Elrod—02 Lifeblood

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 Chapter 1

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 "BE A SPORT," I said to the bartender, not quite meeting his eye, "I'm

 nursin' a broken heart."

 "Yeah, yeah," he replied, and continued polishing a glass with a gray

 rag.

 "No foolin', I got the money." And I fumbled five singles from my shirt

 pocket and let them flutter onto the damp black wood of the bar. "Come

 on, that's worth a bottle, ain't it? I won't make no trouble."

 "You can make book on it."

 He had a right to be confident. We were nearly the same height, but I'm

 on the lean side and he was built like a steam shovel and just as solid.

 He thought he could take care of me.

 He stopped polishing the glass and put it down next to the bills. I

 smiled and tried to look friendly, which was a hell of an act under the

 circumstances. This was one of those cheaper-than-two-bit dives where

 you take your life in your hands just by going to the men's room. From

 the smell of things, the facilities were located just outside the front

 door against the wall of the building, gentlemen on the left, ladies

 I renewed my hopeful smile and rustled the bills temptingly.

 He looked at them, then gave me a fishy eye, gauging my apparent

 drunkenness against the lure of the money. It was a slow night and the

 money won. His hand made a move for it, but mine was a little faster and

 covered three of Washington's portraits first.

 "Wise guy," he said, and took a bottle of the cheap stuff down from the

 shelf behind him. Hell, it was all cheap, but that hardly mattered to

 me, I only wanted an excuse to hang around.

 "I've had some, but not that much." I left two bucks on the bar, took

 the bottle, glass, and remaining money, and tottered to the second booth

 in line along the wall. With my back to the front door I settled in,

 using the careful movements of a drunk who wants to show people he

 isn't. I spent a lot of time counting my three dollars and putting them

 away before pouring a drink and pretending to imbibe. Ten cents for the

 whole bottle would have been an overcharge; the stuff smelled like some

 of the old poison left over from before repeal. I brought the glass to

 my lips, made a face, and coughed, spilling some of it down my

 well-stained shirtfront.

 While I was busy dabbing at the mess with a dirty handkerchief, a big

 man in dark gray came in and went straight to the bar. He was in a suit,

 which was wrong for the neighborhood, and he was in a hurry, which was

 wrong for the hour. At one in the morning, nobody should be in a hurry.

 He ordered a whiskey with a beer chaser and took a look around. It

 didn't take long; except for me, seven booths, and the bartender, the

 place was empty.

 He studied me like a bug. I pretended real hard that I was drunk and

 simple-minded and hoped he'd buy the act. It helped that I wore rough

 work clothes that stank of the river and past debauches with the

 bottle--just another country kid corrupted by the big bad city.

 Apparently I was no threat. He knocked back the whiskey and took the

 beer to the last booth next to the back door and sat on the outside

 edge, where he could see people coming in from the street. I used the

 tilted mirror hanging over the bar to watch him. It was an old one with

 flecks of tamish like freckles, but his reflection was clear enough. He

 hunched over the beer and drained it a sip at a time, with long pauses

 in between. His soft hat was pulled low, but now and then his eyes

 gleamed when he used the mirror himself. I kept still and enjoyed his

 slight puzzlement when he couldn't spot my image in the glass.

 Another man walked in from the night and hesitantly approached the bar.

 He was also too well dressed, but was a bit more seedy and timid. He had

 a tall, thin body with a beaky nose that supported some black-rimmed

 pince-nez on a pastel blue velvet ribbon. He wore a cheap blue suit, the

 cuffs a little too short and the pants a little too tight. His ankles

 stuck out, revealing black silk socks peeking over the tops of black

 shoes with toes that had been chiseled to a lethal point. He affected a

 black cane with a silver handle, which would buy him eternity in this

 neighborhood if he waved it around too much.

 He tried ordering a sherry and got a look of contemptuous disbelief

 instead. He had better luck asking for gin, then made a point of wiping

 the rim of the glass clean with his printed silk handkerchief before

 drinking. After taking a sip, he dabbed his lips and smoothed the pencil

 line under his nose that passed for a moustache.

 He looked around, as nervous as a virgin in a frat house. He noted me

 and the man in the back booth, and when neither of us leaped out to cut

 his throat, he relaxed a little. He checked the clock behind the bar,

 comparing its time to a silver watch attached to his vest and frowned.

 The bartender moved away, no doubt driven off by the scent of dying

 lilies that the newcomer had doused over himself. A cloud of it hit me

 in the face like exhaust from a truck, and I gave up breathing for a

 while.

 He looked at the watch again and then at the door. No one came in. He

 removed his hat, placing it gently on the bar, as though it might offend

 someone. From a low widow's peak to the curl-clustered nape, his dark

 hair had been carefully dressed with a series of waves that were too

 regular to be natural. He removed his gloves, plucking delicately at the

 fingertips, then absently patted his hair down.

 The bartender caught the eyes of the man in the booth and shrugged with

 raised brows and a superior smile as though to say he couldn't help who

 walked through the door as long as they paid. The man in the booth

 hunched closer to his beer and watched the mirror.

 Two minutes later a lady walked in, probably the first one to ever cross

 the threshold. She was small, not much over five feet, wearing emerald

 green with a matching hat and a heavy dark veil that covered her face

 down to her hard, red lips. She carried a big green bag trimmed with

 beads that twinkled in the light. Her green heels made quite a noise as

 she crossed the wood floor to the tall man at the bar. He straightened a

 little, because polite men do things like that when a lady comes up to

 them, and he did look polite.

 She glanced around warily, her eyes resting on me a moment. She must

 have been pretty enough to be noticed even by a drunk like me; at least

 she had a trim figure and good legs. I gave her an encouraging, if

 bleary leer and raised my glass hopefully. After that she ignored me and

 tilted her chin expectantly at the tall man.

 He frowned, worried, but gathered up his hat, cane, gloves, and drink

 and followed her to the second-to-last booth at the end. She sat with

 her back to me and the man slid in opposite her with his back to the big

 man in gray, who was now pressed tight against the wall. She seemed not

 to have noticed him.

 The gin placed his cane across the table, the curved handle hanging over

 the outside edge. His hat went next to it and the gloves were tucked

 into a pocket. I could tell he was nervous again from the way he fussed

 with things. He quietly asked the woman if she cared to have a drink.

 She shook her head. He repeated the gesture to the bartender, who then

 moved down to my end and picked up another glass to polish. He was

 watching me, but I was in a slack-jawed dream, staring into space, at

 least at the space occupied by the mirror behind him.

 The man in gray leaned to the outside and craned his neck. He could see

 the bartender and was now worried that he couldn't see me as well, but

 it was too late to investigate the problem without calling attention to

 himself.

 The woman stared at her companion, her breath gently ruffling the veil.

 Her voice was pitched low, but even at that distance I had no trouble

 hearing the conversation.

 "Do you have it?"

 The man cocked his head to one side, favoring her with the stronger lens

 of the pince-nez. "I might ask you the same question." His voice was

 flat and breathy, as though he were afraid the let the words out.

 She didn't like him or his answer, but eventually lifted the purse from

 her lap to the table. With her left hand she pulled out a slim leather

 case and opened it for his inspection. It was no larger than a pack of

 cigarettes, and she held it ready to pull back if he grabbed it. He

 peered at the contents a moment, then drew a jeweler's loupe from his

 pocket.

 "May I?" He extended a manicured hand. She hesitated. "I have to verify

 that it is genuine. Miss er Green. Mr. Swafford was very clear on

 that point."

 She put the case on the table, her right hand lingering inside the big

 purse. "Just as long as you know that this is genuine," she told him,

 and turned the bag to let him see inside.

 He stiffened, his eyes frozen on her hidden hand. He licked his lower

 lip. "V-very well." Slowly he picked up the leather case, removing the

 pince-nez and screwing the loupe into one eye. He examined what was in

 the case for ten seconds and reversed the motions, replacing it back

 onto the scarred tabletop.

 "Well?" she said.

 "It is genuine." He settled the pince-nez back on his nose.

 "I knew that, let's get on with it."

 "Y-yes, certainly." From his coat pocket he produced an envelope and

 gave it to her. She opened it and examined the contents in turn, pulling

 out one of the hundred-dollar bills from the center. A second later she

 looked up and grabbed the leather case.

 "You can tell Swafford it's in the fire," she said in a voice like

 ground glass.

 His eyes darted unhappily from the empty spot on the table to her veil.

 "But why?"

 "These bills are marked. If there's cops outside you're a corpse."

 "No, please, I didn't know about this, please wait!"

 She didn't look like she was ready to move, but the man was unnerved.

 Behind him the big guy had shifted a hand to the inside of his coat,

 which explained why she hadn't noticed him; there'd been no need to

 notice her partner.

 "I-I don't understand this. Mr. Swafford entrusted me to verify the

 stamp and to pay you--nothing more. I assure you that I had no idea--"

 "I said it's in the fire."

 "But wait, please, you have no idea how valuable it is--

 "Five grand. I only asked for half."

 "I can help you. I know other collectors, ones who would ask no

 questions. They'd be glad to pay you its full worth. If I had the money,

 I'd buy it myself."

 She took in his cheap clothes, her mouth becoming small and thin. "I'm

 sure you would." Her hand shot up and knocked the pince-nez from his

 nose, and his head snapped back a fraction too late to avoid it. They

 hung from the velvet ribbon, swinging free and hitting the table edge

 with a soft tick.

 In turn his gray eyes hardened and his cowering posture altered and

 straightened. "We may still come to an equitable arrangement. Miss

 Green." His breathy manner of speech had been replaced by a precise

 English accent, and the prissy mannerisms dropped from him like sour

 milk.

 "Like hell we will, Escott. Stand up and follow Sled out the back door."

 Escott glanced up as the big shadow of the man in gray loomed over him.

 "I meant what I--"

 "Shut up or you get it now."

 He shot her a glum look and stood. He put on his hat and reached for the

 cane, but Sled grabbed it first, grinning at Escott's discomfiture. Sled

 opened the back door and started through a short, dark passage that

 served as storage space and led to the rear alley. The bartender watched

 me and pretended not to notice his other customers.

 I gave up my drunk act and vanished into thin air. Maybe he could

 pretend not to notice that, either.

 Escott moved slowly through the passage after Sled. The woman was behind

 him, presumably with her hand still on the gun in her purse. For the

 moment I was only aware of their bodies and general positions. The woman

 shivered as I passed her, the way they say you do when someone walks

 over your grave. Escott paused when I brushed past him and had to be

 urged on; it was his way of letting me know he was conscious of my

 presence.

 Sled was out the back door now, waiting as Escott emerged with the

 woman. I didn't know if Sled had his gun ready yet, but hers was, so

 she'd have to be dealt with first.

 I melted back into reality and solidified. From her point of view I just

 came out of nowhere, which was essentially correct. I slapped the gun

 from her grip, put a hand over her mouth, another around her waist, then

 half lifted her away into the dark. She made a nasal squeal of outrage,

 her heels flailing against my shins.

 Sled's attention cut from Escott to her, and the gun jumped from the

 shoulder holster to his hand like magic. Escott grabbed it, forcing it

 down, and used his body to ram Sled against the brick wall of the dive.

 He was stronger than his thin frame promised, and the bricks did nothing

 for Sled's looks or disposition. He hit Escott with the cane, but it was

 at the wrong angle and he couldn't put his full strength in it. There

 was a meaty thump and gasp as Escott slammed the man's gun hand hard

 into the bricks. The gun dropped. The cane came down again. Escott took

 the blow against his side and at the same time led with a right that

 went halfway to Sled's backbone.

 While they danced around, I tore the purse from the woman. Holding on to

 her was like trying to give a bath to an alley cat. I pushed her away

 from the melee, hoping she would have the sense to run. We wanted the

 stamp, not her. She was agile, though; one second she was getting her

 balance, the next she was making an unladylike tackle for Sled's gun.

 She got it.

 Her index finger slotted neatly over the trigger on the first try and

 she rolled and brought it up like an expert, firing point blank at me as

 I lunged. The yellow flash filled my whole world. I didn't hear the

 thing go off, maybe at that range it was too loud to hear. I felt the

 wrenching impact as the slug struck over my left eye and sent me on a

 slow, breathless tumble into white-hot agony.

 Its duration was mercifully brief. I was writhing and solid one instant

 and weightless and floating the next. The shock and pain had knocked me

 incorporeal, temporarily releasing me from the burden of having a body

 full of outraged nerve endings. I wanted to stay in that non-place, but

 Escott's voice, distorted as though through layers of cotton, was

 dragging me back. He shouted my name once, and then the gun went off

 again.

 I reappeared in time to see the smoke flaring away from its muzzle. Sled

 launched himself away from Escott, grabbed the protesting woman on the

 run, and dragged her off the battlefield.

 Escott was leaning against the wall and had made no move to stop them.

 He was doubled over, struggling to breathe, with his arms curled tight

 around his stomach. His pale face stood out from the shadows like a

 fun-house ghost. Even as I found my feet he lost his and sank to the

 ground.

 I was kneeling by him in a second, heart in my throat. "Charles?" My

 voice was all funny, as though it were borrowed from some stranger.

 "Minute--" he gasped. He shut his eyes, let his mouth sag, and

 concentrated on drawing in air. I eased him more comfortably against the

 wall and tried to check his damage, but he shook his head.

 "How bad?" I asked.

 He showed a few teeth, but I couldn't tell if it was a grimace or a

 smile: with him it could go either way. His breathing evened a little

 and his eyes cracked open. "Where's the stamp?" he whispered.

 Stamp? What the hell did that matter? "I'll get an ambulance."

 "No need, I'm not hurt."

 "You're doing a good imitation of it. Just hold on and--"

 One of his hands came up. "Give me a minute and I'll be fine."

 "Charles"

 The other hand came up. Clean. "I'm only winded."

 "What the--

 "My bulletproof vest," he said with an air of stating the obvious.

 I checked; under the rumpled clothes was a solid-feeling something

 encasing his torso.

 "Unlike you," he continued, "I have no supernatural defense against

 flying bits of metal and must provide an artificial one."

 I was stuck exactly at the halfway point between relief and rage. He

 wisely chose not to laugh at the expression I must have been wearing.

 "I think I shall purchase a more effective vest for the future, though,

 this one seems a bit too thin for the job. Now, where is the stamp?"

 Mutely, I handed over the beaded green bag. I didn't trust myself to say

 anything yet as it probably would have been too obscene. While he

 rummaged for the leather case I got up and checked the alley exit,

 putting some distance between us for a minute. On top of everything

 else, the son of a bitch didn't need a punch in the chops from a friend

 who was glad to see him alive.

