their task. Terence did
not know how large the battery was or what it looked like; all he knew, based on Harry's walk-by, was that
it was here.
Jazz went left. The first door she came to was ajar, and she knelt low and pushed it open slightly until
she could see inside. A bathroom: toilet, bidet, shower stall, bath, basin, a couple of chairs. The shower was
steamed up and still drip-ping water, and the air carried the warm, heavy smell of re-cent use.
The next door was closed, and Jazz pressed her ear to the wood. She couldn't hear anything inside.
She touched the handle, paused, and withdrew her hand. Doesn't feel right, she thought. Trusting her
instincts, she moved on.
The silence of the house was intimidating. Such a big place, so little activity... She was glad, but it
also felt strange. It felt as if, even though she thought she was being careful and quiet, the whole house
was watching her. The tall ceilings pressed down, the walls closed in, and she was sure she could smell the
must of ages drifting up from the carpets beneath her feet. She looked around for cameras but saw none.
She listened for footsteps.
The front doors slammed shut. Jazz fell to her stomach and crawled quickly to the balcony, looking
down into the hallway. If someone had shut the doors and was heading for the stairs, she'd have maybe a
dozen seconds to find some-where to hide.
There was a tall bald man in the hall. He engaged the locks on the front door and turned, heading
right into one of the rooms Jazz had not seen.
She turned the corner of the balcony and headed toward the front of the house. There was one long
wall here with a single door, and she paused outside, listening. There was someone inside —she heard
murmuring, muttering, whis-pers interspersed with what could only be sobs.
Was this "that room" where the mayor always wanted to be alone?
There was the tang of something in the air, like the stench of hot electrics, only more animal, more
natural.
Jazz knelt and tried to see through the keyhole, but it was blocked with a key on the other side.
She grabbed the handle, placed her ear against the wood again, and turned. If the whispering
stopped, she'd have to run. If its tone or volume changed, the person talking could have turned their head to
look at the door, and she would have to flee.
Concentrating, listening for footsteps from behind as well as a change in the voice beyond the door,
she turned the old ivory handle some more. Felt the latch release. Pushed.
She blessed whoever maintained the house for keeping its hinges well oiled.
The wedge of room revealed did not seem to fit the di-mensions or shape made apparent by its
outside. The inside walls were curved, forming a perfectly circular space. There were no windows, and the
only other opening was a closed door directly opposite Jazz. The walls were painted a dull purple. The
ceiling was cream, the floor was covered with a pale, hard covering, and at the center of the room, the
mayor sat cross-legged, naked, and shivering.
Sweat dripped from his straggly hair and landed on his flabby stomach. He stared down at the floor
just before him, his right hand six inches above, index finger forming small, irregular circles in the air. He
mumbled a few words in a lan-guage Jazz did not know.
Fiddlin', Philip had said. In that room of his.
The mayor's strange words seemed to travel around the curved walls, repeating themselves again
and again until they were even more jumbled and unknowable than before.
A small weak light appeared on the floor before him, squirming like a slug sprayed with salt. It
quickly faded away to nothing, and the mayor cursed and shook his head.
Magic, Jazz thought. I'm seeing magic. But ...is that it?
And then the door across the room from her opened, just a crack, and Stevie peered in. He didn't see
her, of that she was sure. His attention was too fixed on the mayor and what he was doing, eyes wide,
fearful and excited at the same time.
Jazz opened her door another inch, willing Stevie to see her. He did not. Instead, he pointed at the
mayor, and at first Jazz thought he was going to laugh. But she realized too late that the laugh was actually
a grimace, and Stevie was not pointing with his hand.
The gun was black and ugly in the boy's pale hand.
"No!" Jazz screamed.
The mayor turned to look at her. And then his right eye and cheek erupted as Stevie shot him in the
back of the head.
Chapter
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