Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [8]
‘Filed ready for action tomorrow,’ said Jack. He swept his frail stick arms upward, knives clutched in black twig fingers. With a swooping motion he brought both arms swinging inwards and drove the blades through the black felt of his own jacket. He lifted his arms free and showed the knives jutting out of his wooden scarecrow torso. He took a bow and disappeared back into the B&O.
O’Hara sipped his coffee. It was cold.
* * *
There was snow falling in New York. When Mancuso looked up the sky seemed to be a low grey ceiling. All the lights of the city were being reflected back off some kind of diffuse low cloud. It wasn’t a true night sky at all. It was like being inside a metal tunnel. The only thing which gave an impression of depth was the slow vertical descent of the snow, drifting down towards her face. When Mancuso was a child she would have opened her mouth to catch a flake on her tongue. She didn’t do that now.
Mancuso watched the street while McIlveen secured the riotgun and locked the car. In this neighbourhood a police car was a target. The food was good here, though. McIlveen came around the car and she let him lead the way towards the diner. When his boot hit the iced sidewalk he slid, swore, and would have gone down on his ass if Mancuso hadn’t caught his arm.
The waitress serving at the counter had a little silver cross pinned to the white collar of her jacket, right beside the small flag badge that signified membership of the Young Republicans. Mancuso let her pour the coffee before she said, ‘There’s two things I normally never talk about.’
‘Hey, come on, don’t start,’ said McIlveen.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the waitress looking at Mancuso.
‘Religion and politics,’ said Mancuso. ‘Normally I never talk about those two subjects. But listen. Do you think the president will go to hell?’ She smiled sweetly at the waitress. The woman put their tab down and left, heading back to the kitchen.
‘Why did you have to do that?’ said McIlveen. ‘She’s just a kid. Probably takes it all very seriously.’
‘Nobody’s young enough to be that stupid.’
* * *
On a rooftop across the street Lewis Christian took off his headphones. He immediately regretted it; the foam pads had been shielding his ears from the bite of the cold air. Mulwray didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold. He was standing beside Christian, his camelhair coat dusted with snow. Lewis was pleased to see that somehow he’d managed to get up the fire escape without putting a black smear on it.
‘Well, what do you think?’ said Christian. ‘Is Chuck going to hell?’
Mulwray just smiled. He took the rifle bag from Christian and unzipped it. The stock of the rifle was textured grey plastic with dimpled buttons under the barrel for control of the optical system. Mulwray sighted it on the warm glow of the diner window on the street opposite. The soft plastic shroud of the eyepiece formed a warm seal against his cheek. The telescopic sight brought the cops’ faces sharply into view. First the woman. She was grinning. Mulwray moved the barrel of the rifle. The sight lost focus then gained it again as it tightened on the image of the male cop.
Mulwray leaned over the edge of the rooftop, making small adjustments on the rifle, swinging it back and forth.
From the man to the woman.
* * *
In the warmth of his kitchen O’Hara sat looking at the two dossiers in front of him, studying the pictures. He was coming to a decision when the telephone rang.
He took the call in the living room, routing it through the B&O. The wall opposite the big picture window lit up as the image of the callers was projected on it, flat. Northern