I had one question. “If all the action is moving north, who’s going to take on Torbellino’s gang of zombies on speed?”
Ric lifted his bone-seeking night vision goggles and pulled them down to his neck. I could see he wasn’t wearing a concealing contact lens over his single silver iris.
He focused beyond the ridge, facing the dark and the distant lightning.
“Me.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“NOW YOU SEE,” Tallgrass said to me.
Did I ever.
Ric was sweeping his unprotected gaze over the legions of teeming beetles and spiders and lizards and snakes and scorpions like an invisible searchlight while I watched through the binos.
I gasped as their scales and carapaces and even fuzzy black tarantula legs changed in a dazzling wave to sheer silver. The wave reversed course, sinking down the slope on our side and cresting the opposite ridge of the gash, overflowing onto the flat desert plain beyond.
Ric followed them down like a shepherd, a dull mottled figure behind the sparkling living metal.
I watched Quicksilver slink around the edges of the mechanistic silver wave, forcing the components into tighter formation. If Quick could herd the robot vermin, Ric could perform more wonders to stop Torbellino.
Tallgrass stood slowly, but he’d kept his high-tech goggles on. “He’s just letting his new powers out to play. The vermin was massing to escape the action that’s agitating their territory. They sense it’s more than the gangs or the cartel hitmen using their range to bury the latest bodies.”
As I watched Ric herding the silver tide south, he explained. “The military honchos thought Ric and I’d serve best as guides, Ric because he knows this terrain from his childhood indenture to El Demonio, me because I have Native American tracking blood as well as FBI creds.”
“Kinda stereotyped expectations.”
“Kinda dumb. The border crime and military types never believed us when we said El Demonio was more than a power-mad cartel king who used superstition and gory rituals to control his men and the Mexican authorities and population.”
“They’re still in denial about the Millennium Revelation?”
“So are these cartel drug warriors. They’re so busy being bad they think they can conquer anyone or anything. What we have here is uptight military might versus gangster ignorance. The human cartel bosses fell for the trap.”
“The inhumanly cruel cartel bosses.”
“Ric and I never figured on El Demonio Torbellino doing anything but hanging in the wings and offing anyone who was left and taking over everything. That leaves us to stop him.”
“And this will happen when?”
“Tomorrow night. Now we have the lay of the land. Ric has been testing his new powers.”
“Gained through me.”
“Maybe so, Miss Delilah, but he needs to know he can use them solo. This is the one chance he has to put down Torbellino forever, on the turf where their dance of death began years ago.”
I looked at the silver-armored army Ric was scattering into the brush, the shining effect fading as the myriad tiny components separated. I had no doubt he could call up all these slithering toxic beasties any time he needed them.
“Ric somehow . . . contracted . . . my affinity for silver,” I told Tallgrass. “Maybe that’s why I feel so responsible for him.”
“You feel responsible for him because you love him, Miss Delilah.” Tallgrass touched my elbow. “Let’s get down to the Jeep so we’re ready to get out of here when Ric’s done seeding the desert with his allies.”
His hand gave me the slightest of shoves, but it got my feet moving and then momentum took us both down the steep rise until the ground was flat and the sagebrush was about my height.
Tallgrass’s scuffed boots crunched cactus until we reached a certain clump. He began pulling camouflaging masses of sagebrush aside. They lifted and rolled away, just tumbleweeds. A standard open Jeep painted camouflage colors awaited passengers. I scrambled into the back while Tallgrass took the Quicksilver seat. With city lights out of sight, moonlight poured down on us, as if the moon, pregnant and almost at the full, had broken its water.
I trusted Ric’s ability to safeguard himself out here, believe it or not, and Quicksilver was just another guarantee of my judgment.
“Ric is seriously angry with me,” I told Tallgrass, leaning forward as he twisted in the front seat to face me. “He’s never . . . we’ve never—”
Tallgrass’s palms came up, patting the air and me into silence. “This is between you and him. I am not Dear Abby.”
