The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [549]
“Looks like a good one, too,” said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and was pointing it in my direction. “Lots of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run—we won’t get much for that.”
I didn’t like the sound of this, not one little bit.
“Move,” said the first man, indicating the doors.
“Where to?”
“Northside.”
“Over my dead body.”
“That’s the poi—”
The third man didn’t finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelt of moldy vegetables. The first man whirled around and fired in the direction of the cafeteria, but I seized the opportunity and ran back into the car park to take cover behind a car. After a few moments, I peered out cautiously. Spike was inside, trading shots with the first man, who was pinned behind the presidential Bentley, still with his hand on his head. I cursed myself for giving up my weapon, but as I stared at the scene—the nighttime, the motorway services—a strong sense of déjà vu welled up inside me. No, it was stronger than that—I had been here before—during a leap through time nearly three years ago. I had witnessed the jeopardy I was in and left a gun for myself. I looked around. Behind me a man and a woman—Bowden and myself, in point of fact—were jumping into a Speedster—my Speedster. I smiled and dropped to my knees, feeling under the car tire for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover amongst the milling crowds, who scattered, terrified. I cautiously entered the now seemingly deserted services and rejoined Spike just inside the doorway of the shop. We had a commanding position of the stairs to the connecting bridge; no one was going Northside without passing us. I dropped the magazine out of my automatic and reloaded.
“The tall guy is Chesney, my ex-partner from SO-17,” announced Spike as he reloaded his shotgun. “The necktie covers the decapitation wound I gave him. He has to hold his head to stop it falling off.”
“Ah. I wondered why he was doing that. But losing his head—that makes him dead, right?”
“Usually. He must be bribing the gateway guardians or something. It’s my guess he’s running some sort of soul-reclamation scam.”
“Wait, wait,” I said, “slow down. Your ex-partner, Chesney—who is dead—is now running a service pulling souls out of the netherworld?”
“Looks like it. Death doesn’t care about personalities—he’s more interested in meeting quotas. After all, one departed soul is very like another.”
“So ...”
“Right. Chesney swaps the soul of someone deceased for the soul of someone healthy and living.”
“I’d say, ‘You’re shitting me,’ but I’ve got a feeling you’re not.”
“I wish I was. Nice little earner, I’m sure. It looks like that’s where Formby’s driver, Mallory, went. Okay, here’s the plan: we’ll do a hostage swap for the President, and once you’re in their custody, I’ll get Formby to safety and return for you.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I replied. “How about we swap you for Formby and I go to get help?”
“I thought you knew all about the underworld from your bosom pal Orpheus?” countered Spike with a trace of annoyance.
“It was highlights over coffee—and anyway, you’ve done it before. What was that about an inflatable boat from Wal-Mart to paddle yourself to the underworld?”
“Well,” said Spike slowly, “that was more of a hypothetical journey, really.”
“You haven’t a clue what you’re doing, do you?”
“No. But for ten grand, I’m willing to take a few risks.”
We didn’t have time to argue further, as several shots came our way. There was a frightened scream from a customer as one of the bullets reduced a magazine shelf to confetti. Before I knew it, Spike had fired his shotgun into the ceiling, where it destroyed a light fixture in a shower of bright sparks.
“Who shot at us?” asked Spike. “Did you see?”
“I think it’s fair to say that it wasn’t the light fixture.”
“I had to shoot at something. Cover me.”
He jumped up and fired. I joined