"Where are they?"
Dawn finds Dylan Shrike with no clowns and his heart in his mouth. Any other morning waking up in the sudden absence of Quinn and Petey would be an unmitigated joy, the fulfilment of an impossible dream. He'd be pinching himself to check he wasn't still asleep. Today? Today their blessed mother is coming to visit. Today he – and believe him, this is not easy for Dylan to accept – would not be entirely ungrateful for the support of two of the breed to whom he has had the opportunity to become accustomed.
Preferably silent support from across a rather large room, but support nevertheless. Having somebody around who knows the rules and who he has reason to trust. And it is under exactly these circumstances that Dylan can't lay hands on anyone to match the description. They have left nothing but the smell of greasepaint, and given the ownership of this establishment, that might have been here anyway.
He looks up, his last shred of hope shrivelling like a burnt-up match as he watches Jack coming down from the upper floors. "Anything?"
"Not so much as a rubber chicken."
"Jack, no jokes, please, I can't do it right now."
"It's not a joke, they leave them everywhere. Can't figure out where they keep pulling them from. Lula's the only person I've seen produce more birds out of one outfit."
Lula is wandering the back corridors, searching. Dylan left her to it, walked away and shut a couple of doors between them, when he heard her calling out. "Guys, if this is a bit, which I don't think it is but Dylan would want me to ask, it's not really funny enough." He had to walk away. She's gauging humour now? There's such a thing as funny enough? And that was just the icing; Dylan had his fill of cake just hearing her use the word 'bit'. They've infected her, taught her their language. Take it deeper and they've turned her natural adaptability from a blessing into a curse but… But then again, he didn't want to take it any deeper. Wanted to keep things civil, at least, with Petey and Quinn. He wanted this, so that he'd have them on side this morning.
Since that didn't work out, to hell with them. He feels one hundred percent free to hold Lula's unfortunate viral condition against them.
But under his perfectly natural frustrations, more sinister doubts are starting to take hold. Until now, he's been able to keep them at bay. The first hour, he was pretty sure, from the track record reported to him, they'd gone out for food. Still, the doubts have always been there. They're really very obvious, you'd be worried about him if these worries weren't in him. For instance, it may be terribly inconvenient to have lost them, but he can't let that blind him to the fact that they are gone. How? Was someone else involved; were they taken, or told to go? Have they turned? Gone rogue again, or maybe always were rogue, only ever pretended to be less than what they are – clowns – to get close to him?
Strange then, that since the creeping concern began in thoughts of her, that it is Lula who dispels it all. She comes drifting out a different door to the one she disappeared through. Brow furrowed, choking here and there on a trapped breath. "This doesn't make sense," she says, and Dylan would be inclined to agree except that her concerns don't match his. "The one person they still trust and care about in the world is coming here. Why would they be anywhere else?"
He hears that and stops questioning. She's right. Sometimes all it takes is for someone else to put it into words.
"So we wait for Il Dottore." The decision is spoken as it is made. "They'll come back to him." That's not what she asked him. They both know that. For the first time in his life, Dylan has trouble making her look past it. Hardly surprising; you'll always have a rough time selling a line you don't believe yourself. When that happens, you have to shut up. The very worst thing you can do is plough on, even if you think you can make it better. No matter what you think up to say, however good it sounds in your head, don't bother. "That's probably the answer," he says, with a pitiful attempt at looking like he's been an idiot up until now. "They probably went to meet him."
They wouldn't know how. Even Dylan knows no more than he needs to about how Doc is being brought here. It's a safety measure. But he tried. The lie doesn't really matter; from what he can tell, Lula isn't buying it anyway.
Then, like his efforts weren't dead enough before they left him, Jack calls down from above again. Voice muffled from facing the other way, looking out the gallery windows, "Doesn't look like they did."
"That's him? Now?"
"Floating down the street as we speak."
Curses line up to be spoken but they get stuck in Dylan's throat, looking suddenly round again to find that Lula has come up close. Calm, her eyes down away from his so he'll know she still isn't happy, she picks a speck of lint off his sweater and brushes the spot flat again. "It's fine," she says and those two words are gentle and firm, a blink-and-miss-it moment of sincerity that clears his chattering mind like the toll of a cathedral bell. Then, more like herself again, "It is literally fine, because if it wasn't for you he'd be in Monte Carlo right now probably being brutalized by a pair of twins, which must be even worse than being brutalized by normal sisters because you don't even necessarily know where each strike is coming from, there's no good-cop-bad-cop, how do you even pick out the weak one for certain? You've got this, man. You're in control this time, because he owes you."