I blinked. He’d echoed Sansouci’s exact words to me. Was I looking that in need of counseling these days?
“No, but you’re an objective witness,” I said. “Since our battle with the elements in Wichita, my silver powers have blended with Ric’s ability to dowse for the dead. You’ve seen the Silver Zombie he raised off the Metropolis screen.”
“Yeah,” Tallgrass grunted. “I find it hard to relate to such a piece of . . . sorcery. To me, a mechanized creature born of a mechanized process hails from the alien realm of automated beings and figments of film. My culture roots its power in nature. We’ve never embraced the age of machines as a people. Torbellino harnesses demons to do his evil work, but they too are creatures of spirit, or the unclean undead, not robots.”
I had to admit the Metropolis CinSim robot was inhuman, but she was also the silver loving cup that held the spirit of the film’s virginal heroine, Maria, as well as the now-dead Brigitte Helm, the actress who’d worn the Art Deco Joan of Arc suit of armor. Much as I sympathized with and liked the Vegas CinSims, that silver metal woman freaked me out.
“The Silver Zombie is more unnatural than even the most bizarre CinSim,” I agreed, “such as Frankenstein, though they both were ‘brought to life’ in laboratories. Partly it’s because she thinks—if she thinks as we know it—that Ric, having raised her from the screen, is her master.”
I hated that concept. And, if I was honest with myself, maybe the competition. The Silver Zombie existed in a 3-D reality beyond all the rules of making CinSims that the mysterious Immortality Mob had perfected. Who could she be, what could she become?
Tallgrass seemed to understand my concerns.
“A century ago,” he said, “my people believed a photograph stole and imprisoned a soul. They refused to pose for pictures, like the aborigines in Australia. I’ve studied this belief, because nowadays ‘souls’ are ‘stolen’ every second, and the photographs posted all over the World Wide Web. The native people’s fear of photographs is based on the mystical properties of mirror.”
I audibly caught my breath but kept my mouth shut. Tallgrass had no need to know about my mirror-walking powers.
“You are not unfamiliar with such marvels, I think.” He lifted a hand, waved it at a space beyond my shoulder. “I see you with a slight double vision. I can’t quite focus on you, Delilah Street. Never could. Ric doesn’t see that.”
“He knows, though. So you studied up on mirror images because I’m involved with your former protégé?”
Tallgrass laughed. “Protégé. No such fancy word for it. I was teacher, he the student. Now perhaps that is reversed. Such is the way of life . . . and death. All things reverse. And nowadays, it’s a two-way street. Death and dissolution can result in life and restitution.”
Crap. That meant death and resurrection could also reverse itself.
“Who says?” I asked.
“The Mayans for one.”
“The ones who said the world would end in 2012? It’s 2013.”
“Thirteen. An unlucky number.”
“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in effort.”
Tallgrass ignored me. “The ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans used reflective surfaces to predict the future. Scrying, they called it, in ancient times.”
“Minor league. I can travel through reflective surfaces.”
“Can you, Miss Skeptic? Ric never mentioned that.”
“He’s just . . . learned about it.”
“Then, are you a god or a saint?”
“Heaven forbid! Neither. I’m just a child of the Millennium Revelation stuck with some weird talents. Didn’t you get any?”
Tallgrass’s lips smiled, but his eyes didn’t. “Mayans believed mirrors opened portals into the Otherworld, allowing ancestors and gods to pass through between the two planes. They believed when praying to a saint, the soul leaves the body. To help the soul find its way back into the body, mirrors are placed in front of saints’ statues to reflect back the soul.”
“Mayans didn’t have saints.”
“They did after they were conquered by the Spanish. Here in Mexico, there are still towns where photography is banned in churches. The old cameras, and even some SLR digital ones, still use mirrors. And then there’s voodoo.”
“What? That’s an African and Caribbean belief, sticking pins in dolls and other primitive notions. Nobody’s going to stick a pin in El Demonio or the Silver Zombie.”
“Sympathetic magic assumes a powerful link between entities that look alike. That’s why voodoo dolls are used.”
