him. Der Mann needs me!
That need gave him strength. He made his limbs respond to his will. Made himself climb, despite the tendency of hands and Keds to slip in the red liquid that covered the ledge.
Der Mann lay where he had been before. But his neck was craned, and he was staring fixedly up at a tall, gaunt Secret Service agent. His expression seemed both elated and terrified.
Hatred for the skinny agent hit Mackie like amphetamines. He's the one who shot me! But worse than that, he was doing something to the senator. Mackie couldn't see what, but he knew.
He limped forward. His right foot dragged. Each step sent a white-hot poker through his belly. He needs me. I won't- --fail--him--again.
Spector felt something in Hartmann resist him for a moment, then it sucked him in like a whirlpool. His deathpain boiled into the senator's mind; every excruciating detail, the broken bones, the fiery blood, the choking, rushed out.
But something was wrong. Hartmann's mind wasn't reacting like any of the others. It was bloating, feasting on Spector's death. Spector pushed harder. Slowly, the other mind gave way under the pressure and began to fade.
So good so tasty but it hurts and it kills ... it isn't real it can't be real it isn't possible ...
But it was and Puppetman's voice had faded to a whisper and left completely and even the pain that leaked into Gregg from Puppetman was like a searing acid poured down his psyche so that he wanted to scream and plead and beg don't kill me don't kill me I don't want to die.
But he couldn't break that awful gaze, couldn't tear himself away from those strange, sad, pained, startled, hurt eyes, those eyes that weren't Colin's at all but someone else's ...
. and he knew that he was going to die, that he would be next, that he would follow Puppetman into the void behind those eyes .
"You're killing me!" Gregg spat with all the strength he had left, hoping that those eyes would blink or look away or turn ...
... and there was nothing left in his world but those eyes ...
The dark-clad back loomed ahead of. Mackie like a narrow cliff. Mackie swayed. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a long, long time.
Instead he raised his right hand, brought the buzz. He looked at his fingers, a pink blur. The sight gave him strength. He swung his hand in a flat sweeping cut.
Spector could barely stay on his feet. His knees wobbled from the strain. He'd given Hartmann everything he had, and felt hum go under. But the son of a bitch was staring at him, blinking. It simply wasn't possible.
Spector remembered the gun in his hand. He centered it on Hartmann's chest. He heard a sound like a giant bee, and hesitated. He felt a grinding pain in his neck. The convention hall spun, over and over, then rushed up and slammed him in the face. His ears were roaring, but none of the sounds seemed to make sense. There was a body lying on the floor not far from him. It was Colin; at least, it looked like the joker. But he didn't have a head. There were ribbons of tattered flesh on the neck where it had come off. All Spector could see were rushing feet.
It had to be a dream. Like the one he'd had before, only worse. He felt sick and paralyzed, but at the same time strangely euphoric. He'd just close his eyes and bring things back under control.
The head had rolled against the back of the podium. Feeling as if he were drifting on air Mackie limped toward it through roaring silence.
Painfully he leaned forward. His body felt like a dry twig that broke in a new place with every few degrees he bent.
He picked up the head, straightened slowly. He held the head up, to show to Gregg, to show to the herd of frightened sheep in white hats who trampled one another in their frenzy to flee him.
"I'm Mackie Messer," he croaked. "Mack the Knife. I'm special."
He brought the head to his face, kissed it full on the lips. 'The eyes opened.
Spector felt something on his mouth. He opened his eyes. The hunchback was staring down at him, a mocking smile on his lips. It wasn't a dream. The realization was like a fist in his chest, but he didn't have a chest anymore. The little fucker had sliced his head off.