"You're on the same side this time," Jack adds. Both their points are valid, true. The effect they have on Dylan is impressive, and before he can move past that, into the vague unease that always comes over him when he's the one in need of a boost, rather than doing the boosting, they impress him again. This time it's their swift co-ordination, their capacity to follow orders Dylan is struggling to even give. "I'd let him knock," Jack says on his way to the door and, yes, that would have been Dylan's instruction. "But he saw me already. Besides, it's his place."
"Go," and Lula is pushing his arm, waving him away. "Go out so you can come in again." Not as eloquent as Dylan would have put it, would have told himself to act natural, not show that they've been waiting, that waiting has been murder and the wait had better have been worth it, but the sentiment carries over. And the only reason she doesn't suggest a momentary flash of danger and distaste to go along with his entrance is because she wouldn't play it that way.
He leaves, picking up the notebook he's been working at all night so he can come in studying it. He decides on the brief rush now to get upstairs. That way he can walk out onto the gallery. When Doc first sees him, Dylan will be looking down.
It also gives him a door for a screen. He's able to watch. Credit him with some personal growth since all this began; less than twenty percent of his desire to keep an eye on proceedings has anything to do with ensuring no harm befalls the only two Horsemen he's got.
Doc's arrival is not what he imagined. Or maybe Dylan just isn't used to seeing these inherently social monsters travelling alone. There is, it seems, only so much they can do without a playmate, only so funny they can be without somebody else clued in on the gag. Still, as an old hand and a community leader, Il Dottore is meeting and exceeding all demands made upon him. In fact when you consider his situation, extrapolate from what you know how he's probably spent the last couple of days, he's putting on a decent show.
He arrives all in black, a long coat with a high collar, and from Dylan's elevated viewpoint his face is hidden beneath the wide brim of a flat-topped hat. A half-step behind him, Jack is carrying a black leather Gladstone bag with gleaming silver clasps, and a white spot on either side each marked with a red cross. A subtler look; no less a parody but accepting, at least, the gravity of their circumstances.
Lula, with the benefit of everything she's learned from them, stands to greet him with all the 1950s warmth of a truly gracious hostess. "Welcome home. You must be the Mother we've all heard so much about."
"And my two beautiful children? Where are they?"
With a shrug, sitting down at one of the marble tables, Jack says, "We thought they'd be with you."
Doc is still for a second, maybe nodding very slightly but only to himself. He casts his eyes around and over the crayon-etched tables and when he next speaks there is nothing of the stage in his voice. "In that case," and he drops himself into another of the chairs, "while I very much appreciate your efforts, this gag will become terrible very quickly. Wherever Shrike is waiting to spring from, could someone tell him to get it over with?"
"Ah, fine," Dylan sighs. He hardly knows he's doing it until it's done. Out from behind the door, notebook hanging unexamined from his hand, he's on the stairs again before he remembers he's supposed to be looking down, there's supposed to be a psychological powerplay happening, there's supposed to be this whole big scene with blocking and sweeping cinematography and all the angles worked out but you know what? Screw it.
They may all be performers, but they've been off-script for some time now. At some point they have all wandered off stage into a very real world, drifting so that they barely noticed. Out in the wings now, out in the dark, Dylan is going to play this however he damn well pleases.
"Let's start," he says, and fiercely pointing, "with what the hell is going on in your organization."
"Let's start with Petey and Quinn."
Such absolute calm, and even at a time like this a thin and immovable smile. Doc's eyes fix Dylan's and the merest touch of the old chill stiffens his back. This time, however, he's got back-up. People to cover the falter when his throat dries up. Jack cuts in, "We don't know." He sounds exactly like himself. Maybe the eight-inch ruby-topped caduceus brooch Doc is setting aside so he can unbutton his coat doesn't bother him. "Near as we can guess they left in the early hours. None of us heard anything. But one of the boats is gone so they did it themselves. No one came to get them."
"Petey put my Arlechinno in a boat and nobody heard it fighting. There ought to have been some token scuffle, for decency's sake. Whatever called them away must have been very urgent indeed…"
By which time Dylan has recovered and with all the strength he's been building up, "Short version – you don't know and we don't know. Which makes it pretty pointless beating that question around any longer. How about we get back to mine?"