Lilith was my very own voodoo doll? Or could be used as such? Not something I’d considered. I shivered . . . but the night had grown cool. Still, I wore two layers of clothing.
“I see why you might distrust CinSims,” I finally said. “If they have souls it’s wrong to create and employ them. If I ever discover who or what runs the Immortality Mob I’ll give them—or it—a good strong lecture. All that aside, there’s never been a CinSim with as many layers of cinematic life as the robot from Metropolis. She’d better keep her silver-screen metal gauntlets off my man. Meanwhile, I’m worried about Ric’s private war, even though his silver powers have probably outstripped mine.”
I didn’t tell Tallgrass he may have had to come back from the dead to do it.
“Are they enough to vanquish Torbellino and his forces?” Tallgrass asked.
“I don’t know. But . . . I wish Ric had included me in his plans.”
“Now you’ve taken care of his omission yourself.” Tallgrass slid a carefully neutral glance my way. “Think he’s going to like that?”
“Not at first,” I told him.
“And in the long run?
“I still have some powers of persuasion myself,” I added.
And smiled.
Chapter Thirty-two
THE MOON HAD visibly moved across the sky before Quicksilver came bounding through the sagebush to greet me and Tallgrass with triumphant pants and wags. That big tail could really whip your legs with “happy.” Ric joined us soon after.
“Let’s roll,” he said, leaving all the enthusiastic reunion greetings after their trek back from danger to Quicksilver.
Subsequently, Ric kept silent as he and Tallgrass stowed their gear in the army Jeep.
I was happy to have even this rough ride after hoofing it through Juarez to the desert killing ground both old and new, and for a rest for Quicksilver’s pads.
My dog leaped into the backseat with me, wanting to sniff noses to gauge my state of “okay.” Smart guy. He knew Ric and I were not speaking. He’d acted fast to join forces with me and delay any messy public scenes, such as harsh words spoken in front of Ric’s mentor.
If Tallgrass sensed any forthcoming fireworks, he was too savvy to show it.
The jolting journey back to Juarez postponed chitchat anyway, except for my shouting out the motel address to the GPS on the cell phone Rick wordlessly held up over his shoulder.
“Gadgets,” Tallgrass shouted back to me from the shotgun seat, shaking his head. “Another invention that just ain’t natural.”
But the GPS worked like a magical charm. Within half an hour the Jeep was growling in idle outside the gaudily painted adobe-and-neon facade of the Motel of the Pink Flamingos.
“Get yourself and the dog a room,” Ric told Tallgrass. “I’ll escort Delilah to hers.”
Escort, Irma huffed. What are we, theQueen Mary?
Quick flicked me an inquiring doggie look that meant “should I take this ingrate off at the knees, or let you handle it?”
Ric turned to shoo Quicksilver out. He got a fang brush and throaty growl for his trouble. Quick jumped over the Jeep’s side, high-flagging his tail, the perfect raised third-finger salute, canine-style.
Tallgrass smothered a smile but lifted shaggy eyebrows at me in silent question too. I had to admit I wasn’t looking forward to this solo reunion with Ric after kissing him sweetly good-bye and then heading right down to Juarez anyway.
I shrugged at Tallgrass, so he left the Jeep to do what Ric had said. Ric and I’d never had a serious argument, but I wasn’t about to apologize. I gestured to the right motel door, and, when he parked in front of it, hopped out with my backpack hitched over my shoulder and the room key in hand.
Not looking behind me, I unlocked the painted metal door and went inside first. Whew. It smelled both moldy and dry after the clean desert air we’d been breathing. The air conditioner rattled and dripped. I couldn’t wait to whip off the borrowed camos but needed to avoid any appearance of something as provocative as stripping.
Once inside the room, Ric locked the three possibilities: chain lock, bolt lock, and bottom chain lock. You’d think this was a major metropolitan tenement instead of a border motel.
I waited in the center of the small room. Ric turned to me, his face a stone mask of anger carved into Aztec warrior ferocity.