 Sled and the woman were long gone. It seemed like a good idea for us as

 well; their bartender friend might come out any minute, and we'd had

 enough excitement for one night.

 Escott found and checked the case with its faded smudge of blue paper.

 "Philately is not an especial interest of mine. I fear I am quite

 unimpressed, even if it is worth five thousand American dollars."

 "Yeah, well, let's make tracks before that girl remembers and decides to

 come back."

 He saw the sense of it. "Would you help me up? I fear the bullet caught

 me near that knife wound, and things are still rather tender there. What

 rotten bad luck."

 "I'd say it was pretty good since it missed your head." I got him to his

 feet and retrieved his cane.

 "Heavens, are you all right? I saw you--

 "She was using lead, not wood, so I'm just peachy."

 He decided to ignore the sarcasm. I was justifiably annoyed with him and

 he knew the best thing was to let it run its course.

 He leaned on my arm for support as we gingerly picked our way out of the

 alley. Though his was pretty fair, he didn't have my night vision and

 relied on me to keep him afoot. We found his big Nash a block away. He

 insisted he could drive, so I shoveled him behind the wheel and took my

 place on the passenger side with a sigh.

 "What went wrong back there?" I asked.

 "She recognized me, for one thing, but that's all right because I

 recognized her."

 "Okay, I'm holding my breath."

 He spared me a sideways look, started the car, and pulled into the

 street. "I can believe that. She still might have been willing to deal,

 but the whole business went wrong because of Swafford's marked money. I

 should have checked it earlier."

 "You really think she would have chanced a deal, even after spotting

 you?"

 "It was a possibility. Even knowing me. she might have taken the money

 and given you the chance to follow, but then the best-laid plans and all

 that. Safford has his precious stamp and cash, but he's going to hear a

 few words from me about it." He suddenly swung the car in a wide turn.

 "I think we shall visit him now while I'm still angry."

 He didn't look angry--a touch gleeful, but not angry.

 "It's after one," I pointed out.

 "Good, then it is unlikely we will be interrupting any of his other

 appointments."

 He drove to a suburb that had the kind of big houses with hot and cold

 running servants, precision-cut lawns, and cars that always started in

 the dead of winter. He picked out a lumpy stone specimen, sailed through

 the decorative iron gates, parked, and motioned me to follow. Some

 lights were showing through the downstairs windows, but they were only

 to discourage burglars and to keep Jeeves from tripping over the

 Chippendale while answering the front bell in the very early morning.

 The bathrobed butler opened the door, decided we were strictly

 servant's-entrance material, and was about to close it, but Escott got

 past him and requested to see Mr. Swafford.

 "Mr. Swafford has gone to bed," he informed us in chilling times.

 "Then I suggest you roust him or I shall have the unpleasant task of

 doing it myself."

 Both of them had English accents, but Escott's was genuine, and the

 butler knew when he was outclassed. He sniffed at us, a bad mistake,

 because Escott still smelted like a stuffy church on Easter Sunday, and

 retreated upstairs. After a brief wait. Swafford came down under escort

 and gaped at us.

 "Who the hell-"

 "You engaged my services to recover your stamp," Escott reminded him.

 Swafford squinted, trying to peer through the disguise. "Escott?"

 "And my assistant, Mr. Fleming."

 "What is all this, Escott?" he demanded in a small, thin voice that

 didn't suit him.

 "We merely came by to return your property and discuss some details on

 the case."

 "Then you have it? Where is it?"

 "I see you have a library. Perhaps we shall be more comfortable there."

 Escott led the way as if it were his own house. Swafford glared at his

 back and then at me, ineffectually. I just waited until he got tired of

 it, then followed him into the next room.

 He was wide and stocky all the way down to his slippered feet, and even

 a fancy silk bathrobe had a difficult time making him look society

 smooth. My guess was he made his money the hard way and was using it now

 in an attempt to make people forget about the work. His library bore

 this out, and was done up like something out of a movie, with an eye to

 impress the audience. There was a Renoir over the fireplace, but its

 function was to hide the safe and not to express the owner's tastes.

 "Where's my stamp?" he asked, planting himself at one end of an acre of

 desk.

 Escott was busy admiring the Renoir. "I rather like this one. What do

 you think of it. Jack?"

 "Nice colors," I said noncommittally, keeping an eye on Swafford. He was

 awake enough now to know something was wrong and to try dealing with it.

 Escott drew out the envelope full of hundreds and tossed it on the desk.

 Swafford grabbed it up and counted them. While he did this, Escott

 discovered a gold-plated candelabrum on an overvarnished table and lit

 all five of its candles. He carried it to the painting.

 "Yes, either by diffuse daylight or by candlelight, that was how it was

 meant to be viewed." He placed the candelabrum on the desk. "I trust it

 is all there?"

 "Yes, now where--"

 "Then you may regard this case as closed."

 Swafford looked up slowly and tried some hard thinking. "What happened

 to the stamp?"

 "You signed a contract with me for my services, you should have read it.

 A good contract is designed to protect both parties should one attempt

 to defraud another. You defrauded me of your trust. Our association is

 ended."

 "What are you talking about? Explain."

 Escott gestured at the money. "That should be explanation enough. You

 had it marked and rather clumsily marked at that. The thief spotted it

 easily enough, realized I was not the philately expert, and gave me

 this." He exhibited the new ventilation on his coat and vest. "You

 should have trusted me: your money and the stamp would have been

 returned as promised. Now you have only the money. You've forfeited the

 stamp."

 Swafford flushed a deep red that slowly faded to a muddy pink as he

 thought things over. "All right, what do you want?"

 "A telephone call to have the charges against Ruthie Mason dropped."

 "What else?"

 "First the phone call."

 "But it's--"

 "I know. Wake up your lawyer, that's what you pay him for. have him set

 things in motion."

 "If I do this, will the stamp be returned? Do you have it?"

 Escott dropped the case on the desk. It thumped once against the thick

 blotter before Swafford grabbed and opened it.

 "Empty!" He froze. Escott held up a slip of paper folded into quarters.

 He waved it dangerously close to one of the candles.

 "For God's sake be careful. That's worth five thousand--"

 "Get on with the call," he snapped.

 Swafford got on with the call. Since he couldn't argue with Escott he

 took it out on the lawyer, and before five minutes were gone another

 Chicago citizen had had his night's sleep broken up. Knowing how fast

 some cops liked to work, it was a good bet that the lawyer would be tied

 up until well after breakfast. For that he would certainly gift Swafford

 with a whopping fee. Escott knew the art of a properly administered low

 blow. While Swafford was on the phone, Escott turned up some paper and a

 carbon from the desk and wrote out several lines.

 Swafford hung up. "There, I've done it. Ruthie will be out in the

 morning."

 "I doubt she'll wish to continue her employment here. Should that be the

 case, she will need references, and good ones."

 "I'll have my wife do that--it's her job. The girl will have no trouble

 finding work."

 "I also suggest a decent monetary gift to counterbalance her precipitant

 arrest."

 "All right, you have my word and there's your witness." He nodded

 confidently at me.

 "Excellent. Now there is only the matter of my fee--"

 "But you've been paid!"

 "A retainer only. Under the terms of the contract I am within my rights

 to cover my expenses." His thumb emerged from the hole in the vest and

 wiggled. "Had I not taken precautions, you most certainly would have

 paid for my funeral, since your interference nearly caused it."

 Swafford's face closed in on itself warily. "How much?"

 He indicated the twenty-five hundred-dollar bills lying on the blotter.

 "I think that should cover it, but this time they're to be unmarked."

 "But that's extortion," he grumbled.

 "Earlier tonight you seemed eager enough to hand it over for the return

 of the stamp."

 "At least then I might have gotten the stamp back."

 "You may have that chance now; it depends upon how quickly you can open

 your safe. Our thief threatened to burn this when the marked bills were

 found; it occurs to me to be a very good idea. What a lot of fuss over a

 bit of blue paper the size of my thumbnail. Would the world stop

 spinning if I should commit it to the flames, I wonder?"

 Before he could wave it near the candles again, Swafford had the Renoir

 swung to one side and was spinning the combination with nervous fingers.

 There was plenty more in the safe than twenty-five hundred, and he must

 have been worried we were after that as well. He gave me a wall-eyed

 look, and with good reason--I was still dressed like a hard-nosed punk,

 and the cheap booze stinking up my dirty shirt added to the image. I

 shifted my weight forward and tried to look tough. He quickly drew out a

 bundle of bills and hastily shut the safe.

 Escott stood very close to the candles, their light and shadows making

 his minute smile look evil. "Would you mind counting it. Jack?"

 I didn't. It made a tidy little pile: twenty hundreds and ten fifties.

 "It adds up right," I said, and pocketed it.

 "Good. Now you will sign this, Mr. Swafford. It is nothing more than a

 receipt for my services, with a promise to pay that sum to Ruthie by

 tomorrow. I'm sure you'll find it as useful for your tax records as I

 do."

 Swafford signed it and threw the pen down. Escott tucked away the

 original. He considered the folded paper between his two fingers, then

 suddenly put it into the candle flame. Stafford's eyes peeled back and

 he choked, one hand raised as if he were taking an oath. The scrap

 burned down to nothing and Escott dropped the ashes onto the desk. He

 looked thoughtful.

 "Odd, I had imagined five thousand dollars going up in smoke would look

 much more impressive."

 His former client was beyond speech and looked ready to have a coronary.

 "Well, no doubt your insurance can cover it--oh, dear, you mean it is

 not insured? How careless of you to have something so very valuable and

 portable lying around uninsured. On the other hand there are taxes to

 pay on these things. But surely as a good citizen you pay your taxes?"

 "I'll sue you," he whispered. "I'll have your hide--"

 "Next time, Mr. Swafford, I suggest you follow instructions to the

 letter when they are given to you. It is simply good business practice,

 especially when not doing so can cost you dearly. I hope this has been a

 lesson to you. Remember it."

 Escott swiftly crossed the room and we let ourselves out into the hall,

 leaving Swafford frozen in place by the desk. The butler was waiting and

 locked the front door behind us. Escott paused, counted to five, and

 went back to use the bell.

 The butler was too sleepy to be annoyed. Escott extended his hand and

 gave him a folded paper identical to the one that had been burned. "I

 forgot to give this to Mr. Swafford. Please present it to him with my

 compliments."

 He took it without comment and locked the door with a solid and final

 click.

 Escott was still chuckling as we drove away.

 "One of these days it'll be one of your own clients bumping you off for

 that kind of showboating," I said. "That's no way to attract business,

 either."

 He shrugged. "His sort of business I do not need. Swafford nearly got me

 killed tonight. I thought I'd give him something equally unpleasant in

 return. For his sort, being deprived of money by his own folly is the

 worst kind of torture imaginable."

 "Okay, he goofed in a big way, but then I nearly got you killed when I

 got optimistic about her brains and let her go too soon."

 "An accident, nothing more. In the dark she could have just as easily

 shot her partner."

 "She also could have run, but didn't. The lady wanted blood, Charles.

 She tried to kill us both."

 "Through no fault of your own," he insisted. "I'll admit to

 underestimating her professionalism, but I place no blame upon you or

 your actions tonight. Even if things had gone according to plan, I

 daresay she might have tried to kill me anyway. Had you not been along,

 I would certainly be lying in that alley this very minute."

 I shook my head. "I'm too dangerous to have around; I'm only an amateur

 to this gumshoe business--"

 " 'Gumshoe'? Really, Jack." He looked pained.

 "All right, private agent, then. I'm supposed to be a journalist."

 "I don't hold that against you."

 I let that one pass.

 He tilted the rearview mirror, stretched his upper lip, and peeled the

 tiny moustache off, rubbing the area with evident relief. "That's

 better, these things drive me mad. Would you mind opening your window?

 You may not breathe, but it's still a habit with me."

 I cranked it down. "Between your cheap perfume and my cheap booze, it'll

 take a week to air this buggy out."

 "Possibly. I hope it washes off." His nose twitched.

 "The suit?"

 "My skin. I'm considering the suit might be better off in the furnace."

 "Isn't that a little extravagant?"

 "You're right, I'll see if I can't have it fumigated and repaired, as

 this is an amusing persona; it's based on someone

 I saw once--the best disguises always are." With one eye on the road and

 the other on the mirror, he carefully removed his wig, lifting first

 from the base of his neck and bringing it forward.

 "But she still saw through it."

 "Not right away. She knew my name from Swafford's household, but had

 never seen me close up and had no reason to make the association. If he

 hadn't marked the bills"

 "So who was she? You got Swafford so upset he forgot to ask."

 "Dear me, you're right. She was his wife's new personal maid, the one

 with the unimpeachable references."

 I recalled a photo of the house servants he showed to me earlier tonight

 when he asked me to help him. The idea was to keep my eyes open should

 any of them walk into the bar where the exchange had been set up. "That

 little thing? She's hardly more than a kid."

 "Yes, a mere child of twenty-seven, with a demure manner and a youthful

 complexion. The Swaffords were correct to suspect one of the servants,

 but I fear their accusations against Ruthie were purely racial in

 origin. The other girl worked and waited until someone new had been

 hired onto the staff; Ruthie came along, the stamp was stolen, and she

 got the blame. The thief's real name is Selma Jenks, and she's done this

 sort of thing before."

 "You got a police blotter for a brain?"

 "Just about. Anyway, Ruthie called Shoe Coldfield's sister for help and

 Shoe called me. Swafford may have hired me to recover the stamp, but I

 really consider Ruthie to be my true client."

 "I wondered how you got the job. Swafford isn't your type-"

 "Too shady?"

 "Too rich."

 It was close to two when Escott turned the car into the alley behind his

 house and eased into the glorified shed that served as a garage. The

 interior was too narrow to open the car door very wide, and rather than

 struggle squeezing through, I disappeared and sieved out. I was sitting

 on the back bumper when Escott finally emerged.

 He gave a start and caught himself with a sigh. "Damn, but that's--"

 "I know--unnerving. Sorry."

 "Quite all right. Let's go inside, I'm in need of something liquid and

 soothing."

 "Like a bath?"

 "Yes, that, too."

 He cursed sedately as he struggled with the rusty lock on the back door.

 It finally gave way and we walked into his large high-ceilinged kitchen.

 His house was a big, roomy place; a three-storied pre-fire relic that in

 its better days (or worse) had been a bordello. As his time, money, and

 health allowed, he was gradually cleaning, painting, and restoring it

 into a livable home. But the kitchen was not high on his priority list

 and still retained an air of cobwebby disuse in the corners. Except for

 replacing the old icebox with a streamlined new refrigerator that

 crouched and hummed between sagging cabinets, he'd pretty much ignored

 the room.

