The Altar Of Bones Part 39

"He took the amulet with him," Zoe said. "Not the altar of bones."

He pushed himself up on one elbow so that he could look into her face. "But last night ... Wasn't the juice still in the amulet, then? When did you-"

"Right before Popov's goons showed up. That's what I was doing in the bathroom." She grinned up at Ry. "It was a good plan, if I do say so myself."

"Better than good. It was brilliant." He kissed her on the mouth, then lay back down beside her. "And the best thing about it was that it worked."

Back on that mountain road above the Danube, when she'd showed him the little sample perfumes, she'd told him of her idea then-to p.a.w.n a fake altar of bones onto Popov by transferring the bone juice into one of the perfume vials and putting mineral oil in the amulet. The consistency of the mineral oil was close enough to the real thing, as long as you didn't know it was supposed to glow in the dark.

Zoe stirred in his arms. "Do you think Igor's real, that Popov really had a grandson who's dying of cancer?"

"I don't know. His pain seemed real enough. But then I know from my years as an undercover narc that sometimes you can play a part so well, you can even talk yourself into believing it."

"He wasn't really going to let us go, was he?"

"No. We were loose ends that needed snipping."

Her breathing slowed and quieted, and he thought she'd fallen asleep, then she said, "Then maybe what he said about my mother was a lie, too. What he implied. That Katya gave her the bone juice when she was a little girl because otherwise she would have died of leukemia."

Ry hesitated a moment. "Remember I told you how I researched your whole family last summer, when I was trying to find your grandmother? ... Anna Larina's 'miraculous' recovery was such a big deal back in 1957, it made the front page of the L.A. Times Times."

Zoe shuddered. "It kind of creeps me out, thinking about it, but it explains a lot. Why she looks young enough to be my sister. And why she is ... what she is."

"Don't think about it, because it doesn't matter. You broke free of her a long time ago."

Zoe was quiet again for a while, then said, "The altar of bones is real, Ry. He was a hundred and twelve, yet you saw how he looked. The altar did that to him."

"It also made him crazy, and in the end it couldn't keep him from dying. Whatever the altar did to him, it didn't make him immortal."

"Popov was convinced it was never in the cave," she said. "But it's there. He just didn't know how to find it."

"And you think you can?"

"I'm the Keeper, so I have to try."

"It would would have to be all the way up in Siberia, though," Ry said. "And it's the G.o.dd.a.m.n middle of February." have to be all the way up in Siberia, though," Ry said. "And it's the G.o.dd.a.m.n middle of February."

She laughed and snuggled deeper into him. "That's why I'm bringing you with me, to keep me warm. At least we've run out of bad guys to come after us. Popov was blown to smithereens, Yasmin Poole was skewered, and apparently Miles Taylor is now a turnip. We won't have to worry about being chased all over the place and shot at every time we turn around."

Ry wasn't so sure about that, but he said nothing.

The hea.r.s.e rocked over the ruts in the road. In the distance he heard the wail of a train whistle. "We must be getting close to civilization," he said. "The first thing I'm going to do when we get back to the apartment is take a long, hot shower. A loooong, hot shower ..."

Ry hoped she would ask him if she could join him, but she said nothing, and then he realized her breathing had slowed and quieted. She had fallen asleep.

He turned his head and rubbed his mouth over her hair.

52.

New York City MILES TAYLOR couldn't stop himself from screaming every time someone came near him, even though it didn't do any good because n.o.body could hear. couldn't stop himself from screaming every time someone came near him, even though it didn't do any good because n.o.body could hear.

The screams were all inside his head.

They thought he was a vegetable. He heard the doctor tell his daughter that, the one and only time she had been to see him since the stroke. "Persistent vegetative state," the a.s.shole had said, and Miles had done lot of screaming then, oh, yeah. Inside his head. You f.u.c.king ignorant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, where'd you get your degree, Podunk U? If I understand every f.u.c.king word you're saying, how can I be in a state where there's no cognitive function? Hunh? Answer me that, a.s.shole. Answer me that You f.u.c.king ignorant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, where'd you get your degree, Podunk U? If I understand every f.u.c.king word you're saying, how can I be in a state where there's no cognitive function? Hunh? Answer me that, a.s.shole. Answer me that.

Miles slept a lot; there was nothing else to do. Every time he woke, it would take one sweet, exquisite instant for his mind to catch up to the h.e.l.l he lived in now. And then he would remember and he would scream and scream and scream.

He wanted to die. He prayed that he would die.

Lately, when his doctor or one of the nurses would come into his room, that's what he would scream at them. Let me die, please. For the love of G.o.d, pull the plug and let me die Let me die, please. For the love of G.o.d, pull the plug and let me die.

