Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

Max smiled to envision the unexpected end he’d engineered for that caper. They would all be flummoxed. It was something the Synth could have never anticipated and, worse, couldn’t fault him for, given that it didn’t violate the terms of their agreement, although it would sure as heck violate their intentions.

He frowned to consider that nasty tank trap Molina had laid for him. There was no way a fingerprint of his could be found in her house, not even from his recent, lightning personal appearance, suitably Mephistophelean, he hoped. He grinned grimly at that escapade, running the bungee cords through his hands, automatically checking for fraying, breaks, weaknesses in the mechanism, as he did before every performance, every plummet into the widening funnel of neon-lit darkness and noise below him.

When he dove, the dancers parted with ooohs of delighted fright. He swooped so low, so close to their frenetic level, that he almost met his own black shadow in the gleaming mirror-black floor.

What a rush. Screaming hordes jousted for the leis of fluorescent flowers he looped over them as the cord pulled him away. They leaped up after him the way people sprang to capture cheap plastic beads at Mardi Gras. Life was a cabaret along the Strip, and Max had to caper for their attention like any Mardi Gras babe seeking plastic beads.

He checked his safety belt, his spandex-gloved fingers pulling on the steel fasteners to test them.

Him. Leave a fingerprint in Molina’s house? Never!

None had existed on any official record until she’d raided Temple’s rooms. This was police harassment. The plan was to destroy Temple’s unshakable faith in him, and it had worked. A little.

Max knew her faith in his innocence would never waver. Her faithfulness was another thing. Don’t guard what you’ve got, and it’s gone. He shut his eyes for an instant. If he hadn’t come back from his forced disappearance several months ago, he knew that Temple would be where she probably was now: with Matt Devine. He had only delayed the inevitable. You usually can’t save the world, even one little corner of it, and your love life too. And for that he also blamed Molina’s relentless opposition.

With all he had going on, juggling his various personae and infiltrating the Synth and the Millennium heist turned boobytrap, the last thing he needed was another of Molina’s pathetic games distracting him.

The music paused, then revved into the overblown intro for the Phantom Mage.

No time to dwell on loss or anger, on what he had unwillingly given up and what interfering others had taken from him.

Max leaped off the tiny platform like a diver into darkness. Showers of sparklers sprayed from his figure as the cloak spread out like wings, revealing a lining of leaping flames.

The pale faces gazing up at him drew nearer, grew features . . . O’s of open mouths and wide eyes. For a moment, he was stronger and more enrapturing than anything they could drink or smoke or sniff or inject, a dark angel falling to earth, spewing gaudy fire.

He knew the instant the bungee cord failed to tauten for the fast flight back up, knew at once it had failed completely. Hadn’t he run the entire length through his hands? While his mind had gnawed at the irritation of phantom fingerprints, maybe his hands had missed a weakness in the line.

Was this a mere snag, or a fatal flaw?

Below him the awe-stricken holes in people’s faces enlarged into horror. He saw them scattering and did a full body twist to send him away from landing dead-on-down to the floor, away toward the side wall where no one could be hurt. No one but . . .

The bungee cord snapped like a rubber band. He had a split second to—

He hit with astounding force and then had nothing more to worry about at all.

After Max

“Look!” Miss Louise cries softly, but no less urgently. Sometimes she can mew like a Miss Muffet, although most often she screams like a Wicked Witch of the West.

So I look up. And there is the dark glittering figure, falling. Like a bird. I am almost tempted to leap up, to meet it and bring it down. But I understand this is a giant bird-man, and I am not the size of predator that could contain it, much less kill it.

Besides, I have retired from the predator biz. Now, I track them.

“Oooh,” breathe the people above us and all around us.

“Aaaah,”

they sigh.

And then the flying man plunges to the ground, the invisible leash not tightening and jerking him back into the upper air.

Louise howls. People scream and scatter. Rafi Nadir’s motorcycle boots crack hard across black Plexiglas, which shatters as if he wore seven-league boots made of lead.

And the Phantom Mage swings full-frontal-first into a wall of concrete sheathed in mirrors and neon.

Rafi Nadir is defending the perimeter. He sometimes works security here.

He has already dialed 911 with his cell phone. Now he fights to keep hysterical people from rushing the fallen form with a mad conjoined instinct of horror, compassion, and curiosity.