 In silent and common consent we peeled off our coats and dropped them on

 the battered oak table that had come with the house. An invisible cloud

 of booze and dead lilies filled the room and grabbed my throat.

 Escott suppressed a cough. "Horrible stuff, that. Should I ever assume

 that persona again, I shall substitute something less lethal."

 "Why use anything at all?"

 "Attention to detail is the key to a good disguise."

 "I think you poured on too much detail this time. You must have gotten

 perfume mixed up with cologne."

 His brows went up. "There's a difference?"

 "A lot, I think."

 "What is it, then?"

 "Now I was stuck. "Uh maybe you'd better ask Bobbi. She knows more

 about that kind of thing. All I know is there's a difference; one's

 stronger and you need less, or something like that."

 "Hem," he said neutrally. "I know better than to offer you liquid

 refreshment. Do you mind if I indulge?"

 "Go ahead. Just hold a glass under my shin and I'll squeeze some out for

 you."

 He declined with a polite but decisive head shake and smile, and went

 into the dining room. There was no dining table yet, just a stack of

 cardboard boxes that hadn't been unpacked and a large glass-fronted

 cabinet on one wall holding a modest collection of bottles.

 "Think I'll go and change. It's getting late," I said.

 "You're welcome to use the bathtub if you like. The water heater is

 almost reliable now."

 "Thanks." I left him pouring out a gin and tonic and trotted upstairs.

 I'd scrub my face and hands off, but total immersion in a tub of

 possibly cold water was an experience I could do without.

 My clothes were in a narrow bedroom next to the bath. The bed was long

 gone, leaving some holes in the floor where it had been bolted down and

 some rub marks from the headboard on the once florid wallpaper. There

 was no closet; my stuff was draped over a spindly wooden chair and more

 unpacked boxes.

 Now that I was alone and changing back into familiar things, I felt a

 delayed reaction from the shooting tonight. I could avoid death in that

 manner, he couldn't. It didn't seem to disturb him, but I'd been

 thoroughly frightened, and I was far less vulnerable. If Escott hadn't

 been wearing that vest Maybe he could treat the whole business

 casually, but not me. He hadn't seen the gun swinging up in his face and

 the muzzle flash searing his eyes. I touched the spot where the lead

 slug had passed through; all trace of pain was gone, the flesh and bone

 were smooth and unmarked.

 My hand was trembling as it came away: half in wonder of what I'd

 survived and half in fear of what I'd become. A small mirror still clung

 to one wall, reflecting only the empty room, and nothing more. I

 shivered the length of my spine, turned away from it, and finished

 dressing.

 Respectable again, I joined Escott in his downstairs parlor, where he'd

 stretched out on the sofa. He looked tired.

 "This should cheer you up." I put the money on a low table next to his

 glass.

 "What?" He turned his head just enough to see. "Oh, I'd forgotten."

 I dropped into a leather armchair. "How can you forget twenty-five

 hundred bucks?"

 "Twelve hundred fifty. Half of it's yours."

 "Come on, Charles, I didn't do anything except get in the way."

 A faint smile twitched in one corner of his mouth. "As you insist. But

 whatever tonight's outcome would or would not have been, you are still

 entitled to something for your services to the Escott Agency. I'd give

 you all of it, but thought you wouldn't accept it."

 "Don't be so certain."

 "I'll fill out some kind of receipt later."

 "For tax purposes?"

 "Of course. I have always been impressed by the manner in which the

 government finally managed to take care of Ca-pone."

 "What's that have to do with me?"

 "With both of us, my dear fellow. Undeclared income and income without

 employment are things that are certain to be noticed sooner or later. A

 person with your particular condition need not call attention to

 himself."

 "Okay, I see what you mean. What about that bundle we picked up from the

 Paco gang in August?"

 "I said then we should consider it the spoils of war, but I plan to

 declare my half. I wonder if there is some sort of penalty in padding

 one's records in favor of the government?"

 "In a bureaucracy do you think they'd notice? And it's gotten a lot

 bigger and more complicated since Roosevelt got in."

 "I see, yes, what a ridiculous question. Still, I suppose the best thing

 is to store the lot in a mattress and declare it a little at a time over

 the years. Ah, well, here's to crime." He drained off his glass and

 grimaced.

 "You all right?"

 "Probably. I shall be stiff for a few days. Bad coincidence getting hit

 in the same spot."

 "Let's have a look."

 He'd already taken off his suit vest. Now he shucked the shirt and I

 helped him ease out of the bulletproof vest underneath. On his left side

 just below the line of his ribs was a thin red scar about four inches

 long where a thug's knife had cut him up not so long ago. He probed the

 area gently with his long fingers and winced a little.

 "There, it caught me a bit lower than I thought. Nothing more than a bad

 bruise and some shock. Quite lucky, considering how close the gun was."

 "Charles, about all you had going for you tonight was luck. If her aim

 had been a little better or worse she could have taken your head off."

 "So you mentioned earlier."

 "I'm gonna mention it again. You scared the shit out of me tonight."

 "I truly appreciate your concern, but after all, nothing really

 happened, and I do intend to be more careful in the future."

 "You mean that?"

 "Certainly. This was an isolated incident. Before I met you the most

 violent encounter I'd ever experienced was a director with a vile temper

 who tried to kill me with his blocking of a stage fight."

 I was verging on exasperation, but too curious to pass up the opening.

 He rarely spoke about his past. "What happened?"

 "It was the difference between his opinion and my facts. The man had

 concocted some ridiculous fencing movement and I tried to point out

 something safer and more natural for the circumstance. Since I was only

 a very junior member of the company at the time, he got his way. On

 dress-rehearsal night I slipped in my felt costume shoes, fell into the

 orchestra pit, and broke the poor violinist's collarbone and nearly my

 own neck when I landed on him. I was never able to convince that

 director I hadn't done it on purpose just for spite."

 I pulled my mouth shut to control the laugh. "Now you're changing the

 subject--"

 "But I have not. My point was that tonight was an unfortunate set of

 circumstances, nothing more. In all fairness, how could the director or

 I have known that the stage floor had just been waxed? How could you

 have known the young lady was so murderously and athletically inclined?

 Believe me, if any future jobs like this should come my way, there is no

 one else I would rather have to back me up. I know you have doubts now,

 but you've a quick, observant eye and with a little training"

 I shot him a suspicious look. "What have you got planned? A little extra

 paint on the office door saying Escott and Fleming, Private Agents?"

 "That would be interesting, but not possible. It takes several years of

 training to qualify for a license, and then you have to show up for the

 exam--in daylight. No, in practical terms that's quite out of the

 question for you."

 "Then what is in the question?"

 "I'm only proposing the odd job now and then, like tonight. I know you

 really consider this as just doing me a favor, but there's no reason why

 you can't make something for yourself out of it." He looked at the money

 and then at me.

 "You trying to bribe me? Because it's working."

 The faint smile appeared again in the same corner. "I had hoped you

 would consider it seriously. Of course one never knows what the future

 may bring; not all of my clients are as well off as Mr. Swafford, nor as

 easily bullied, but there should be enough coming in to keep gas in your

 car and so forth."

 I put my half of the cash in my wallet. "This should buy a lot of so

 forth."

 He smiled again at this obvious acceptance of his offer, briefly, this

 time in both comers.

 Chapter 2

 =========

 IT WAS NEARLY three when I left Escott's, but Bobbi would be awake. She

 may have left her job and her room at the Nightcrawler Club, but she

 still kept club hours. Her new home was a suite in a respectable hotel

 that provided maid service, meals, and a bribable house

 detective--everything a girl could want.

 I crossed the marble-floored lobby, waving at the night clerk, who knew

 me by sight. The kid in the elevator was sound asleep on his stool, so I

 charitably took the stairs up to the fourth floor. Her rooms were to the

 left of the stairs, taking up a corner block of windows that fronted the

 building. Light was showing under her door. I knocked softly, heard her

 bare feet patter close, and a single hazel eye peered through the

 peephole. I winked back and the door opened.

 "Hello, stranger, I was beginning to think you'd never show up." She

 pulled me inside and locked out the rest of the world.

 "So you're taking me for granted, huh?"

 "Uh-huh, just like the laundry."

 "You dress up like that for the laundry?"

 "This is dressing down; something informal, yet intimate." She was

 wearing some baby blue satin lounging pajamas that made it difficult for

 me to think straight. When she walked, her legs made a pleasant

 susurrous sound. Slightly hypnotized by the rhythm, I followed her into

 the living room as we curled up on the sofa. At least she curled--

 I stretched my legs out and hooked an arm around her shoulder.

 "What kept you so long?" she asked.

 "Charles needed some help tonight."

 "What did he do, drag you backward through a distillery?" She sniffed my

 hair critically.

 "Just about. Thought I'd lost the atmosphere of the place when I'd

 changed."

 "Into what?"

 "What do you mean 'into what'?"

 "A bat or a wolf--"

 "What are you talking about?"

 She pulled a thick book from under a pillow and tapped the lurid red

 letters of the title with one nail. "It says in here"

 Then I had to laugh and shake my head. "Bobbi, you nut, you can't be

 taking that seriously."

 "Well, it's the only book I knew of about vampires."

 "There are lots of others, but they're not necessarily right, either.

 Why are you looking at that stuff? You've already got the real article."

 "I wanted to know more. According to this, you'll be turning me into one

 any time now." She said it like a joke, but I could see a real concern

 underneath. She waited for my reaction.

 I took the book and flipped through until I found the right page.

 "There, read that part and try to ignore the scary language. Until we do

 this there is no chance of you ever turning into a vampire." I waited,

 listening to her soft breathing as she read, my arm close around her

 shoulders. She finally let the book droop.

 "That scene wasn't in the movie."

 "Too erotic."

 "Erotic?" She sounded doubtful.

 "Don't let the description put you off until you've tried it."

 She looked speculative. "You want to do that?"

 "Not unless you want to. It's your decision."

 "What would happen?"

 "One hell of a climax for both of us."

 "And that's all? Not that there's anything wrong with a great climax,"

 she quickly added.

 "I'm glad you think so."

 "Come on, Jack. What else is it?"

 I nibbled absently at that spot over my eye. "Okay, it's got to do with

 reproduction"

 "You mean I could get pregnant?" That possibility alarmed her.

 "No, I mean you could get like me. My taking from you is one thing, but

 if you should take any of my blood, there's a remote chance you could be

 like me after you died."

 "Would it kill me?"

 "No, of course not."

 "How remote a chance?"

 "I don't know. As I understand it, it almost never works because nearly

 everyone is immune. They'd have to be or there'd be more people like me

 around."

 "Maybe there are and you just haven't noticed them. You don't exactly

 look like a vampire, you know."

 "Not the Hollywood kind, anyway."

 "I mean you don't stand out in a crowd."

 "Oh, thank you very much."

 She swatted my shoulder.

 "Okay, okay, I know what you meant."

 She settled in again. "This kind of reproduction is that why we don't

 make love the usual way?"

 "Yes," I said shortly.

 "Hey, don't clam up on me, I was just asking."

 "I know, honey."

 I tried to relax and succeeded to some extent. She'd hit a sore spot,

 but it wasn't an unexpected blow. I wasn't--to put it

 delicately--fertile in the way that men are usually fertile with women.

 The pleasure centers and how they operated had drastically shifted.

 Oddly enough, I did not feel deprived, physically or mentally; I just

 felt that I should feel deprived, or that maybe Bobbi was losing out on

 things. There was no justification for it, so far our relationship was

 as mutually satisfying as anyone could wish for.

 She snuggled closer under my arm. "If you want to know, I really prefer

 it your way."

 "You mean that?"

 She lifted my hand and pressed it against the soft, warm skin of her

 throat. "When you do it this way, it just goes on and on"

 That was how it felt to me. As a breathing man, I'd had some great

 experiences, but they were hardly an adequate comparison to what I now

 enjoyed.

 "Sometimes I think I'll go crazy from it," she murmured, kissing my

 hand.

 My lips lightly brushed her temple, the small vein pulsed beneath them.

 Of their own will, my hands began to undo her buttons. "You sure you

 like it this way?"

 "Yes, and for another good reason: I don't have to worry about getting

 pregnant."

 "Hmmm."

 She sat up straight, her top open almost to the waist and her perfect

 red lips curled into a sleepy, roguish smile. She nodded her head once

 toward the bedroom. "Come on, let's go get more comfortable."

 Bobbi made a contented growl in the back of her throat, turned on her

 side, and burrowed close with her back to me, out bodies fitting

 together like two spoons. I draped an arm over her, and if my hand

 happened to end up cupping her left breast, nobody minded. We were in a

 lazy post-lovemaking afterglow and life was good.

 "It's funny how you can get used to things," she said.

 "I'm boring you?"

 "I didn't mean it that way, and no, I'm anything but bored with you."

 "Thanks for the reassurance. What is it you're used to?"

 "I was remembering the time when I first noticed you didn't always

 breathe. It bothered me and now it doesn't. I just thought it was a

 funny thing to think of as normal."

 "For me it is normal."

 "Oh, I know that now."

 "What else are you used to?"

 "Umm the no-heartbeat thing. But if you live on blood, how does it

 get through your body?"

 "Beats me. Charles is speculating it's some kind of osmosis."

 "What's that?"

 I'd asked Escott the same question and tried to repeat his answer to

 her. It must have been garbled--laboratory biology and chemistry had

 never been my best studies--but she took in enough to understand.

 "It sounds like the way a root draws water up into a plant," she

 suggested.

 "Maybe so, just as long as it works."

 "What about mirrors? Have you figured out why you don't show up?"

 "Nope."

 "Let me know when you do, 'cause I'm not used to that, yet."

 "If it's any comfort, neither am I."

 "You mean you can't even see yourself?"

 "Nope."

 "Do you know you need a haircut?"

 "Hum a few bars."

 She groaned. "That stunk."

 "It's old enough. Anything else?"

 "That's it for now."

 "Until you can think of something else to analyze?"

 "If you want deep intellect, go to bed with a philosopher."

 "Thank you, no."

 "I thought you'd say that." She was quiet for a while, resting her head

 comfortably on my extended arm. I nosed into the platinum silk she had

 for hair and began kissing the nape of her neck. She squirmed. "You want

 to go again?"

 "It might not be good for you. Your body has to adjust gradually, even

 to a small blood loss. Too often"

 "But you don't take much."

 "Neither did those doctors who killed a king from too much

 bloodletting."

