clear thought when no other thought would come. Let him be your starting point,she told herself. Tell me again, Dane. Tell me how we met, the name of the dove … Snickers, that was it. He flew down and landed on my finger …

She gasped, the sound bouncing from the confining walls.

She could seeSnickers landing on her finger, fluttering as he got a grip, folding his wings, looking at her as the crowd laughed. She could seethe crowd, the stage, the poultry pavilion behind the stage, the trees, the fairgrounds.

She remembered!

She let the memory—yes, the memory!—play in her mind: Angie and Joanie giggling, Marvellini—he had black hair parted in the middle, an oversize handlebar mustache, a baggy tux with tails—playing it for laughs: “Snickers! He’s quite the ladies’ man, you know!”

And then a young man stood before her, his face the most pleasant thing in the world to look at, his eyes laughing and kind. He didn’t try to recover Snickers from her hand, he just said, “Hi. What’s your name?”

And she looked into those eyes and told him, “Mandy.”

She could feel the grip of Snickers’s hot little feet on her finger, the nap of his feathers …

Bonkers. Somewhere far outside herself, she could feel hisfeet—and by his reaction she knew he could feel her touch. Maybelle? Yes! Maybelle was there, too, listening. Lily popped into her awareness—she could see the little dove looking right at her.

DuFresne noticed one small, jittery bar appearing on a graph. “What’s that?”

Carson popped into her consciousness, as if he didn’t want to be left out. She stroked their necks, loved them up. She was with them.

Up in the parking garage, the four doves could not sit still. They chirped, fluttered, bobbed, and bowed in their cages until their handlers turned them loose. They flew over the audience and straight for the pod, circled it as if looking for something, then alighted on the top of the crane boom like little watchmen.

Now she found others …

“Preston!” said a crewman.

A dove was flying back. Two others, perched on a building ledge, alerted, fidgeted, then took to the air, returning. Four from a streetlight followed, heading for the trucks.

Were they just flying on an impulse, or … ?

Preston and his men held the net ready.

More bars appeared on the graph.

“Wait, wait, what’s happening?” DuFresne wanted to know.

Moss tapped frantically at the keyboard. “She’s creating timelines.”

“What!?”

“Hang on, I’ll cancel them.”

“She’s supposed to be retraced!”

“She hasn’t completedthe retrace. She can still influence the Machine.”

“Well, fixit!”

Moss tapped at the keys. A line dropped off the graph.

She lost two doves. Oh, no, you don’t! You come back here.She found them again, with ten others.

She remembered Marvellini asking, “Young lady, how would you like a job?”

Forty others.

She could still hear the young man say, “Oh, by the way, my name’s Dane.”

And now she could see herself on the back of each dove, envision her arms about its neck. What a ride!

Dane’s radio crackled. Preston’s voice. “Dane, we might have something.”

The monitor in the lab was coming alive with bars on the graph, interdimensional intensity waves, deflection vectors.

“What is going on?” DuFresne demanded, and now the Watchers were stepping up for a closer look.

“I’m canceling, I’m canceling!” Moss countered.

DuFresne watched the monitors. It didn’t look like it.

She’d found it. The feel, the intuition, was different, like driving on the wrong side of the road or writing with the wrong hand, but she’d found it. Some of her reaches were dropping out for no reason, but she just had to feel around to find them again, along with a couple hundred others.

Yes! She could remember when Dane told her, “Hey, Mandy, guess what: Marvellini’s calling it quits. He’s offering us the business if we want it.”

DuFresne was losing his cool. “I thought you were canceling!”

Moss was losing his as well. “She keeps resetting!”

“Dane,” Preston radioed, “it’s working! She has them!”

The doves were returning in droves, bursting from the trailers, lining up in wing-to-wing formations, one formation behind the other, formation on formation, descending toward the net like waves breaking.

Hundreds of horizons reeled, rocked, and raced before the eyes of Mandy’s mind as each bird climbed, banked, dropped, lined up wing-to-wing with forty-four others, and descended behind other lines of doves toward the trucks, the four men, the net. She placed herself on the back of each bird to guide, prod, love it along, feeling the wind streaming over each dove’s head, the violent beating of the wings, the muscles driving like pistons. Okay, drop down, level out, you see that cord running across the net? Grab on, grab on… . That’s it! Now climb, baby, and pull! PULL!

Preston and his men had planned for this, envisioned it, hoped for it beyond all reason, but absolutely nothing came close to standing there and seeing it. Line upon line, wave upon wave, the birds took hold of each horizontal course of webbing and pulled it skyward, lifting the next course for the next line of birds who came in as one, grabbed hold, and lifted. With each additional line of birds lifting, the net rose faster, opening up more courses for more lines of doves to grab, until lines were coming in by the fives, tens, twenties, grabbing their courses and pulling, pulling toward the sky. The last hundred courses reeled off in a blur.

It was the most amazing thing these men had ever seen.

A gasp moved like a wave over the audience, from the folks in the bleachers and then the folks on the ground as heads turned toward the south. What was this, a cloud, a huge white banner? What could it be? Surely it wasn’t what it looked like: a glimmering, sparkling, living magic carpet … made of … were those birds?

People in the bleachers rose to their feet as the usual ooohhhsand aahhhhsebbed to a stupefied silence and the silence broke into a cacophony of cries, questions, exclamations. This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

They’d never seen anything like it.

Neither had Dane. He wanted to drop to his knees in awe and gratitude, but … not yet, and not where he’d be seen. He headed for the crane, the main point of vulnerability.

Moss fell back from the keyboard, overwhelmed by the numbers and the blinding speed with which every setting, every indication, every prediction was changing.

“Seamus!” DuFresne shouted into his headset. “What’s going on?”

Seamus stammered trying to answer, his video camera sweeping, blurring, searching.

