Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(89)
As he stared curiously in that direction, he saw a dark cloud rise up into the heavy sky. But clouds didn’t rise like that. And clouds didn’t have wings.
Deuce began squeaking and barking hysterically, jerking on the leash. But Terry didn’t notice. He was staring at the thing in the sky.
Skeletal wings beating slowly, it rose up, glowing a pale blue in the ghostly light of the moon. Even from this distance, he could see it had a body like a dry leather sack. As Terry watched, it hovered briefly, then—flap, flap—it glided over the Placentia Canal. It circled the industrial area hard by the cemetery, its hideous little head moving this way and that as if searching for something. And then, quite abruptly, it veered away and shot off like an arrow.
It was headed for downtown.
Terry watched until it vanished in the smoky late-spring night. Even when it was gone, he remained still for a moment. Then he shuffled around and made his way—slowly, stiff-legged—through people’s backyards and driveways in a beeline for his own house. The moment he opened the door, Deuce shot inside and burrowed under the couch. Still, Terry paid him no heed. He headed past the living room, down a hallway, and into the spare bedroom. In the back of the closet, he found the loose panel of veneer and reached into the space behind it. He felt around, grabbed the carton of cigarettes, and pulled it out. But he tossed it aside, reached in again, and found a bottle of Old Overholt. Ignoring the cigarettes, he made his way back to the living room couch, sat down, and—cracking open the bottle—began sipping slowly and meditatively as the distant sounds of the night began to change.
62
PENDERGAST HAD TAKEN THE notebook off the worktable and was consulting it. Now he held it in his left hand, open for reference, while with his right he gently grasped a lever that rested on two metal supports. Beside it was a large meter with a black dial.
“That doesn’t look like an on switch to me,” said Coldmoon.
“It’s called a knife switch. Primitive, and it will easily electrocute the careless user.” He consulted the notebook again. “It would be advisable if you both stepped back. I believe that whatever is going to manifest itself will do so in the space you’re currently occupying—where those two giant electrodes are pointing.” And he indicated the polished steel wands, each topped with a small copper globe.
Coldmoon hastily stepped back, followed by Constance.
“This”—Pendergast indicated a dial on the face of the machine, with two hand-drawn tick marks labeled I and II—“would seem to indicate a choice of power levels. We shall start with the lower of the two.”
“Are you sure about this?” Coldmoon asked.
“Not entirely.” Pendergast gingerly swung the knife switch over to the opposite bracket. There was a loud spark when it made contact, and then a low vibration began. Pendergast stepped back and joined them at the far wall, and together they watched the machine warm up. A computer monitor winked into life, and various data began scrolling up several windows.
Coldmoon felt his heart pounding. He didn’t think it was a good idea to just turn the damn machine on like that. But he had no alternate suggestion to make. And besides, there was no point—there never was—in arguing with Pendergast.
The vibration gradually intensified, until Coldmoon could almost feel it in his gut. The needle on the dial beside the switch began to quiver. A curious warmth seeped into the room, like the glow from an infrared lamp. And then, a flicker of light raced from one copper globe to the other. Another flicker danced from globe to globe. And then, a third arc of light appeared—but this time, it stopped midtransit, hovering at the intersection where the two steel rods pointed. He stared. The flicker began to slowly expand, and it looked to Coldmoon almost as if the very air between the copper globes had become visible: shiny, silvery, gossamer veils, rippling in a strengthening wind. And then the shimmering effect began to fade, and as it subsided, the air cleared and—in its place—a scene came into focus: a nocturnal image of a crowded city square, lit up and bustling with people and cars, and hemmed in on all sides by skyscrapers.
With a start Coldmoon recognized it. “Hey, isn’t that New York?”
“So it would appear,” Pendergast murmured.
It was as if a window to a distant place had opened before them. But its edges were vague and indistinct, composed of ever-shifting, rainbow-hued light. Coldmoon swallowed. The window—the portal—danced and flickered in the center of the room. It was impossible…and yet, there it was before him.
“That’s Times Square,” Constance said, “looking south toward the New York Times Building, and from a significant height.” She paused. “I would guess the vantage point is somewhere on West Forty-Sixth Street—probably the Marriott Marquis hotel.”
“I believe you’re right,” Pendergast said.
It was a dazzling view of the brightly illuminated square, festooned with huge screens mounted on the surrounding buildings, all glowing with advertising and logos and news images. Near the bottom of the Times Tower ran the traditional news “zipper” and, below that, a stock ticker, with stock prices running continuously along a chyron. It was a lively evening, the square swarming with tourists and theatergoers. And sound—Coldmoon could faintly make out the sounds of Times Square filtering through the portal: horns honking, the murmur and shouts of the crowds, a police whistle, the calls of buskers and hawkers. And an equally faint scent wafted out, as well: the smell of the city, of auto exhaust and pavement and burnt pretzels and shish kebab on a warm May night.