 "I heard of that, I think he was English. But this is different and I'm

 very healthy." She twisted up on one elbow to look at me. The satin

 sheet slipped down quite a bit.

 "Yes I can see that."

 She made a face. "I'm serious. I've been eating liver like crazy, and I

 hate liver."

 "I had no idea."

 "So do you want to go again?"

 "It's very tempting, but better for you if we wait."

 She thought about it, decided not to push the issue, and wiggled back

 into my arms again. "Who taught you all this restraint?"

 I pretended it was a rhetorical question and resumed nuzzling her hair.

 It smelled lightly of roses.

 She went on. "I can't help but be curious about her. I won't ask anymore

 if you don't want me to."

 "But you'll still wonder."

 "Uh-huh."

 "Her name was Maureen." The words dropped out like lead, as always when

 I talked of her in the past tense.

 "I can tell you loved her a lot. It's the way you look when you think

 about her."

 "It's that obvious?"

 "Sometimes. You'll be looking at me and then I'm not there for you, and

 I know you're seeing her instead."

 "Sorry."

 "It's all right. Are we much alike?"

 "Her hair was dark and she was shorter."

 "I didn't mean like that."

 "She needed love," I said lamely.

 "Everyone does."

 "She needed it like I don't know. It was all that mattered to her."

 "And you loved each other a lot."

 "God, yes. But I didn't realize how much until--we were both happy, a

 long time ago."

 "I'm glad you were, that you had something like that. I never did--until

 now." Her voice was soft, I thought she was drifting off to sleep.

 I tried to remember Maureen's face, but it was like recalling a dream.

 The harder I tried, the farther it slipped away.

 "I hope you believe me," she said.

 "About what?"

 "About liking your style better."

 "Thanks. Are you sure you don't miss the old way, though?"

 She shrugged. "Not much. It's apples and oranges; I like 'em both when

 it's done right."

 My hands began wandering again. She rolled on her back and we did some

 serious kissing. Her breath came faster and her heart rate went up.

 "I thought you weren't going to take any more from me tonight."

 "I'm not, but maybe you'd like some oranges?"

 "What?"

 I kissed her again, one hand passing over her smooth flank, dipping at

 the waist and pausing briefly just below her navel.

 "Oranges," she murmured. "Handpicked, of course."

 Asleep, she looked younger than her twenty-four years. Sleep lent

 vulnerability and vulnerability brought youth. I watched her

 protectively, feeling a fierce, quiet joy at the sight of her relaxed

 features. A little makeup clung to the pale skin, a trace of powder high

 on one cheek and the faint line of drawn-on brows. Her own had been

 carefully plucked away to follow the current fashion. I had seen many

 pretty faces, but few classic beauties, and fewer still with brains and

 personality. She was beautiful, at least as I perceived it, with the

 kind of looks that artists sometimes capture, if they have the talent.

 Her blond head turned on the pillow, the lips parting slightly then

 closing. They were light pink now; all the lip rouge had been kissed

 away quite awhile ago. From previous experience I could guess that if

 any were left it would be on me. I didn't mind a bit.

 It was a hard chore to leave, but necessary--the sunrise was coming and

 with it my daytime oblivion. I eased out of bed. got dressed, and kissed

 her forehead in farewell.

 Her eyes opened, but she was still nine-tenths asleep. "Are you a

 dream?"

 "Yes."

 "Thought so." There was a sigh and she slipped under again.

 After being with Bobbi, it was always a rude jolt to come back to my own

 spartan hotel room. The essentials were there: a bed, rarely used, a

 chest of drawers, a chair, a bath, even a radio. For $6.50 a week it was

 luxurious, but not really a home.

 Bobbi knew where I hung my hat, but had never been invited over. There

 was little reason for it since her own place was more comfortable and

 larger. For one thing, she did not have a three-by-five-foot steamer

 trunk taking up most of the floor space. More than once the bellhop had

 asked if I wanted to have it stored in the basement. I tipped well so he

 was always alert to do me a favor. A basement might be better to avoid

 sunlight, but was not as safe. During the day I needed a DO NOT DISTURB

 sign hanging from the doorknob and the door firmly locked against

 curious eyes. The trunk was locked as well, the key on a chain hanging

 from my neck. Once, after getting back too late, the sun had caught me

 out. I'd been unable to sieve inside as usual and suffered a painful and

 panicky search for the key, an incident I planned never to repeat.

 I drew a hot bath, cleaned the remaining booze smell from my hair, and

 tried to get comfortable on the lumpy bed. The bellhop had left my

 regular pile of newspapers outside the door. I filled in the remaining

 time before dawn flipping through them. Nothing in the news held my

 attention, and that felt odd since it had once been my bread and butter.

 Times change, people change, and I had certainly changed more than most.

 Automatically, my eyes scanned the personal columns, but as ever, there

 was nothing to see. Five years had gone by without a response.

 The papers went into the wastebasket. I thought of Bobbi. and with a

 sharp twist of guilt, I thought of Maureen.

 I remembered the touch of her body, smaller and stronger, with dark hair

 and light blue eyes. I remembered the long nights spent loving her and

 our hope that it would last forever. Together we decided to at least try

 to make it so. I had no guarantee that it would work for me, but the

 hope was there; it would have to be enough. After taking from me, she

 tilted her head back, drawing the skin taut, and used her fingernail in

 a deft movement over the vein in her throat. She pulled me close and I

 tasted the warmth of what had been my blood, filtered through her body

 and returned again. Its red heat hit me from the inside out like the

 rush of air from an open furnace. A shock of fire, a flash of inner

 light, and then the shimmer of her life filling me

 My hands clenched. There was no comfort in remembered passion, it was

 all gone. Maureen was gone.

 But Bobbi was here, vital and loving. I wanted and needed her just as

 much. It was hardly fair to her to have my mind drifting back to Maureen

 at awkward moments, nor was it fair to myself.

 I found paper and wrote out instructions. It took less than two minutes,

 and another three passed downstairs as I explained what I wanted to the

 night clerk. He promised to fix everything. A minute for each year of

 searching and waiting, and that was how long it took to break off my

 last hope of contacting her. I felt empty, but no worse than usual. With

 Bobbi to help I could put the memories away for good. It was time to let

 the past rest; let it rest or it would continue to tear me up inside.

 Let it rest, because God knows I was tired.

 "Mr. Fleming?" It was the bellhop's voice, sounding faintly worried. His

 knuckles rapped on the door. "Mr. Fleming?"

 I had no twilight moment of grogginess; I was either awake or totally

 unconscious. I faded from the interior of the trunk, re-formed outside,

 and answered the door, pretending to look sleepy.

 "Yeah, what is it, Todd?"

 "Sorry to wake you, but you got this phone message and the guy said it

 was urgent. He's been calling all day. You never answered, so we figured

 you were out." He gave me a slip of paper.

 I unfolded it and read Escott's name and the phone number of his small

 office a few blocks away. He wanted me to call or come over immediately.

 "You say he's called earlier?"

 "A couple of times since I came on at four. It sounded important and

 I've been trying--"

 "Okay, thanks for bringing it up. Did Gus get around to that stuff like

 I asked?"

 "Yessir, got 'em all, he said to tell you. You still want your usual

 delivery?"

 "Yeah, go ahead with that," I said absently, rereading the brief note.

 Escott certainly knew better than to try contacting me during the day,

 so he must be in some kind of trouble. I dressed and shot down to wedge

 into the lobby phone booth.

 He answered on the first ring, sounding perfectly normal.

 "Hello, Jack, I've been trying to reach you."

 "What's up?"

 "Something extremely interesting. Another case, as a matter of fact. I'd

 like to talk it over with you right away."

 "Sure, I'm on my way."

 "Have you dined yet?"

 "Well"

 "We could talk details over dinner--my treat."

 I struggled to keep alarm from my tone. "Sounds great. Meet at your

 office? "

 "Certainly."

 My premature relief was blown to bits. His perfectly normal manner had

 not been for me but for the benefit of whoever was in the office and

 listening to the call. He knew I no longer required ordinary food and

 was unavailable before sunset, but the listener did not. It did indeed

 look like the start of an interesting case.

 Dusk was taking its own sweet time; the sky was still harsh and bright

 to me when I started my Buick. I fumbled on my sunglasses to ease the

 light down to a comfortable level. It didn't take long to cover the

 distance to Escott's office and park around the corner from his door. I

 wanted to check things out first before barging in.

 He had two modest rooms on the second floor, each with a window fronting

 the street. Both were wide open because of the warm weather, but the

 blinds were drawn. Slices of light showed through the right-hand room.

 The left, which served the back room, was still dark. Without hurry I

 walked until I was positioned directly under it, and since the street

 was momentarily clear, partially vanished.

 By concentrating, I could control the degree of transparency. My body

 took on all the solidity of a double-exposed photo and about half the

 weight. My hand went out and I could see the bricks of the building

 through it. Like a helium balloon, but with gripping fingers, I went up

 to the second story. I did not look down. I hate heights.

 I made it to the window and thankfully slipped inside, but retained my

 current state. This semi-solid form left me visible--if alarming to any

 witnesses--but did not deprive me of sight and speech and gave me agile

 and perfectly silent movement.

 The connecting door between the rooms was wide open. A bright fan of

 light spilled in from the front, so I took care to avoid it and folded

 the sunglasses away for unrestricted vision.

 Escott was seated behind his desk, his back to me and his head turned

 slightly to the right. A chair stood on that side, and from his posture

 alone I could guess it was occupied.

 I vanished completely and got close enough to him to give him a chill.

 After a moment, he stifled a shiver and cleared his throat. I drew off

 to one side to see what he wanted of me.

 He cleared his throat again. "May I go get some water?"

 A woman answered him. "No."

 "I thought perhaps you might want some as well."

 There was no reply.

 "You might not be able to get us both, you know. My associate is

 extremely fast when he wants to be."

 "I remember how fast, but no one's this fast."

 "Perhaps. The first shot will be the most important. After that well,

 homemade silencers are notorious for problems."

 "Not this one."

 Escott was taking a hell of a risk apprising me of the situation in this

 manner. She could get the idea to shoot him first and then wait for me

 to come along later. If my scalp had been intact, the skin would be

 crawling.

 Their conversation died, but had lasted long enough for me to get an

 idea of their relative positions. She was seated with her back to the

 wall next to the open window, about seven feet from Escott, close enough

 not to miss hitting him, but not so close that he could try taking the

 gun from her. There were also a few seconds of critical time in her

 favor, since he was seated so firmly behind the desk. As far as I could

 tell from a swirling sweep of the office, they were alone.

 The problem wasn't too complicated. I could appear and grab the gun away

 before she knew what hit her. It was something I'd managed before, but a

 dark alley was a different situation from a well-lit office. She would

 wonder where I'd come from and how I'd gotten so close without being

 seen. If the cops got involved there might be more complications, and I

 could not risk coming to official attention.

 "Where is he?" The ground-glass quality was back in her voice.

 "Please be patient. It won't be long."

 "It's been too goddamned long as it is. Call and see if he's left."

 "As you wish."

 I heard dialing sounds. Her attention would be fully focused on Escott.

 I got into place in front of the window. She was right-handed and that

 would be the one to grab. I readied my own hands--or what would become

 my hands--over hers.

 Just as Escott said hello I re-formed and twisted the gun from her grip.

 The hammer had been cocked back and the safety off. Hardly any pressure

 was needed to finger the trigger; my attempt to disarm her was more than

 enough. The thing suddenly jumped and coughed, and a neat hole appeared

 in the far wall. I yanked the smoking rod free and let it drop. It

 decided not to go off again.

 She jumped up and both my hands were full, one cutting off her surprised

 and angry shriek and the other pinning her arms. Escott hung up the

 phone, came stiffly around the desk, dodged her kicks, and grabbed her

 ankles. We shoved her back down in the chair by weight alone, needing

 every pound because she squirmed and bucked like a hooked pike.

 "I must confess that you are a most welcome sight," he told me, still

 struggling with her legs.

 "Anytime. Now what do we do with her?"

 "The police, I suppose. They still want her for that robbery."

 "Can you leave me out of it? I'm in no shape for a court appearance."

 "Yes, as you wish. But without you for a witness, this incident could

 end up as my word against hers, that is, if I press charges."

 "With her record do you need to?"

 "Let's put it this way: after what I've been through today, I would very

 much like to. Hang on a bit. I've some cuffs in the desk."

 He released her ankles and dodged another kick as he picked up the

 dropped automatic. He took it off cock, removed the magazine, emptied

 the firing chamber of its bullet, and put it away in his desk. From the

 same drawer, he drew out and opened a set of cuffs.

 I put pressure on her shoulders to keep her in place and nimbly kept my

 fingers away from her teeth. Escott clicked the cuffs over her wrists,

 then produced a washcloth and a long strip of bandage from the tiny

 bathroom in back. Between us we shoved the cloth in her mouth and tied

 it firmly in place so that her outraged screams wouldn't bring

 well-intentioned, but misinformed help. Some of the fight went out of

 her by then, but I wasn't going to relax my hold.

 Escott was puffing. "This is certainly no way to treat a lady."

 "I could debate that," I replied, sucking a finger. She'd managed to

 lock her teeth on it for a few seconds while we were gagging her.

 Selma Jenks, alias Miss Green, glared hard and hatefully at each of us,

 and I hoped the daggers she was throwing remained wishful ones. Today

 she wore a now-rumpled blue dress; the remains of a matching hat were on

 the floor. The skirt part had hiked up in the struggle, revealing a nice

 stretch of leg and the gartered tops of her blue stockings. I made a

 move to pull the skirt down, but she threatened to start up again, so I

 left things alone.

 Escott excused himself and went back to the bathroom for his belated

 glass of water and other things. He returned, his tie loosened a little,

 and painfully eased his cramped limbs.

 She walked in at two o'clock and kept me sitting there all bloody

 afternoon. Five hours in one spot is certainly brutal on the lower

 spine."

 "You sat there for five hours?"

 He shrugged. "It was that or get shot. She was quite upset on how we'd

 crossed her last night and even more upset that we survived. She looked

 my name up in the phone directory and came a-hunting. It is my

 admittedly inexpert opinion that she is more than a little loony."

 "Loony?"

 "That's the word." He sighed deeply and drew a handkerchief over his

 face. "She kept me calling your hotel to get you over here, I did what I

 could to warn you."

 "It worked."

 "Thank heaven. Spending the day a bare two yards from a nerved-up woman

 holding a hair trigger is not my idea of entertainment."

 "It isn't?"

 He shot me a considering look and let it pass. "Well, I suppose it's

 time to call the police."

