The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) by Thomas E. Sniegoski Christopher Golden Page A

rising up to the fan spinning above them. "You got some balls, you. But
you watch too many movies."
    Brodsky wasn't gaping anymore. The look on his face had gone
from incredulous to darkly inquisitive.
    "Then you won't mind if Gage and Caleb over there take
a look in your car, right Lieutenant?" the Sergeant asked.
    The man laughed. "Damn, boys, y'all can do whatever you
want." He nodded toward the two uniforms in question, gestured toward the
door. "Go on, boys. Have yourselves a time."
    They hesitated only a moment, then glanced at Brodsky, who
nodded once. Then the two cops went out the door at a run.
    "Jaalisa," Brodsky said, "you want to take a
look out the door at the car across the street?"
    The prostitute did not seem at all tired anymore. Her eyes
were wide and her chest rose and fell as though she were breathing for two. She
stared at Pete Landry for a long moment and he took a long drag on his
cigarette, its tip burning red in the darkened bar. Jaalisa shook her head.
    "No, sir. I don't think I do."
    The Lieutenant cleared his throat again, drawing Brodsky's
attention. Clay watched as he took a step nearer the sergeant.
    "Things ain't never gonna be the same for you after
this, Johnny," Landry said, the words a grim promise. "Not ever. And
this asshole's not going to find the Quarter real hospitable either. You
embarrass me like this? Make a fool out of me? You're the damn fool."
    Brodsky's partner, the only other cop still in the bar, had
moved toward the door to watch Caleb and Gage. When he spoke it was so low as
to be barely audible, and yet the words resounded through the bar.
    "Son of a bitch, John. You might want to look at this."
    The moment Brodsky glanced over at him, the Lieutenant
snapped the strap off of his gun and slid it out of the holster with swiftness
borne of years of practice. He brought it up, taking aim at Brodsky's temple. The
sergeant was the nearest armed man. It only made sense that Landry would take
him down first, Clay second, the cop at the door third. The hooker likely didn't
even enter into his homicidal logic.
    Clay moved with stunning speed, putting himself between
Brodsky and that gun. The Lieutenant fired, the report echoing through
Charmaigne's. The bullet tore through Clay's chest and lodged in his vertebrae,
trapped there. He winced at the pain but already he was changing again. This
time, however, there was no cat. Not even the human face of the man the people
of New Orleans knew as Clay Smith. He could have taken the face of any man in
the bar just by touching one of them.
    Instead, he showed Lieutenant Pete Landry his own face. His
real face. His clothes were gone, save for a scarlet ceremonial drape around
his waist that hung nearly to his knees. Clay towered over Landry, nearly nine
feet tall and as broad as two men across the chest. His red-brown flesh, from
hairless scalp to bare feet, was damp and soft and run through with cracks.
    "Go on, asshole," Clay rumbled, "shoot me
again."
    Wide-eyed and hyperventilating, the asshole did.
    Clay ripped the gun out of his hand, breaking three fingers,
and grabbed Landry by the throat, trying his best to avoid meeting the grateful
gaze of the murderer's ghosts. He did it for them, but he could not withstand
the sadness in those eyes.
    He squeezed the Lieutenant by the throat until the man's
eyes rolled up to white.
    "Step away from him," Brodsky demanded.
    Clay glanced over, saw that the sergeant had drawn his own
weapon. He let Landry drop, gasping, to the floor and looked down at Brodsky. He
smiled, and he knew it was a grotesque smile.
    "John, my friend, you want to know how I track killers?
I'll tell you over a beer some time. If you want other answers about me . . ."
Clay paused and took a long, calming breath, staring into Brodsky's eyes. "Trust
me when I tell you, you're not alone."
    With that small, gasping noise he changed again, from
towering clay figure to copper-furred cat. Brodsky shouted after him. The
uniforms were