The announcers on the television were going berserk. The cameras zoomed in on a huge white banner flying toward the Orpheus. “What is that?” they shouted. “No, I don’t believe it! I have never, ever seen anything like this!”

Seamus got his camera pointed and zoomed, but the shot was too shaky.

The television cameras zoomed in closer, stabilized.

DuFresne was on his feet, nose inches from the television screen. “Are those … are those doves?”

Moss couldn’t think of which key to press. He could only read the monitors. “Exactly four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-four—on that many timelines.”

She remembered!

The wedding cake was half gone by the time they left the reception … their travel trailer was a Terry and had a propane furnace … they kept the original Bonkers, Lily, Maybelle, and Carson on the windowsill next to the dinette … she cooked dinner on a barbecue stand in Brentwood Park in Minot, North Dakota, because they couldn’t afford restaurants … they hauled and stored all their gear in the vanishing trunk Dane built.

And she really was Mandy Collins, riding a zillion doves and marveling at the view below each bird’s pounding wings. In countless minds, through countless eyes flying free, she could see the pod dangling just below the boom of the crane.

Inside the pod, her body was racing through different hairstyles and lengths; her fingernails were growing out, jerking short again, growing out, jerking back. She may have had a few colds in the last second or two.

Okay, guys, steer for the pod … this way, this way …

Only a few seconds and they would be overflying the stage.

The TV announcers were on their feet.

“Like a flying carpet—literally!” cried Kirschner.

“At least a hundred feet long, sixty, eighty feet wide, made up entirely of white doves!” Rhodes shouted, his voice high-pitched, his mike distorting.

At the hospital, Arnie had to move up close to see around the people crowding the television.

“An unbelievable precedent in the world of entertainment!” cried the announcer. “Impossible to believe, but there it is, folks, and we guarantee, what you are seeing, we are seeing.”

People around the lobby—patients, nurses, doctors, administrative staff—were running over to see, scrambling to find another television, spreading the word: “You’ve got to see this!” They were stunned, totally engaged, astounded.

And Arnie had to laugh. “Dane, you old trickster!”

Back in the vacant lot, Preston and his men had folded up the platform, the wrapping, the Velcro strips, and loaded them into a trailer. Now, with stacks rapping and diesel smoke belching, the two semis drove out of the vacant lot while they had the chance.

“Cancel those timelines!” DuFresne roared. “Get rid of those birds!”

“There isn’t time!” Moss shouted back. “It takes at least one second to cancel each timeline, that’s—she’s way ahead of us!” Then, in all his number crunching, he discovered something that hit him like a blow to the stomach. “Oh, no …”

“What? What now?”

“Four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-four doves … the girl, the costume, that, that rigging, whatever it is … no wonder!”

All eyes went to the video screens now filled with synchronized doves connected by a nearly invisible grid with something—ribbons? flags?—trailing on thin threads beneath it.

DuFresne didn’t take his eyes away as he prodded, “What?”

Moss pounded the console. “She has gravitational equivalence with the Machine. Equal mass, one thousand, six hundred and thirty-two pounds!”

DuFresne needed no further explanation. “Stone! Mortimer! Drop the pod!”

Moss objected, “No! Not before the retrace is complete!”

“Drop it now!”

Mr. Stone, out of his fireman’s uniform and back in his basic black, was at the controls of the crane. Mr. Mortimer, also back in style, was just behind the crane, pouring out the remainder of the crane operator’s “medicated” coffee and making sure the man’s “fainting spell” would look convincing. Stone had been waiting for the hourglass onstage to run out before triggering the release, the point being to make the show appear to go as planned even while the girl’s retraced body incinerated in the volcano. The cloud layer of birds doing a fly-by under the crane’s boom forewarned him there could be a change in plan. He replied, “Roger that,” and reached for the red button.

Another hand yanked his back! Now somebody—oh, no, not the old magician!—dropped on top of him.

Not that Dane had any choice but to throw himself into it, but he did have some advantages. He outweighed Stone and, as luck had it, was the guy on top. The crane cab was a tight place with little room for wrestling or hauling back for a punch, and all Dane really had to do was keep Clarence or whatever his name was crunched into that chair and away from the controls. Sure, it was going to hurt—Clarence nailed him in the side of the head, knocking off his headset—well, that hurt more than he expected.

Mandy, trapped in the pod andflying outside with the doves, could see the stage and the flaming volcano passing a hundred feet below. Some of the doves were spooking at the heat and flames—she couldn’t blame them, it was more than enough to spook her—but they followed their buddies and kept flying straight and level, fifty feet beneath the pod and a hundred over the heads of the crowd.

To those on the ground, 4,864 pairs of wings flying in tight formation put out a sound as awesome as the sight, a rushing clamor like a stadium-size crowd applauding in a heavy rainstorm. People’s mouths hung open, kids clung to their parents, cameras blinked, clicked, and flashed, and voices across the entire crowd clashed in a corporate, involuntary drone of wonder and astonishment.

Atop the hotel, the hang glider crew had been waiting for Mandy to arrive and get harnessed up, but now they stood like ornamental statues on the edge of the hotel roof, the only ones granted a view of the birds from above.

“Emile …” the leader radioed.

“Uh, roger, stand by,” Emile came back. “We have traffic in the area.”

Clarence kept swinging and Dane kept trying to grab his arms to keep him from swinging, which worked only half the time. He dug his knee into Clarence’s groin and got some mileage out of that, though it was purely accidental.

Mandy grabbed two tabs, one on each shoulder of her leather costume, and yanked downward. In less than a second she went from medieval warrior princess to glimmering angel.

Next—there was no way to think or plan it, she just had to bring all her minds and selves and doves together and agree on the timing, speed, and placement, that one precise point in time that was … now!