 "What about her partner, Sled?"

 "From the little she dropped in conversation, I got the impression he

 doesn't know about this, nor, I think, would he approve."

 "That's something. So maybe he's not down the street waiting for her."

 "Quite likely. He'd have been up here ages ago to find out what was

 taking so long."

 "All the same, could you go out the back way and take a look around just

 to be sure? He might guess where she is, and if he's down there any cop

 car will spook him off. You could spot him better than I, you know the

 street."

 "Well, just to be safe I'll be back shortly." He went to the back and

 I heard the sounds of his exit. He'd equipped the bathroom with a hidden

 panel that opened onto the upstairs storeroom of a tobacco shop that

 faced the next street over. He used it now to make a discreet exit

 outside without exposing himself to anyone watching his regular doorway.

 As soon as he was gone, Selma launched from her chair for the door,

 slipping from my grip like a greased eel. Catching her was no problem,

 but she was stubborn and full of fight, and in the end I had to lift her

 bodily and swing her down on the floor with a thud. She was small and

 that helped, but it was a hell of a lively wrestling match. I threw one

 leg over her knees, pinning them flat, used one hand to keep her nails

 out of my eyes, and the other clamped across her forehead. By a little

 twisting, we were intimately face-to-face. Her eyes were wild, the

 whites showing all around, but not from fear; her skin under the powder

 was flushed beet red from sheer fury.

 She abruptly stopped fighting, her breath loud and labored through her

 nose, and stared at me with pure loathing, waiting for my next move. She

 knew nothing about me, Escott was gone, along with any protection his

 presence offered. I was someone unknown to her and taking advantage of

 the opportunity while it was available. No doubt from certain points of

 view I would be guilty of a kind of rape, but for me it would make

 things a lot easier.

 My eyes on hers, I said her name.

 * * *

 -----

 Escott returned from a clear street in ten minutes and found us as

 before in the office. I still held her shoulders, but she had calmed

 down considerably.

 "May as well call the cops," I said as soon as he came in. He dialed the

 number and asked for someone by name. He explained the situation and was

 told to expect a car to come right away.

 "All the business at the station will take a bit." he said after hanging

 up. "I suppose a late supper will have to do for me."

 I nodded in sympathy. "I'll wait till the cops are at the door and go

 out the back. You can handle this wildcat for that long."

 "She's not so wild now," he observed.

 "Probably tired herself out."

 "Indeed. Thank you for coming. I hope it didn't disrupt your evening

 unduly."

 Bobbi and I were going to the movies, we'd still be able to catch the

 second feature.

 The cops showed up in due time. At the last second, Escott cut away her

 gag, tossed it to me, and I slipped into the back. I waited long enough

 to hear the opening questions, then went out the window the same way I

 entered. My car and I were long gone by the time they were ready to take

 her away.

 Bobbi had wanted to see Last of the Mohicans because she liked Randolph

 Scott, but Escott's accent had given me a taste for Shakespeare, and I

 talked her into going to Romeo and Juliet instead. Much to her own

 surprise, she enjoyed it.

 "You can understand what they're saying in this one," she commented

 during intermission. We'd arrived late and missed the newsreel and

 cartoon, but were in no particular hurry to leave. I bought her an extra

 soda and popcorn while we waited for the next cycle of features to

 start.

 "Why not? The sound's good."

 "Well. I saw this once as a stage play and it was awful. The actors were

 bellowing to reach the back row and talked so fast you couldn't

 understand a thing. This kind of stuff you gotta talk clearly so you

 know what's going on. I like it as a movie better than on the stage."

 "I should get you and Charles together to discuss it."

 "Oh, yeah, but he's a good egg, he'd let me win just to be polite."

 "Don't be too sure, he's got some pretty firm ideas about the stage and

 Shakespeare in particular."

 "Staging I don't know, but I could give him a tough time about

 Shakespeare."

 "How do you mean?"

 "Like this show, it was good, but the girl was a nitwit for not running

 away from home to start with. That's what I would have done. She was

 wearing enough jewels to live off of for years."

 "It wouldn't have been a great tragedy, then."

 "Romeo could have swiped her money, left her stranded-- anything could

 have happened."

 "That's kind of a negative view."

 "It's more believable than gulping down drugs to fake your own death. I

 think it stinks that Shakespeare didn't let them get together in the end

 like they wanted, after all the trouble they went through. What made you

 want to see this instead of Randolph Scott?"

 "He makes me jealous."

 "No, really."

 "They had the biggest ad in the paper and this is a fancier theater. I

 wanted to impress you."

 She glanced at our opulent surroundings. "It worked. They could show a

 blank screen and people would still pay admission to sit here."

 "They do."

 "What?" She was half-wary for a joke.

 "No kiddin', I knew this usher who swore to me that the ticket is for

 the chair you sit in, the movie itself is free."

 "That's crazy."

 "Nah, that's just the way it works out. This usher also told me that

 theaters make most of their money off popcorn sales."

 "It must take a hell of a lot of five-cent bags to pay the rent on this

 joint."

 "Eat up, then, I'll get you another. I like this place."

 Another evening ended very pleasantly and as ever I was reluctant to

 leave. When I dragged my feet back to my hotel room in the small hours,

 though, I found Escott waiting for me. He was drowsing in my one chair,

 his feet propped up on the trunk.

 shook his shoulder. "Anything wrong?"

 He blinked fully awake and alert. "I think not. Did you enjoy your

 movie?"

 "How'd you know I went to a movie?"

 He indicated the paper I'd left on the bed, opened to the entertainments

 section. "Or perhaps you went to a nightclub, but I recall hearing Miss

 Smythe state she was fed up with them for the time being."

 "She is, but how'd--"

 "Her rose scent is quite distinctive, and traces of it linger on your

 clothes. What film did you see?"

 "Romeo and Juliet. It was pretty good."

 "Yes, the principals were decent enough, if a little old for their

 parts, but the fellow playing Iybalt seemed to know what he was doing."

 I had no illusions that he'd been waiting all night to deliver a review.

 "Charles"

 He straightened, putting his feet on the floor and fixing me in one spot

 with his eyes. "I came by to have you satisfy my curiosity."

 "About what?" I tried to sound casual, but it wasn't working. He was far

 too sharp for me to lie to him, but I wasn't going to make it easy.

 "About Selma Jenks It was very odd, but when they began questioning

 her, she made a complete confession."

 "She did?"

 "In fact, she confessed to every robbery and extortion she and her

 partner committed since they teamed up. She then told the police where

 he could be found. They lost no time bringing him in, though he was not

 nearly so cooperative as Selma."

 "Sounds like a good thing, though."

 "Yes, an excellent bit of luck. But now I'm curious as to what you said

 to her after you got me out of the room."

 "I want you to know that that was a legitimate request."

 "I don't doubt it, but it was convenient for you. Did you hypnotize

 her?"

 My tie suddenly felt too tight. I tore it loose and tossed it on the

 bed. He waited patiently, knowing there were some things about my nature

 I was reluctant to discuss.

 "It seemed like the easiest thing to do. I didn't want her talking about

 me or giving you more trouble than you needed. I just calmed her down

 and gave her a few suggestions."

 He was amused. I'd expected reproach. "Suggestions? Good Lord, you

 should be in the district attorney's office with that talent. You'd

 never lose a case. I doubt if a priest could have gotten so thorough a

 confession."

 I shrugged. "But it showed. You knew."

 "Only because I got so well acquainted with her that afternoon. Her

 behavior at the station was normal enough, but such a flood of

 information was hardly in keeping with her personality."

 "You said she was a loony," I pointed out.

 He got up, stretching his muscles with small, subtle movements. "Why

 were you so reluctant to tell me about this?"

 I shook my head. "I don't know. I didn't want to tip her off to any

 funny business, I didn't want an audience, stuff like that. What I did,

 it's not something well, it's" I broke off with a tired and

 inadequate gesture for my feelings.

 "Nothing you need be ashamed of," he quietly concluded. He let that sink

 in for a thick moment, then picked up his hat. "Well, this has been a

 long day--and night."

 I grabbed at the change of subject. "You wait long?"

 "No more than an hour."

 "You could have called me at Bobbi's."

 "It was hardly a pressing issue, I'd no wish to disturb you. Phone calls

 at late hours are bad for the heart."

 "Thanks." I meant it for more than just his consideration.

 He echoed my reply from earlier. "Anytime."

 Chapter 3

 =========

 WAS ONE in the morning and the same pair of headlights had been bumping

 around in my rearview mirror for most of the night. I noticed them first

 when I left Chicago, assumed they belonged to a fellow traveler on the

 same route, and forgot about them.

 I stopped briefly at an all-night service station in Indianapolis,

 stretched my legs, and bought some gas. Owing to a wrong turn and

 getting lost in some downtown streets for a while, I didn't get back on

 the main road immediately. There wasn't much traffic at that hour, but

 my eyes were occupied with things in front of me, so the car hanging

 fifty yards off my rear bumper went unnoticed. Finally on the right road

 again and mentally congratulating myself for getting unlost, I settled

 in for the last leg of my drive, starting with a routine check in the

 mirror.

 Until the night I woke up dead, I'd never been very paranoid, no more

 than anyone else, so the familiar look of the car took awhile to

 penetrate my thick skull. It wasn't a conscious thought process; more

 like a gradual dawning. When the realization finally came it left me

 wondering how I could have been so slow.

 My night vision allowed me to see past the glare of the headlights to

 the occupants of the car. There was little detail at this distance, I

 could only make out their figures: the slightly hunched posture of the

 driver, and next to him, a shorter man in a hat. They were in a black

 car, fairly new. I thought it was a Lincoln, but couldn't be sure from

 the foreshortened image in the mirror.

 Not quite ready to believe that they might be following me, I decided a

 little testing might break up the monotony of the trip. Easing slowly

 off the gas, I dropped my speed to ten miles below the limit. Most

 drivers will keep coming right up your tail until they get impatient

 enough to pass. But this guy was on the ball and his speed dropped as

 well. When I came to a hill and crested, I hit the gas and let the

 momentum bring me up to the limit and over. I gained half a mile on him

 while he was on the other side, but when his turn came he easily caught

 up. There was a lot of power under his hood.

 It could have been coincidence, but I was disturbed. If they really were

 following me, I wanted to know why.

 About twenty minutes later I signaled a right turn and leisurely pulled

 off the road onto the shoulder. The black car--it was a new

 Lincoln--went past without the men inside turning to look. I saw only a

 dark, blurred profile that could have been anyone. They continued on

 until a long, wide curve took them from sight.

 Just in case they'd stopped and were watching from a distance, I got

 out, stretched, and walked into some sparse trees that sheltered the

 side of the road. As I walked, I made fiddling movements with my belt

 and fly. I didn't have to go, but could pretend, and stood with my ears

 wide open. My hearing was extremely sensitive now, but the wind was

 blowing in the wrong direction for me to pick up any motor noises ahead.

 For the sake of my nerves, I dawdled another five minutes, leaning

 against the car and superficially puffing a cigarette for something to

 do.

 Once back on the road, I eased up to speed with my eyes peeled, but

 there was no sign of them. I was still edgy. It had only been a couple

 of fast weeks since my life had been completely disrupted by some of the

 more violent members of Chicago's gangland. The thought that some

 grudge-bearing survivors of that fracas might be after me was not a

 comfortable one. They'd killed me once already, once was more than

 enough.

 Briefly, I thought about turning back, then vetoed the thought. More

 than half the journey was behind me, and if it came to it, I could

 handle two jokers playing road games. I had an errand in my hometown

 that I wanted to get done. If I ran into a little trouble along the way,

 I could always rag Escott about it later. The trip was originally his

 idea.

 The second night after our match with Selma Jenks, I woke up and again

 found him sitting in my old chair. I never minded his drop-in visits

 because he always had a good reason behind them.

 "Good evening," he said. "At least I hope you will find it so. Things

 have cooled off a bit."

 Fairly indifferent to temperature changes, I couldn't really tell, and

 found it hard to gauge the weather from the way he dressed. It was the

 middle of September, and though his suit was lightweight, every button

 on his vest was secure in its buttonhole. His neck was encased in a

 heavily starched detachable collar, which gave him a stiff and formal

 posture. He looked like a banker or a teacher of the old-fashioned sort.

 The intent was to boost the confidence of his clients.

 "How's tricks with you?" I greeted in return, getting out of my trunk.

 "I have no complaints, though I've been busy."

 "New customers?"

 "Old business. Since the influx of Mr. Swafford's cash is legally

 declarable, I've been able to afford a few modest home improvements and

 to clear some other details up."

 "What details?"

 "Your own case, for one. I've been tracking down the names on the

 infamous list you acquired--"

 "I thought you were going to destroy it."

 "I will, but not until I've provided a little peace of mind for some of

 my fellow pilgrims."

 "Oh, yeah?" My tone asked him to enlarge on the subject while I brushed

 and gargled. My exclusive diet of whole blood sometimes made me subject

 to a slight breath problem. Thanks to modern hygienic products, I could

 still be socially acceptable, but had to be regular in habits.

 The list had cost several lives, including my own. My breathing life and

 all the potentials that went with it were forever gone and I never

 wanted to see those scraps of disaster again. I should have been

 purposely disinterested in it, but a couple of weeks can be a long time.

 As Bobbi had observed, it was funny how you could get used to things.

 Escott had long since broken the code it was typed in, revealing over

 two hundred names with skeletons in the closet. A smart blackmailer

 could make a fortune or wield considerable power, for without exception

 the names were those of important politicians, judges, lawyers, and

 cops, with a few big businessmen thrown in for good measure. Along with

 the names, the list provided the locations of the blackmail items,

 either incriminating documents or embarrassing pictures. Most of the

 stuff was stashed in a scattering of bus and train depot lockers

 throughout the area. He'd been collecting some of it today, and his

 briefcase bulged with enough scandals to keep the tabloids busy with hot

 headlines for months.

 "I'm only halfway through it all; the hand delivery is what takes so

 long," he said. "It is sometimes very difficult to set up an appointment

 with some of these fellows."

 "You've been giving it all back personally?"

 "It's no great hardship. Posting it would be easier, but allows the

 chance that a letter or parcel might be innocently opened by a third

 party. The victim's life is either ruined by exposure, or they are still

 stuck with a blackmailing problem, but from a different quarter. It is

 not for me to judge the follies of my fellows, so I simply return the

 item, suggest they destroy it, and advise them to be more cautious in

 the future."

 "But they might think you're the blackmailer, or in league with him if

 you run around doing that."

 His eyes crinkled and he shook his head. "Hardly, because I don't look a

 bit like myself when I return the things."