But they never heard him because he couldn't open his mouth or move his tongue or work his throat. If a man screams and no one hears him, does it even happen? If a man screams and no one hears him, does it even happen?

He had round-the-clock care, four nurses who bathed him and did other things too humiliating to even think about. He loved them, and he hated their guts.

The new girl-her name was Christie-had a wh.o.r.e's mouth and long, wine-red hair. A few days ago, he began to dream about her. Exhausting, erotic dreams. Doctor, Doctor, can a man still shoot his wad even if he can't get it up anymore? Doctor, Doctor, can a man still shoot his wad even if he can't get it up anymore?

Today, Christie was on the afternoon s.h.i.+ft, and he found himself waiting for her with such excitement it almost hurt. His eyeb.a.l.l.s-the only part of him that he could still move-were riveted on the open door. He'd heard her voice earlier, out in the corridor, so he knew she was here, but the hours crawled by and she wouldn't come, wouldn't even pa.s.s by his door so that he could see her. It was as if she sensed in some way how desperate he was, and she wanted him to wait. To suffer.

He was beginning to wonder if there was more to her than her mouth and that red hair that reminded him of Yasmine Poole.

A little meanness, maybe?

He fell asleep waiting for her and awoke with a start. She was leaning over him, her face only inches from his, and he felt a strange tingle on his left cheek. What had she done to him? Pinched him, poked him? Kissed him?

"Are you in there, Mr. Taylor? I think you are. No one else does, but I do."

Yes, yes, he screamed, so ecstatic with joy he was nearly delirious. I'm here, I'm here. Oh, G.o.d ... I'm here, I'm here. Oh, G.o.d ...

The girl leaned closer to him, lowered her voice. "You thought you were such hot s.h.i.+t, didn't you? Mr. Hot s.h.i.+t Billionaire. I read all about you in Vanity Fair Vanity Fair and the stuff you did to other people to make all that money. How people lost everything because of you, and all you could say was 'f.u.c.k 'em.' " and the stuff you did to other people to make all that money. How people lost everything because of you, and all you could say was 'f.u.c.k 'em.' "

No, you don't understand. It's all just a game, and if you want to be somebody, if you want to matter, you've got to play the game. The money isn't even real, just numbers in computers. Just ones and zeros. Not even real ... ...

"But now it's your turn to experience h.e.l.l on earth, Mr. Taylor." The girl oh so gently caressed his cheek. "And you know what I say to that?

I say, f.u.c.k you, Mr. Taylor. f.u.c.k you. And I want you to know that I'm going to be taking extraspecial care of you from here on out, because I want that h.e.l.l to go on and on, for a long, long time."

She straightened and glanced over her shoulder, checking out the doorway. Then she turned back around and slapped him hard across the cheek, where a moment ago she had touched him so sweetly.

Tears filled Miles Taylor's eyes and the girl smiled, a smile that was pure mean, but he didn't care. She couldn't know his tears were ones of joy.

Hit me again, he screamed, over and over inside his head. Hit me again Hit me again.

Because you wouldn't hit a vegetable, would you? Vegetables couldn't feel, they couldn't think, so why would you bother to hit a vegetable?

Hit me again, hit me again, hit me again.

53.

Norilsk, Siberia One week later HOE WATCHED the giant red digital clock on top of the Norilsk Nickel headquarters building click over another minute: 12:19. "Our mystery woman's late, Ry. Are you sure this is the place? 'Cause right now there ain't n.o.body out here but us freezing chickens." the giant red digital clock on top of the Norilsk Nickel headquarters building click over another minute: 12:19. "Our mystery woman's late, Ry. Are you sure this is the place? 'Cause right now there ain't n.o.body out here but us freezing chickens."

Ry just looked at her and waved a Polartec-mittened hand at the bas-relief sculpture built into the corner of the building above their heads-a big bronze guy, s.h.i.+rtless, muscled, his square-jawed face set hard with purpose, wielding some sort of shovel. Chiseled into the base were the words THE BUILDERS OF NORILSK. THE BUILDERS OF NORILSK.

"I know, I know," Zoe said. "There can't be two builders' monuments in the city. It's just ..." She hunched her shoulders as a blast of frigid wind sent ice crystals dancing in waves down the wide, nearly deserted street. She wanted to give up and go back to the hotel. She wanted to be warm.

The mystery woman was a mystery because they didn't know a thing about her, not even her name. She'd telephoned their room late last night, said two sentences: "I can take you to the lake you search for. Be at the builders' monument on Leninskiy Prospekt tomorrow at noon," then hung up before Zoe had a chance to so much as draw a breath.

The whole thing was surreal, but then surreal was what Zoe had come to expect of this strange frozen place almost two hundred miles north of the arctic circle. Norilsk was a closed city, and the policy was strictly enforced. No one, not even Russians, let alone foreigners, could come here without an official invitation and special authorization from the FSB intelligence service.