"Mr Shrike, the night before last, I woke up hogtied in a hotel room of much lower quality than that to which I am accustomed, where I would be languishing still had I not been ruthlessly sniffed out by two rather bloody-minded Englishwomen who, as far as I can gather, ran afoul of a niece of mine known as Columbina. At what point exactly am I supposed to have picked up anything I can offer you?"
Not halfway through that, Dylan began to shake his head. More than just his natural mistrust of this creature and all his kind tells him to push, not to be shamed or scared into shutting up. There is more to this. "That's nice, that's a nice story. Reminds me of the one where you sent your psychotic little so-called children-"
Lula straightens sharply. "Don't call them psychotic; I like his so-called children." She's pouting. As words themselves it's barely an interruption. Another day, Dylan wouldn't even stop talking. Today, though she means more than she says. There's a very old magician's trick, to push a long steel pin through a balloon without popping it. The part you never see is that, when the pin is removed, the holes it leaves are real and the balloon goes down quiet and easy. That's what she did; he was getting too riled, too close to the balloon popping. Lula pushed the pin through.
He nods to her, trying to present it as an apology, rather than the gratitude it is.
"- Your messengers came to me, and the message turns out to be that me and my team are in trouble. Trouble, it transpired, of a decidedly lethal bent. And now I find out that trouble was coming from inside your own house, Doctor. You tell me; what am I supposed to think?"
With that, Dylan scores a major victory, not just in this particular day but in his life; he shuts a clown up. Whether Doc has anything to add or not, he falls quiet in the acceptance of a fair point well made.
Generally, there are few sadder sights in life than a clown left with nothing to say. 'Generally' doesn't include Dylan, though. Dylan will take this image to his grave.
But he is denied the joy of waiting for an answer, of playing the same nasty game they played with him in Monaco. His perfect moment is snapped in two by the sound of a boat engine coming up too fast outside, stopping too short.
Four heads all snap round. The first second is stunned, the second races, all of them trapped in their own silences, looking for explanations. At the third Jack speaks, "Alright, I thought Dylan was being kind of harsh? But you have to admit, Doc, that doesn't sound good for you either."
Doc rolls his eyes to Dylan, "My children are smarter than yours…"
Leaving Dylan to explain, "We brought him here."
"But… Guys, what's the problem?" and Lula's smile might tremble but she keeps in place. "Isn't it…? I mean, doesn't it have to be Petey and… And I can't hear Quinn."
They'll never decide on a course of action. In-fighting will destroy any consensus that might ever try to form. Luckily, they don't have to. The decision is made for him. Whoever is outside has a key, and before they can even factor the scratch of the lock into their decision-making, the door is flung open. Petey, entirely alone, charges inside. Ignoring even his beloved Mom, he goes immediately to Lula's purse, hanging on the end of the stair-rail. From it, he takes a pair of handcuffs. Then he returns to Doc, who sinks with something like relief when he is waved a brief hello. That, however, is all the acknowledgement he gets. Petey reaches immediately down and grabs the scrub-green handkerchief from his top pocket, then turns away again. This time he keeps right on walking, and as he goes he grabs one of the chairs by its back, carrying it under his arm like a newspaper
He doesn't stop until he is in one of the side rooms and has slammed the door.
With quiet consideration, and something like fear, all sniping and distrust is forgotten. The three magicians and Doc all rise from the table. A second or two apart, perhaps, and drifting, but really as one, they creep slowly to the still-reverberating door.
By the time Lula has the nerve to press it open, Petey is all but prepared. He has tied the two ends of the handkerchief in a knot and slides it over his head to rest at his brow. Then he puts the chair down by the window, and cuffs his own left wrist to the hoop that holds back the cream silk drapes. He sits down and tugs the handkerchief down over his eyes.
His right hand unfurls from a fist to show a crumpled note. Dylan, with thumb and forefinger only, picks it up and flattens it. Reading aloud, "Don't talk in front of me."
Doc steps forward. With the flustered sigh of any clucking mother, he eases away the handkerchief on one side. The eye uncovered is round and unblinking, and very afraid, though Doc gives no sign of noticing that. "Alright, kiddo, what's the game?"
Petey's unchained hand balls up, pulling an extended thumb away from his chin. Then the other hand makes the same shape and he clicks both sets of knuckles together twice.
No game.