 "What do you look like?"

 "Perhaps I shouldn't say, I might wish to try it on you sometime."

 "Oh, thanks. What kind of stuff did you pick up today?"

 "The usual run of evidence of extramarital affairs, illegal business

 dealings, and tax frauds Nothing really outstanding, though the names

 involved are surprisingly interesting."

 "Come on and drop one, I'm not a reporter anymore."

 "Well, I could mention the name of Hoover, but I shan't tell which one

 or the nature of the blackmail article."

 He looked smug and left me guessing which Hoover: Herbert, J. Edgar, or

 the vacuum cleaner. I finished dressing and someone knocked on the door.

 It was the bellhop with my regular pile of papers. I tipped him and shut

 the door.

 "Good heavens, you read all of those?"

 "I'm addicted, but trying to taper off." I opened the top paper to the

 personals page and checked the column of fine print. My notice was

 missing, but I was still hoping for a reply. I went through the rest of

 the stack in short order and dropped them to one side.

 "What were you looking for?"

 In answer, I fished an old paper from the trash, opened it to the right

 page, and pointed.

 " 'Dearest Maureen, are you safe yet? Jack,' " he read. "I'd wondered if

 this were yours. This was the lady you knew in New York?"

 I nodded. "That's from the other day. I've had the ad canceled."

 He didn't ask why, not aloud anyway, but he was curious.

 "If she were alive she would have" I wanted to pace, but the room

 was too small. Instead I took the paper from him and shoved it back in

 the trash. As an afterthought I threw the rest of them on top with it.

 "I looked for her. I'm no amateur, I know how to look for people, but

 this was like she dropped off the face of the earth."

 "You still have doubts," he said kindly.

 "I shouldn't after all this time. I've got Bobbi to think of now. I've

 got a different life ahead of me."

 "And an unresolved question in your past. I would like to help, if

 you'll allow me."

 "The trail's five years cold. I couldn't ask you to do it."

 "I'm volunteering. I'm planning to go to New York, anyway. If nothing

 turns up you're no worse off than before, and if I do find anything,

 pleasant or not, it's better than not knowing at all."

 "You know what it's like, don't you?"

 His eyes flickered and settled. "I have an imagination." Whatever it

 was, he didn't want to talk about it, and changed the subject. "How is

 Miss Smythe doing these days?"

 "Better since she quit the club. They put Gordy in charge of it."

 "How fortunate for him."

 "Anyway, she's been busy doing some local broadcast shows and stuff.

 Next week she's going to be on her first national broadcast. I'm going

 to drive her down to the studio."

 "How delightful. I'm truly happy for her. She appears to have fully

 recovered from her uh adventure."

 "I guess, she doesn't talk much about that night, and I don't bring it

 up if I can help it."

 "For all concerned, it's probably for the best. Well, I did come by to

 ask a favor of you."

 "What?"

 "I shall be out of town for a few days next week--my business in New

 York, you know--and was wondering if you would mind staying over at my

 house while I'm gone. I'm expecting a shipment from overseas and would

 be glad to have someone there to receive it."

 "They deliver after dark?"

 "I could arrange that, yes."

 "Sure, no problem."

 "Thank you, I appreciate this. I'll have a duplicate key made up for

 you."

 "Were you serious about looking for Maureen?"

 "I can try, but I'll have to have her full name and description, where

 she lived at the time, and any other facts about her that could possibly

 be useful. Have you a photograph?"

 "No."

 "A pity, it might have helped." He shrugged his eyebrows philosophically

 and changed the subject again. "I've been reading Stoker's book--"

 "You have my sympathy," I said dryly.

 "Indeed, it does become turgid in spots, I had to completely skip over

 the correspondence between the two female characters--such a letdown

 after those terrifying scenes in the castle. But the idea of the

 multiple boxes of earth strikes me as very clever, and I came by to

 recommend it to you. You are quite vulnerable with just the one

 trunkful."

 "It's not even that much, but I see your point. I've been thinking about

 that, but putting it off. After all, I'm hardly being chased by Van

 Helsing. Who believes in vampires in this day and age?"

 "Myself, Miss Smythe, Gordy, and anyone else who might notice your lack

 of a reflection in a mirror or window and think it peculiar. Consider it

 a safety measure. Suppose there's a fire, or someone steals your trunk?"

 "I'm sold already, but where do I stash all this extra dirt?"

 He had a ready answer. "I've plenty of room in my cellar until you can

 work out your own places. Are you planning to acquire a second trunk as

 well? The one you have is a bit large."

 "You noticed. I'll look around for another tonight and see if I can

 locate something like a feed sack."

 "What about some canvas bags?" He pulled one from an inside pocket and

 unfolded it. It was about eighteen inches long, with a rounded bottom

 six inches across. Around the opening were some things like belt loops.

 "They were originally made to hold sand, but should work just as well

 for your earth."

 With that as a clue I realized it was the kind of bag that theaters used

 to counterweight curtains and stuff backstage. The loops were to be

 threaded with rope to attach it to lines.

 "I have several dozen of these, you're welcome to them."

 "It's perfect, but how did you happen to have so many?"

 "I have a lot of odds and ends lying about that I'm trying to clear

 away. I found these while doing some unpacking today. Much of my kit is

 absolutely useless at the moment, but now and then it fills an

 unexpected need. It occurs often enough to justify the presence of so

 much rubbish."

 So two nights later I was in my Buick with three dozen empty sandbags, a

 new shovel, some rope, and a new trunk. It was smaller than the one I'd

 initially bought to rest in for the day, which was currently in Escott's

 basement. The new trunk was easier to manhandle from the car, and though

 cramped, it was large enough to hold a body, namely my own. Inside,

 still in the original feedsacks, was my home earth, which for reasons I

 did not understand, I was compelled to lie in during the day. The stuff

 gave me rest and strength and was as necessary to my survival as blood;

 I could no more question its importance to me than anyone else could

 question the need for air and water.

 I passed through a sleeping little town, one of the many on the road

 that rolled up the sidewalks at night. The reversed image of the welcome

 sign was receding in my mirror when the black Lincoln reappeared, this

 time with its headlights off. They were about a quarter mile back, and

 if they'd been after anyone but me they would have been invisible in the

 dark.

 That clinched it, they were following me. The idea that they may have

 had their own brief rest stop and then forgot to switch on their lights

 was quickly discounted. On a night as black as this, human eyes needed

 all the help they could get.

 Then I wondered if they were like me. That particularly uneasy idea held

 my attention for several miles before I filed it away for later

 consideration. It was not impossible, just unlikely.

 My original thought that they were members of one of Chicago's mobs

 seemed the best explanation. But previous experience with them was in

 the nature of shooting first and never questioning later, so why just

 follow me? I'd have been easy enough to overtake on this lonely section

 of road. A few seconds of parallel driving would be long enough to

 deliver a .45-caliber greeting from a well-oiled Thompson, and they'd

 think themselves rid of me. They'd already had the chance to perform

 such an unsocial action outside Indianapolis. If their game was only to

 follow, it was becoming annoying, because I don't enjoy such games.

 I kept my speed steady for many more miles, searching my memory for a

 clue as to who in the gangs would know me, and only came up blank.

 Perhaps it was some remnant of the Paco mob, or maybe something to do

 with Escott and that business with Swafford. I was getting more curious

 by the second.

 Another hill loomed ahead and I hoped the far side would prove suitable.

 I stepped on the gas to gain a little more distance and time and topped

 the crest with the Lincoln half a mile behind. That would give me plenty

 of time, if my brakes were any good.

 On the other side of the hill, I skidded to a stop and killed the

 lights, left the motor running, and got out. Standing in front of one

 taillight and holding my hat over the other, I waited for them.

 They came over the hill, their lights still off. My estimate of their

 common sense was less than flattering, but the lack of extra glare was

 fine with me; their faces were now visible.

 The one on the left was a scrawny brown chicken of a man in his late

 fifties, wearing a hat with a brim too big for him. The driver seemed to

 be of average height, but looked larger compared to his companion. From

 the look of his pocked skin and wet eyes, he was hardly out of his

 teens.

 Both men saw me at the same time, and both registered the same

 expression: wide-eyed terror. Had it not been so genuine I would have

 laughed; as it was I resisted the impulse to look behind me,

 instinctively knowing that I was the inspiration for their fear.

 The kid had quick reactions, he hit the gas, and the Lincoln stormed

 past, gaining speed from the slant of the hill. I got back in my car and

 roared after them. Their headlights came on. The following game had been

 shot all to hell and the high speeds put an end to their stupidity. I

 left mine off-- the starlit landscape was like day to me and I wanted to

 get close to them.

 The older man was turned around in his seat, watching for my approach. I

 got a good look at his face, which seemed familiar, and then memorized

 their number plate. They were from New York. That opened up a whole new

 line of questions as I dropped my speed and settled in to follow them

 for a change.

 The new speculations were as futile as the old--I could think of no one

 from New York who'd have a reason to be after me. Curiosity was giving

 way to frustration, with a dash of worry for taste. Their terrified

 reaction had not been lost on me. I'd seen it before in the faces of

 people who knew what I was, but that only took me back to Chicago again.

 There was Escott, but I trusted him. Besides, these two bozos were too

 amateurish to be connected with him. The same thing applied to Bobbi.

 Selma Jenks and her large friend Sled came to mind, but first they'd

 have to break jail or send someone after me--nope, that was too screwy

 even for Miss Jenks. The only one left was a mob strong arm named Gordy,

 but it didn't fit with him, either. If he had a grudge on me, and he

 didn't, he'd handle it himself and much more efficiently.

 The Lincoln's brake lights flickered, held, and then the big car came to

 a stop, bumping onto the shoulder of the road. I stopped as well and

 watched to see what they were doing.

 The kid backed the car off the road and it vanished behind a thick

 strand of trees and brush. It was just the sort of hideout that state

 cops liked to use to spring out on unwary speeders. My two friends were

 going to sit there and wait for me to pass.

 I was pretty fed up by now and pulled off the road as well, shutting

 down the motor. The silence of the country jammed my ears. I got out,

 not quite closing the door--the slam might have carried to the Lincoln.

 Keeping low, I quit my car and tiptoed up to theirs.

 Their motor was off and neither seemed inclined to any fact-revealing

 conversation between themselves. While they waited for the approach of

 my car, I crouched over their right rear wheel and performed a small

 operation. After unscrewing the cap in their tire, I located a pebble

 and jammed it inside at just the right depth and was quite satisfied

 with the faint hiss of escaping air.

 Then I vanished.

 It was a useful knack, and on occasions like this it was also fun. I

 materialized right by the open driver's window, clamped my hands on the

 kid's arms so he couldn't move to start the car, and asked a reasonable

 question.

 "Who are you guys?"

 Sometimes the element of surprise is not a good tactic. If your quarry

 is too surprised, the reaction you get is not necessarily the one you

 want.

 Close up, the kid looked younger than I thought; his face still had the

 lingering softness of baby fat. There was a layer of smooth fat all over

 his body that didn't suit his years or his sex, and he'd have to lay off

 the sweets or the problem would get worse with time. Between that and a

 colorful display of pimples in various stages of development and decay,

 I couldn't think he was much past eighteen. I'd seen younger thugs, but

 this guy didn't fit the mold.

 His partner looked the age I guessed, past fifty or so. His hat was off

 now, revealing a thick growth of greasy hair that was too black to be

 true. His face had two deep scores on the cheeks, which were repeated

 countless times on the dry brown skin of his throat. He made me think of

 Boris Karloff in The Mummy, as though all the water had been squeezed

 out.

 Both men confirmed that they knew what I was, and their reactions were

 again identical: utter terror.

 The kid began yelling and fighting to get away. His legs had gone stiff

 and he was making a laudable effort at trying to levitate through the

 roof of the car. If Satan himself had appeared at his elbow in a cloud

 of sulfur, the reaction could not have been more violent.

 His friend's mouth was wide open in shock. As a side issue I noted the

 yellow teeth and a number of black fillings. He was making incoherent,

 panicky sounds, and his eyes were stabbing around the car interior,

 looking for something. He was searching for a weapon, as I found out

 when, in desperation, he tore off one shoe and began hammering at me

 with the heel. It was an ineffectual attack. Between the kid's struggles

 and my ducking, he kept missing. When he did connect, it was usually

 with the kid, and that set up a whole new series of howlings.

 Loud noises at close quarters make me nervous, but I was game enough to

 try and last it out. I ended up joining the chorus, shouting at them to

 shut up. Nothing less than violence would bring that about, as I quickly

 deduced, and so suited action to thought. I freed one hand and punched

 out the old guy and his annoying shoe, and he slithered from sight

 somewhere under the dashboard. The kid freshened his own fight until I

 stuck a mild fist in his stomach and knocked the breath out of him. He

 doubled over, bumping his head on the steering wheel, and once again the

 country silence thankfully descended on us all.

 While the kid worked to get air back in his lungs, I slipped the wallet

 from his coat and nosed through it. He was carrying thirty bucks and a

 New York driving license bearing the unlikely name of Matheus Webber.

 There was a small photo of two chubby people, who were probably his

 parents, a membership card to an athletic club, and a number of business

 cards from various New York bookstores. I shoved it all back in the

 leather folder and returned it to his pocket, then opened the door and

 dragged him out.

 He was gasping for air and gray in the face, and I reasoned he must be a

 sporadic visitor to his club at best. Leaving him on the ground, I

 reached across the seat to the other guy and pulled him up. His wallet

 contained a hundred twenty bucks, and said he was James Braxton of New

 York and the owner of Braxton's Books in Manhattan. He still seemed

 familiar, though the name didn't jog anything in my memory.

 Neither of them looked like gangsters.

 Matheus was just getting his breath back and seemed likely to bolt, so I

 caught his collar and tie before he got his legs set and pulled him up

 against the Lincoln so that we were face-to-face. He stared, lips

 flapping, and nothing coming out.

 "Okay, bub, why were you following me?"

 He looked wall-eyed toward Braxton for some moral support but got none.

 His legs sagged and I had to straighten him up. I repeated my question

 until it finally penetrated, and then he only looked incredulous. He

 seemed to think I already knew why. This little act went on for several

 minutes; me asking variations of why and him blubbering and not giving

 out any answers. I probably wouldn't have liked them, anyway. He wasn't

 even attempting to lie, it might not have been in his nature. He must

 have been real cute when his mom caught him raiding the cookie jar.

 As with Selma Jenks, I could force a way into his mind that would make

 him cooperative enough, but decided against it. There was no real harm

 done and I'd scared them far more than they had annoyed me. I'd try a

 more reasonable approach.