It took some time and a lot of money, and even Ry wasn't sure how Sasha managed it, but he finally got them the doc.u.ments they needed. There'd been a scary half hour upon their arrival, though, when the police boarded the plane, confiscated their pa.s.sports, and led them off for questioning. They were posing as potential investors from a Montana nickel-mining company, and Zoe let Ry do all the talking since the only thing she knew about nickel was that it was a coin worth five cents.

Then there was the two-hour bus ride into the city in the dusky gloom of a polar night, the sun barely above the horizon even in the middle of the day. They rode past ghosts of trees with blackened, barren trunks, and factories and smelters that spewed black, smelly smoke into the air. Past oily pools of stagnant water so toxic they couldn't freeze even in the subzero temperatures. It was amazing to think this sprawling, polluted city of two hundred thousand souls and blocks of ma.s.sive Soviet-style buildings began life as a prison camp cut out of the icy steppes, and that her great-grandmother Lena came from here.

These are my roots, Zoe thought with a s.h.i.+ver that only partly came from the cold. It was such a hard, frozen, ugly place.

After they checked into the one decent hotel, they'd spent a day studying topographical maps and satellite photographs at Norilsk's city hall. There were hundreds of lakes all over the Taimyr Peninsula, but not one shaped remotely like a boot. For four more days they'd walked the ice-encrusted streets, going into shops, restaurants, nightclubs, even a couple of bowling alleys, asking of anyone who would listen how to get to the lake with the waterfall.

Nothing, zilch, nada, zip. Until last night's phone call.

Zoe thought of how Boris, the griffin shop man, had spotted her great-grandmother Lena in a noodle shop in Hong Kong and knew right off that she was a Keeper because she had the face of the Lady in the icon. Had that happened again, with herself and the mystery woman? Surely some magic people were still left in the area. Was the mystery woman one of them?

Zoe stamped her feet to keep them from turning into frozen stubs.

This street, Leninskiy Prospekt, was the main drag and was well-lit enough for her to see there wasn't a soul around now for blocks. At least the buildings here were painted a cheerful, if rather gaudy, orange and yellow, unlike the rest of the city, which was all washed-out shades of gray and brown.

She checked the time on the Norilsk Nickel building again: 12:24. Almost a half an hour late. The woman wasn't coming.

Zoe stamped her feet again and clapped her mittened hands together for good measure. She looked up and read the inscription on the base of the sculpture for the umpteenth time, and she must have sighed out loud, because Ry said, "Be patient. She'll come."

"I was just thinking, whoever this particular 'builder' person was, he couldn't have built anything in Norilsk. Even with pecs like his, you're not gonna sashay around this place without a s.h.i.+rt. You'd be a Popsicle in five seconds. And I've got purses back home bigger than that itty-bitty shovel-Hey, look, Ry, that car's slowing down. Please, G.o.d, let it be her."

A silver sedan with a broken right-turn signal pulled up to the curb halfway down the block from them, but the figure that got out was so bundled up against the cold, Zoe couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was reached back into the car and came out with an oversize and obviously heavy attache case, then carried it into a nearby bank.

Zoe sighed again and looked back up at the digital readout on the Norilsk Nickel building, but the time had flipped over to the temperature. Minus thirty-nine degrees. Somebody made that up Somebody made that up, she thought. If it were a real number, we'd be dead, and- If it were a real number, we'd be dead, and- "Here she is," Ry said.

Zoe followed his pointing mitten to a small, slender woman wearing a black fur hat and an ankle-length black coat getting off an ice-crusted city bus. She made a beeline for them, her stride purposeful, confident.

The long, white wool scarf she'd wrapped around her neck obscured part of her face, but as she got closer, Zoe was surprised to see she was young, barely out of her teens.

She stopped in front of Zoe and stared at her as she loosened the thick scarf. Zoe saw a pale face with translucent skin and delicate features. Her eyes were gray and full of curiosity.

She said in fast-flowing Russian, "Sorry I'm late. The buses are always breaking down in this weather. Great-uncle Fodor saw you two days ago. He said he overheard you chatting up Ilia the baker in her shop, and that you've come from America and were asking about the lake with the waterfall. And that you're the very image of the old photograph we have of Lena Orlova, who was the last Keeper. At least we thought she was the last ..." Her voice trailed off as she studied Zoe some more.

"Lena Orlova was my great-grandmother."

