Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(91)
Pendergast’s fingers stopped at the dial’s second and last setting. The churning visions settled and the image of Times Square stabilized once again, like a pond returning to a quiescent state. It was still night and everything looked as before. Only now, Coldmoon noted, the time on the Times building read 10:15—an hour into the future.
The portal itself also seemed different. The shimmering edges of the image were heavier now, creating the effect of looking at this Times Square through a glimmering tunnel. And in those tunnel walls, Coldmoon could barely discern the flitting about of grotesque, otherworldly shapes. The smell of burnt rubber, which had never gone away, now intensified as a stream of warm, humid air issued from the portal.
With a sudden movement, one of the dragonfly-things, and then a second, zoomed in from the edges of the tunnel. They approached the portal, stopped, then wriggled through with effort, as if emerging from a cocoon.
“Stay back, please,” Pendergast said, stretching out an arm in warning. They watched as the two insects buzzed the room: the same creatures Coldmoon had seen dead on the ground, with gossamer wings and fat abdomens carrying vicious stingers. The two spiraled upward toward the naked lightbulb in the ceiling, diving at it, hitting it again and again until their wings were broken and they fluttered to the floor. At the same time, several more insects squeezed out of the portal’s membrane and flew at the lightbulb, circling and ticking on it incessantly before tangling with each other.
“It would appear,” said Pendergast drily, “the higher setting allows creatures to pass through. And not from a familiar Times Square universe, either.” He paused. “It seems there are other universes in there, quite different from ours.”
Coldmoon watched the insects grappling, stinging each other frantically as they fell to the ground, tumbling around in a death embrace.
“Only small creatures,” said Constance quickly. “Frost explained this. Those parallel universes are stacked like membranes on each other. Their edges are visible as you look down the tunnel. She called it a manifold space. It’s from this space that the tiny insects emerge.”
Pendergast frowned. “Frost knew of this?”
“She was speculating,” said Constance.
Coldmoon saw the portal deteriorate. Its interface began to grow unstable, flickering in and out. The foul odor increased, along with the sounds from the other side: a strange scrabbling noise that raised the hairs on his neck.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” Pendergast said, stepping up to turn down the power.
“Wait,” Coldmoon cried out. “Do you see that?” He pointed at the biggest screen on the Times building, still visible in the unstable light. It was flashing BREAKING NEWS. Then the screen dissolved into what was apparently a live video feed, taken from a news helicopter: a city in flames, people running terrified through the streets, dead bodies strewn everywhere.
“That’s Savannah!” cried Coldmoon. “My God, what’s happening?”
Swinging into view of the camera came a beast out of nightmare: a giant bat with a distended body, a wicked mosquito-like head swiveling this way and that, its dripping proboscis spasming in and out. And on cue, the news ticker began streaming: HUNDREDS DEAD IN BRUTAL ATTACK ON SAVANNAH GA, MILITARY MOBILIZED…
64
SECONDS AFTER THE NEWSFEED flashed across the portal, with Pendergast’s and Coldmoon’s attention riveted on the scene of disaster unfolding on the Times Square screen, Constance ducked out of the room, exiting through the concealing closet and out into the basement. She’d had a revelation and was already thinking beyond the devastation that was being wreaked—would be wreaked—on Savannah.
She took the stairs up into the lobby, and then still farther up, three more flights. Making her way quickly down the hallway, she reached the closed door that led up to Frost’s penthouse. This time it was locked. Pulling a hairpin from a pocket of her dress, she picked the lock, then ran up the stairs. The door at the top of the landing was locked, too; Constance shook the knob and then, in a sudden display of rage, violently kicked it—once, twice—and it flew open, banging loudly against the doorstop.
The interior of the apartment was even darker than usual, lit only by a few Tiffany lamps. Along the room’s far side, the shutters over the French doors had been pulled up, exposing the balcony and the twinkling rooftops beyond. The byōbu screens had been pulled back, giving the rooms a spectacular view of Savannah. The moonlight, punctuated by scudding clouds, threw dappled shadows over the bookcases, sculptures, and furniture.
She glanced around quickly. Frost was just visible, sitting on the same sofa as during their previous conversation, the pearl-handled cane resting by her side. She was wearing an elegant kimono-style dressing gown in crimson silk, and beneath it a white silk blouse. There was an open bottle of wine on the tea table, and a single glass, half-full.
The book she never seemed to be without was on her lap, and she was making a notation in it. Now Frost put volume and pen aside. “That was rude,” she said. “However, at least you spared me the trouble of having to open the door. I’m afraid this old corpus of mine is acting up more than usual this evening.”
This was said in the same droll tone the woman had used before. Constance nevertheless detected a quaver in the old lady’s voice: an undercurrent of fear. Breathing hard, she stepped forward.