 After saying the kid's name enough to get his attention, I eased my grip

 a little when I was sure he wouldn't try to run. He was as relaxed as

 he'd ever be with me, which wasn't much. I pulled out my cigarettes and

 offered him one.

 He looked at it like it was a snake and barely shook his head. "I don't

 smoke."

 I nodded agreeably. "It's a bad habit." He had some idea that I was an

 inhuman monster, so I lit a cigarette, because in my limited experience,

 inhuman monsters rarely smoke. I puffed and blew the smoke out downwind

 of his face, trying to look harmless. "I'm sorry I popped you and your

 friend, but things were getting out of hand, don't you think?"

 He bobbed his head cautiously.

 "Now, do you know me from somewhere? Do you know my name?"

 Reluctantly, he nodded again.

 "How do you know me?"

 "Mr. Braxton told me."

 "Fine, how does he know me?"

 "I don't know."

 "Why were you following me?"

 "T-to see where you were going."

 This was getting nowhere fast. "Could you be more specific?"

 He had to think that one over, but I waited him out. "W-we were going to

 see where you went for the day."

 "You mean where I was going to hole up?"

 Another nod.

 "Why?"

 That one was too much for him and he tried to get away. I held him with

 one hand and advised him to calm down. After a minute he ran out of

 steam, his legs went like jelly again, and I let him sink down to the

 running board to rest.

 I crouched to be at eye level with him. "You seem to know what I am. Do

 you?"

 "Yes."

 "Were you and your friend planning to make the world a little safer from

 vampires?" I should have been more diplomatic--his eyebrows were

 galloping into his hairline again.

 "Pleasedon't"The kid was crying, actually crying, he was that

 scared. I felt sorry for him and a little embarrassed, and finally

 pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to him. He stared at it.

 "Go on--it won't bite you."

 He took it, suspicious of some kind of trick. When the trick failed to

 happen, he finally blew his nose.

 I shook my head. "Van Helsing you're not."

 He stiffened again. "You know about that?"

 "What, Dracula! Yeah, reading it is one of the requirements for joining

 the union. Maybe you've heard of us, the International Brotherhood of

 Vampires. I'm with Chicago Local three eleven."

 He stared. Well, I thought it was funny, but the kid was taking me

 seriously.

 "Matheus--do they call you Matt?"

 "No, they call me Matheus."

 They would.

 "All right, Matheus, I think you should listen to me very carefully so

 you can get this straight. You and your friend need to go back to New

 York and do business as usual. You're probably a very nice kid--you

 don't need to be chasing after vampires in the wilds of Indiana, you're

 not cut out for it. You got that?"

 Now he was looking stubborn. Somewhere deep inside he had a backbone.

 "Don't get me wrong, I think you've got a lot of guts to even be

 thinking of tracking me down. How did you latch on to me anyway?"

 "The papers."

 "What about them?"

 "Your ad stopped."

 This was a can of worms I hadn't expected. "Tell me about the ad."

 "It stopped and we wanted to know why, so we called the papers and got

 your address."

 "How did you know about it? What do you know about Maureen?"

 "Nothing!"

 "What does Braxton know?" But I was overanxious and the kid clammed up

 again. I counted ten and tried a calmer voice. "Did he know Maureen?"

 "I think so, years ago."

 "How long ago?"

 "I don't know. Honest, I don't. But he knew you had been with her

 that she had had that you might become but we weren't sure."

 My grip on him relaxed; the muscles felt like water. "Is Maureen alive?"

 He shook his head. "No, she's like you."

 "Is she alive?"

 "I don't know!"

 "Does Braxton know?"

 "Uh-uh. He said he lost her trail, you were his only lead. When the ads

 stopped he thought you'd found her or that you'd died" The

 realization that he was talking to a dead man must have hit him all over

 again. He sat with his arms dangling, looking at me with helpless

 horror.

 "How did you get on my trail?"

 "Through the papers. We only got into town this afternoon, and spent the

 day looking for you. We got to your hotel, but they wouldn't help us,

 even when we described you, so we waited across the street for you to

 come out."

 "So Braxton knew what I looked like?"

 "Yes but I thought you were a lot older."

 The kid was right. I was thirty-six, but my condition and diet made me

 look about twenty-two.

 "We saw you putting the trunk in the car and thought you were running

 away, but we weren't sure--not until you went to the Stockyards, then we

 knew that you were you had" He gulped the idea down. "We followed

 you, but when you got on the road you didn't act like you were running,

 so we just stayed back and followed."

 "Biding your time until the dawn, huh? And then what? A stake in the

 heart and garnish with garlic?"

 He squirmed, utterly miserable.

 "Well, you ought to feel uncomfortable, that's just about the dirtiest

 trick I've heard of, and I've heard plenty. Have you actually thought

 about what you were planning?"

 He had not.

 "Come on, Matheus, I'm really a nice guy once you know me. I am not some

 kind of diabolical maniac; I even send money home to my mother. Think of

 it as a medical condition. You wouldn't try to kill me if I had polio,

 would you?"

 Seeing things from my point of view was a whole new experience for him.

 "Except for some physical and dietary restrictions, there's really

 nothing bad with being a vampire."

 He acted like I'd said a dirty word.

 "Would you be more comfortable if I said Undead or would you prefer

 something else? I know lots of substitutes, but they're harder to

 pronounce." I waited for an answer and tried again. "Come on, kid, if I

 could go back to being like you I would, but I can't, so I'm just trying

 to make the best of the situation. I'm not what you expected, am I?"

 He shook his head grudgingly.

 "Don't listen to him, Matheus!" It was the mummy, Braxton. He'd come

 awake and was struggling to pull himself together. He lurched from the

 car, looking ridiculous as he waved his shoe in one hand like a weapon.

 After a second he realized a shoe was hardly appropriate, so he dropped

 it and pulled a big silver cross from his pants pocket.

 I stood up, uncertain how to react at this point. Crosses don't affect

 me unless they're large, wooden, and used as a club on my head. My

 theory on this is that I'm not an evil creature; the use of a cross

 against a vampire is primarily an invention of the stage and Hollywood.

 Having the vampire cowering away from one makes for a good dramatic

 scene, but in reality, things are far different. If these guys were

 ignorant enough to rely on one for protection, it might be in my best

 interest to play along. On the other hand, Braxton might just be trying

 to test me.

 He pushed himself and his cross between me and Matheus. I moved back

 quickly because he practically shoved the thing up my nose.

 "Back, you demon!" he said, and quite dramatically at that. Matheus was

 impressed. I refrained from laughing and gave them some room.

 "And how do you do?" I inquired politely.

 "Did he hurt you, Matheus?"

 "Well, no--"

 "But he was trying to hypnotize you."

 "He was?"

 "I was?" I echoed.

 It looked as though Braxton was just the sort of dedicated crazy I was

 occasionally compelled to interview when I'd been a reporter. Even at

 this early stage in our acquaintance, his manner was easily

 recognizable. I tried to recall if I'd once talked to him while on an

 assignment.

 "Leave us and trouble us no more," he intoned solemnly.

 "Who wrote your dialogue? Hamilton Deane?" I countered.

 Matheus looked at me doubtfully. He knew who'd written the play,

 Dracula, but he still didn't quite know how to take a vampire with a

 sense of humor. It went right over Braxton's head, for he was too caught

 up in his Van Helsing imitation to pay attention to what I said.

 "Leave us," he commanded.

 "Listen, buster, you were the ones following me. I was minding my own

 business. I'll be a sport this time and let you go, as long as you run

 straight back home and stay there."

 "No, we will follow you as long as necessary."

 That really wasn't the smartest thing for him to tell me. I sighed.

 "Matheus, maybe you can talk some sense into him. If I was half as nasty

 as you seem to think, I could just as well kill you both as stand around

 all night. I haven't got the time to waste trying to convince you of my

 good character, either. Just stay out of my way or I'll kick both of

 your asses all the way back to Manhattan." I turned and walked until I

 was lost to them in the dark, then vanished and floated back to listen

 in on what they had to say.

 It took a few minutes for their nerves to settle and to convince each

 other that they were all right. Once the question of health was out of

 the way, Matheus gulped a few times and asked, "Was he really trying to

 hypnotize me?"

 I could imagine Braxton nodding sagely. But it didn't seem like he

 was. He didn't say anything that sounded like it."

 "You wouldn't remember it if he did. It's like falling asleep, you don't

 know you've been asleep until you wake up."

 "Oh. What do we do now?"

 "We wait him out. He has to come this way, and then we follow him."

 "But how can we be sure he won't just double back?"

 "He has become a vampire, he must seek out his home earth. I know he

 comes from Cincinnati--"

 How did he know that? I wondered.

 "--and this is the road that will take him there the fastest. He said he

 had little time. For us time is on our side."

 He didn't know everything. He must have thought I'd changed only in the

 last day or so; he did not know I was merely augmenting my present

 supply of earth.

 "Are you sure about this, Mr. Braxton? He could have killed us, like he

 said."

 Braxton had a blanket answer. "Lies. He's only toying with us. They're

 very clever, these creatures, but you'll remember that he was the one to

 give ground before us."

 I could almost see him waving his cross and puffing out his chest.

 Whether I was playing with them or not depended on how much they

 bothered me. Amateurish and ill informed as they were, they could still

 prove to be very dangerous.

 During my daytime oblivion I was completely vulnerable. My best chance

 of survival would be to lose them and hope they'd give up and go home. I

 had no desire to do them violence.

 I left them and returned to my car, starting it up. They would hear the

 noise and be starting theirs as well. I drove slowly past, their white

 and defiant faces staring grimly back as I waved. Matheus was getting

 himself ready for the road race of his life.

 It must have been a terrible letdown when their car swayed onto the road

 and with a lurch betrayed the presence of the flat tire.

 I hit the gas and left them behind. It would take about ten minutes for

 Matheus to change the tire, probably a lot longer with Braxton helping

 him, and by that time I planned to have a healthy lead of fifteen miles

 or more.

 Chapter 4

 =========

 LUCK WAS WITH me and I managed to avoid the notice of cops looking for

 speeders, arriving in Cincinnati with enough time to spare to find a

 place to stay. The best protection was with the herd, so I checked into

 one of the bigger and busier downtown hotels under a phony name. The

 Buick disappeared into a distant parking lot with a lot of other

 late-model cars.

 A sleepy bellhop manhandled the trunk into a modest single with a bath.

 I dispatched him with a fair tip and hung out a sign to ward off the

 maid. My suit and body both felt rumpled from the long drive. I wanted a

 hot bath, a quick shave, and the inside of my trunk, and got them in

 short order.

 Sunset seemed to come again a few seconds after I closed the lid. While

 in my earth there was no sense of time passing, but the day had gone by

 as usual, since I felt rested and alert. I was in fresh clothes, checked

 out, and in my car in record time. My goal was to be back in Chicago

 that same night, so I hurried now.

 What was left of my grandfather's farm wasn't too far from the city, but

 owing to the twists of the road, it was still fairly isolated. Once I

 turned off the farm-market road and onto the weedy ruts that led to the

 house, the trees closed in, and it was like going back in time. The

 Buick was a noisy intruder into a simpler and slower age, so I cut the

 motor and walked the rest of the way with Escott's sandbags in one hand

 and the new shovel and some rope in the other.

 The place hadn't changed since my last visit in August. It still looked

 forlorn and overgrown, but not completely neglected. My father came out

 occasionally to check on things. He kept the grass trimmed in the little

 graveyard where we'd been burying our own for the last seventy-five

 years. The house was boarded up. It would have looked sinister except

 for the neat paint job. Even the three-seater outhouse in back had

 gotten a coat against the winter. It was as though it had only been

 temporarily closed for the season and the family would return in the

 spring.

 I went to the cemetery. The earth near the big oak tree was vaguely

 scarred from my last expedition for soil, but not so much that the

 casual eye would notice. As before, I cleared another large area of

 fallen leaves and began scooping an inch of topsoil off and into the

 bags. I could have dug deeper, but that would leave definite signs, and

 I had no desire to accidentally include earthworms in my booty.

 Whether dirt specifically from the family cemetery was necessary for me

 to survive had been a question in my mind for quite a while. My prior

 researches indicated that all vampires must be in their graves by dawn,

 and had I truly died, my body would certainly be resting here with the

 other Flemings. I suppose any of the earth in the immediate vicinity

 would have been suitable, but there was no time for experiments. I had a

 traditional turn of mind, anyway.

 As I worked, my mind was already on the road, retracing the route back

 to Chicago and deciding which places to stop for gas. I vaguely wondered

 if I would again be plagued by Matheus Webber and James Braxton. They

 were worrying, but there wasn't much I could do about them until I could

 get their names to Escott. Hopefully he might be able to trace them down

 in New York while he was there, then I might remember where I'd met

 Braxton--

 The work and thought were interrupted by several heavy objects slamming

 against my body like cannonballs and knocking me flat.

 Two hard things caught me full in the chest, and a third had cracked

 against my head. In the very brief time between impact and hitting the

 ground I decided they were large rocks and that somebody really had it

 in for me.

 The last rock must have been the size of a brick, but I

 hadn't been killed, or even concussed. There are undeniable advantages

 to being supernatural.

 My body fell back and rolled. I glimpsed a whirl of leaves and branches

 that abruptly faded to gray and then to nothing. My body had taken

 things over again and I'd dematerialized from the shock of the sudden

 pain. No emergency called me back, so I remained disembodied and was

 glad of it. Floating upward until safely within the concealing branches

 of the oak, I slowly re-formed, arms and legs wrapped around one of the

 big limbs.

 I was about thirty feet up, and once solid, had to endure a few bad

 moments of recovery. My head was the worst, I had to cling with my eyes

 squeezed tight until the dizziness passed. I hate heights.

 While hiding in the tree and counting my blessings, developments were

 taking place below. Three foreshortened figures came into view and

 prowled uncertainly around my excavation. They were rough-looking men,

 each with a rock in one hand and a big stick in the other. Had I not

 vanished immediately they would have probably followed up with those

 clubs. The clubs were of wood and would have succeeded whore rock had

 failed.

 My headache rapidly subsided as I became interested in finding out who

 these guys were and why they'd attacked me out of the blue. Perhaps then

 I would work off the chagrin of being taken by surprise. They must have

 been hiding out the whole time I was digging, or else I'd have heard

 them sneaking up.

 One of them cast around like a dog for a lost scent. "He musta rolled

 away fast after we hit 'em," he told the others. They agreed and made a

 swift search under the oak, then spread out among the grave markers.