The girl nodded, her eyes sparkling. "Most think Lena was the last Keeper because she was killed before she could pa.s.s on her knowledge and anoint a new one. She was a nurse at the prison camp here, and she was killed by the guards when she tried to help the poor zek zek who was her lover to escape. But there've always been a stubborn few who wanted to believe in the rumors that she got away, for it was too good a story not to be true, was it not? And here you are, living proof. Are you the Keeper now?" who was her lover to escape. But there've always been a stubborn few who wanted to believe in the rumors that she got away, for it was too good a story not to be true, was it not? And here you are, living proof. Are you the Keeper now?"

"Yes. My grandmother Katya, Lena's daughter, she ... anointed me."

"Good. That is how it should be." The girl turned abruptly and looked up at the builders' monument. "I hope you don't think this Soviet poster boy is anything at all like the men who built Norilsk."

Zoe would have blinked at this abrupt change of subject, but she was afraid her eyelids would freeze shut. "Not hardly. I mean, who would go to work in this place without even a s.h.i.+rt?"

"It's not so much the scarcity of clothing as the abundance of robust flesh. The men who built Norilsk were prisoners, who were fed just enough so they could stay alive and work, and they worked until all that was left of them was bones. When they died, they were buried together in ma.s.s graves, and every year to this day their bones come back to haunt us. In June, when the winter breaks, the melting snows churn them up from out of the ground, only everyone pretends not to see them."

"But you don't pretend," Zoe said.

The girl smiled at her. "No. Because that would be denying them all, wouldn't it?" She pulled her wool scarf across her face again. "Come with me now, out of this cold, and we will talk."

SHE LED THEM into a small, blessedly warm restaurant with two surly waiters and a dozen low, ugly Formica tables. They all ordered cups of teeth-rottingly sweet black Russian tea. into a small, blessedly warm restaurant with two surly waiters and a dozen low, ugly Formica tables. They all ordered cups of teeth-rottingly sweet black Russian tea.

"My name is Svetlana," the girl said, "but do not tell me yours if it is different from what is on your official doc.u.ments. I will simply call you cousin, for if you are Lena Orlova's great-granddaughter, then that would make us cousins of a sort, many times removed. Great-uncle Fodor says I am sticking myself out on a clothesline by even speaking to you, but I had to see you with my own eyes. And to help you if I can, because as I told Great-uncle Fodor, it is the duty of the toapotror toapotror to help the Keeper when we can." to help the Keeper when we can."

"I am very grateful to you," Zoe said. "In your phone call last night you said you can take us to the lake we're looking for?"

Svetlana nodded solemnly. "I will take you, but only as far as the waterfall. After that, you are on your own. You are the Keeper, and only the Keeper is allowed to approach the altar of bones. I would rather have all my teeth pulled than go into that cave anyway. None of our people wanted me to come to you, they're afraid you will destroy the altar or betray its secrets to the world since you are not really one of us. Even if you were born of toapotror toapotror blood." blood."

"They're wrong. I am one of you. I have come a very long way to prove that I am one of you."

"Yes, you are tough, otherwise you would not have made it this far, and that is what I told Great-uncle Fodor. There aren't many of us magic people left, you understand, and of those who are, most are old and tired and set in their ways. They do not know the Grammies from Google." Svetlana paused, drew a deep breath, and lowered her voice. "I said for you not to tell me your name, Cousin, but it and your face are all over the Internet. They say you are terrorists, but I know that is a lie. You are being hunted, as the Keepers often are, and I will do what I can to help you. But I think we should also pray to the Lady to protect you."

"I really am grateful for your help, Svetlana, but if it means putting you in danger-"

She waved a hand. "Never mind that, I am bored with being safe. Besides, I live in Norilsk, where there is acid in the snow and we kill ourselves with every polluted breath we take."

She shrugged and drank the rest of her tea as if it were fine ambrosia rather than syrupy sludge. "Now, the fastest way to get to the lake this time of year is by snowmobile. My cousin Mikhail, who is smart enough not to ask questions, has a couple of Arctic Cats we may borrow."

She paused and looked hard at Ry, and Zoe didn't think she was happy about him at all. And Ry, probably sensing as much, had been keeping quiet.

"If I don't trust him," Zoe said, "then I may as well not trust myself."

"Because you sleep with him? Other Keepers gave up the altar's secrets along with their hearts. It never ended well, if the stories are to be believed."

"Maybe because the only stories that got told were the ones with the bad endings. The ones where the Keepers fell in love with rotten a.s.sholes, who should never have been trusted past first base to begin with. But who's to say there haven't been Keepers who trusted good guys, guys who were never going to betray them, not for love nor money? You'd never hear about them because there'd be nothing to tell, and ... And I know I've got a point in there somewhere, and it's a real zinger, too."

The girl surprised Zoe by joining in her laughter. "How can I argue with such logic? Except to say you are the Keeper, so you will do what you will do, anyway." Svetlana gave Ry another once-over. "He's a big and strong one-I'll say that for him."