 "You sure we hit "em?" asked one.

 "Din' you keep your eyes open? We all hit 'em square. I know we did.

 Din' we, Bob?"

 Bob grunted something affirmative and made a quick leap to look behind

 the big piece of carved granite over my grandfather's grave. It was the

 only possible hiding place, the rest of the stone markers being too

 small. They circled back to the sandbags and kicked at them curiously.

 "What you suppose he was diggin' for. Rich?"

 "How the hell should I know?" Rich was upset that I was missing. He

 looked at the oak tree, his eyes traveling up the trunk toward me. I

 kept still, knowing he couldn't see me in the darkness among the leaves.

 "Go check his car," he told Bob. "Mebee he got some stuff we can use."

 Fugitives from a local Hooverville or tramps off of any of the trains

 that passed through the city, they'd been looking for someone to rob,

 and I'd been handy.

 Bob was lumbering off to the car. The keys were still inside. I'd felt

 safe being back home, after all. Vanishing, I floated in Bob's

 direction, tracking the crunch his feet made on the gravel and old

 leaves. He was almost to the car when I re-formed in front of his

 startled face and gently knocked him out.

 He was a gaunt, rawboned specimen and I'd have felt sorry for him had it

 not been for those well-aimed stones. Proving assault against them would

 be impossible, but I was, or at least I felt like, an outraged homeowner

 and they were trespassing.

 I sandwiched Bob into one of the road ruts in front of the car, which

 gave me an idea: it was more of a childish impulse, but irresistible.

 Rich and his pal separated, looking for my missing body and puzzling

 over the odd situation. It was easy to wait for a convenient moment and

 take the pal from behind. His unconscious body went next to Bob's in the

 adjoining rut. For an artistic effect, I folded their arms funeral style

 and decorated each with a large weed, as though it were a lily. When

 things were ready, I tooted the horn a couple times, turned on the

 headlights, then ducked into the cover of the trees.

 Rich didn't delay investigating. He was complaining about the noise in a

 few short, coarse words, which trailed off when he saw his friends lying

 neatly in the ruts. He went on guard, held his stick at a threatening

 angle, and listened. It seemed a shame to disappoint him, so I threw a

 fist-sized stone at his legs. His yelp was more of surprise than pain,

 and he hopped to one side before twisting to face me.

 I wasn't there anymore. By vanishing and shifting around I could move

 without being detected. In the darkness outside the glare of the

 headlights I was all but invisible by simply standing still. Re-forming

 a short toss behind him, I bounced another stone, this time off his

 butt. He had no appreciation for my marksmanship, though, and came

 charging at me with his stick. While he viciously assaulted the foliage,

 I moved back to the first hiding place and gave him another volley of

 rocks.

 Not surprisingly, he got tired of this very quickly and bolted for the

 road, urged on by several parting shots. I couldn't let him leave

 without a personal good-bye and made a point to appear directly in his

 path. He had no time to stop and we connected solidly. He dropped, the

 breath knocked out of him. but he quickly recovered and took a swing at

 me with the stick. I went to a partially solid state and it passed right

 through, which was not what he expected. He stared at the stick, then at

 me, and tried again and failed. That was one too many and he ran away.

 That didn't work, either.

 I caught him at the front gate, swung him around, and pressed him face

 first against the bole of a tree, making sure he got well acquainted

 with the bark.

 "Lemme go, I din' do nuthin'!"

 He struggled, but I had him firmly pinned and he eventually stopped.

 There had been a lot more fight in little Selma Jenks.

 "Okay, I'll do what you want!" This was indistinct, as his mouth was

 mashed into the bark.

 I whipped him around. He knew he was in trouble as his feet left the

 earth. I held him up by his stinking clothes, with his toes swinging

 free in the air.

 "How long you creeps been here?"

 "C-couple days."

 "How'd you find this place?"

 "Mailbox--sign on it says it's safe here."

 "You're gonna change that, understand? It ain't safe anymore."

 "Yeah--whatever you want."

 My next action was pure show-off, but it also served to drive home the

 point that I was more than capable of handling him. I forced him over

 double and snaked an arm around his midsection. He was too dumbfounded

 to vocalize a protest as his feet left the ground again and he was

 carried like a sack of flour along the road to the mailbox. There, he

 eradicated a symbol scratched on the post and substituted another that

 meant "keep away" to any other bums that might happen by.

 "That okay?"

 He wasn't getting any pats on the head from me. We locked eyes and I

 gave him a few choice words of advice, nothing as specific as those I

 shared with Selma, but along similar lines. I last saw him pelting for

 Cleveland at a dead run. If he kept up the pace he'd make it by morning.

 His pals looked like they'd be out for some time, so I left them and had

 a good look around the house and barn. The barn was untouched, but the

 house had been broken into via a back window. Through it I could see

 signs of recent and very messy occupancy. This discovery inspired a lot

 of violent thoughts aimed at the two remaining bums. The only thing to

 do would be to give the cops an anonymous call and ask them to come out.

 They in turn would contact my father; by that time the bums would be

 gone, which was probably just as well. If Dad had come out for a visit

 alone, he might have been the one assaulted, not me. That idea had set

 my blood to boiling when I'd been talking to Rich, and now I stalked

 back to revive his two friends.

 A little shaking did the trick, and I gave them no chance to run away. I

 had their full attention as I picked up the discarded clubs. They were

 heavy and hard, like baseball bats, but not so thick that I couldn't get

 my hands around them. I held them out front, making sure my guests had a

 good view.

 "You boys get out and stay out, or I'll break your necks." At that I

 snapped the clubs in two with a sharp movement. The men were impressed,

 but didn't stay for an encore. If anything, they moved even faster than

 their leader as they ran for the road.

 Satisfied, I threw the wood shards away and went back to my unfinished

 work.

 Like a lot of chores, the digging took longer than anticipated and,

 coupled with the delay of dealing with the tramps, severely cut into my

 travel time. I could have probably made it all the way to Chicago the

 same night, but not without a lot of speeding. Allowing for state cops,

 unexpected flat tires.

 washed-out bridges, and other hazards, I could still easily make it to

 Indianapolis with a comfortable margin of time.

 With the last dusty bag tied up and stowed in the trunk, I drove back to

 town in search of a phone, turning one up at a gas station. While a kid

 in greasy overalls fed the tank, I made a call to the Cincinnati police.

 After giving them the name of another farming family on the same road, I

 extracted a promise from them to investigate and. if necessary, roust

 the tramps from the Fleming place. They were given the impression the

 intruders were still there because it would do no harm for them to be

 cautious. I gave them my dad's name and number so they could inform the

 owner, and hung up.

 Having the time and inclination, I decided to indulge in some nostalgia

 and drive through my old neighborhood. I needed some reassurance that

 the haunts of my youth were still there, still in use by another

 generation of kids.

 I wasn't going to visit my parents, only look at the house and drive on.

 Visiting them would have been too complicated and painful. I'd be

 expected to stay the night and stuff myself with food and there was no

 way I could fob them off with some light excuse. I could also be honest

 and tell them the truth about myself and hope they'd understand and

 accept it, but that was something I absolutely was not ready to try yet.

 Dad had moved off the farm years ago to be closer to the store he owned

 and to give Mom her long-coveted indoor plumbing. Their neighborhood

 looked smaller and dowdier to my eyes now, but still homey. There was

 ample evidence that the radio had not yet destroyed the quality of

 family life as had been predicted. There were plenty of people lounging

 on their front porches, seeking a cool breeze from the darkness. Windows

 were open and shades were up, their softly lit squares revealing a

 minute glimpse into other lives. I observed each with the detached

 interest of a gallery patron.

 The detachment evaporated the second I saw the black Lincoln parked in

 front of my parents' house. Now I was really angry. They could follow

 and harass me, but not my family. I braked and was out of the car and

 halfway up the walk before common sense took over and counseled caution.

 My sudden appearance at the front door might send Braxton into a fit of

 cross-waving hysterics, which was the last thing my mother needed.

 Crossing the yard, I stationed myself in the bushes just under the open

 parlor window. Like most families, our friends usually ended up in the

 kitchen for their visits; strangers were shown to the more formal

 parlor. Mom was running to form, and through the gossamer curtains of

 the open window I could see them all, and my sensitive hearing picked up

 every word. Braxton and Webber had apparently only arrived and were just

 settling in for a talk. Braxton was doing most of it, the padded and

 polite kind of speech reserved for people that you want something from.

 None of it impressed my father, for he dealt with salesmen every day.

 "Mr. Braxton, you said you wanted to talk with us about Jack," he said,

 interrupting the flow of words.

 "Indeed, yes, Mr. Fleming." Braxton's voice was smoother and more

 cultured than I'd thought possible, no longer strident with vanity or

 fear. It was that persuasive tone that kicked my memory into gear. "How

 long has it been since you last heard from him?"

 "Why do you want to know?"

 "At the moment that might be difficult to explain."

 "He sent us a postcard just this week," said my mother.

 "Did he mention anything unusual?"

 "Like what?" asked Dad.

 "An odd experience, perhaps?"

 Mom was worried now. "Why do you ask? Has something happened to him?

 What is it?"

 "Please, Mrs. Fleming, so far as we know he is all right and we are

 doing our best to see that he remains so."

 Dad's temper was starting to flare. "Out with the story, Mr. Braxton."

 "Of course, of course. Your son, unknown to himself, may have gotten

 into some trouble when he moved to Chicago."

 "How so? What kind of trouble?"

 "When he lived in New York he often wrote stories on the criminal

 element there for his paper. He had access to information sources that

 they would like to see eliminated, what we call informants and the like.

 Some of these criminals became very suspicious at his sudden departure

 and they are anxious to find out why he left. Matheus and I must talk

 with him about this and we must see him personally."

 "His moving was hardly sudden," said Mom. "Besides, he moved nearly a

 month ago."

 "Yes, unfortunately certain individuals from the underworld were

 arrested at the same time, and they are blaming him for their capture.

 Whether he was responsible or not makes little difference to them."

 There was a pause as Mom and Dad exchanged worried looks.

 "Then we have to warn him, send him a telegram or something," said Dad.

 "No, you must not do that, such things can be intercepted. I know that

 from experience."

 "What experience?"

 "I work for the government; I must ask you to keep this meeting secret,

 of course."

 "Government?" Mom echoed uncertainly.

 "Here, my identification."

 Dad looked at something Braxton passed to him. "You don't look like a

 G-man--neither of you," he added, to include Matheus, who was being very

 quiet about things.

 Braxton chuckled easily. "None of us really do. For instance, young

 Webber here is one of our trainees. This is his first assignment, you

 know, so you see there is no real danger involved, but that does not

 lessen the importance of what we are doing. We must make contact with

 your son as soon as possible. We have to warn him about what is going

 on."

 "We'll call him, then."

 "I'm afraid he's no longer at the place he was living in. He moved out

 last night and we were only able to trace him part of the way here."

 "He's coming home, then?" Dad was puzzled.

 "Possibly, perhaps he learned of the trouble independently from us and

 he may try hiding out from them here."

 "Or at the farm--no one would think to look for him there," Mom said

 helpfully. I groaned inside.

 "Farm?"

 Dad began explaining about the farm, with Braxton avidly listening, and

 I could see the next question coming a mile off. They didn't need to be

 nosing around my home earth and learning of my excavations. Before

 things could go further, I picked up one of the whitewashed stones that

 divided the lawn from the bushes and sent it crashing through the parlor

 window.

 Mom screamed and I was sorry for that, but I wanted those bozos out of

 the house, where I could deal with them. Dad was roaring mad and the

 first one out the front door, with Braxton and Webber at his heels. But

 I wasn't hanging around, and bolted for the Lincoln. Opening the

 driver's door, I released the hand brake and pushed. It wasn't so dark

 that they couldn't see their car moving off by itself.

 Matheus noticed, yelled, and gave chase. I had a good lead; he was out

 of shape and Braxton on the arthritic side. It was a good block's run

 before they caught up with the car. I ducked low, seeping into the

 backseat, and waited for them. They were both wheezing when they tore

 the doors open. There was no sign of Dad. They'd left him back in the

 yard looking in the bushes for the vandal.

 "I'm sure I set the brake," Matheus insisted in reply to Braxton's

 irritated question.

 "Well, start it up and let's get back there. I almost had him."

 "But who broke the window?"

 "I did," I said, leaning forward to clamp a hand over their mouths. For

 once the lack of an image in the rearview mirror had worked in my favor.

 They gave only a token struggle--I was strong and they were pretty

 winded after their dash to the car.

 "I told you to go back to New York," I reminded them.

 Braxton mumphed something loud and defiant. He squirmed and twisted,

 trying to get something from his pants pocket. I could guess he was

 after his cross again and shifted my hand until it was over his nose. He

 was already short of oxygen, in a few seconds he was weakly trying to

 tear free.

 "You gonna behave?" I asked him.

 He mewed desperately down in his throat and I eased off just enough so

 he could breathe.

 I looked at Matheus, who was too scared to move. "Okay, kid, you drive

 to my directions, understand?"

 He gurgled.

 "You drive nice, or I'll break the geezer's neck."

 Another gurgle. It sounded like an affirmative.

 I let the kid go and he started the car without any argument.

 He seemed used to taking orders. Our drive was not a cordial one, and

 out of necessity I was forced to keep both hands tight on Braxton--one

 over his mouth and the other encircling his wrists. After several miles

 I was feeling very cramped.

 We drove northeast until I judged that the distance was enough to keep

 them busy, then had the kid stop. He was visibly trembling and Braxton

 was sweating bullets. The area was well clear of the city, dark and

 deserted. They must have concluded that I was going to kill them and

 leave the bodies in a roadside ditch. It was tempting, but only as a

 joke. Instead I pushed them out of the car, got behind the wheel, and

 turned the big machine back toward the city. They gave an angry and

 halfhearted chase, but were easily left behind in the exhaust fumes.

 If they got lucky they might turn up a ride in Montgomery, but in the

 meantime I planned to head for Indianapolis.

 I left their car parked across the street from a fire station and had a

 brisk walk back to my own. By this time the neighborhood had settled

 down. The lights were still on in my parents' house, but the rest were

 dark, their occupants sensibly asleep. Dad had nailed a board over the

 broken window. I rolled quietly away to look for another telephone.

 Dad answered on the first ring and I blandly said hello.

 "Jack!" He sounded excited.

 "Is something wrong?" I asked innocently.

 "I'll say there is." He gave me a slightly garbled account of what had

 happened earlier and wanted to know if I knew there were some gangsters

 after me.

 "Wait a minute." I tried to sound skeptical. It wasn't hard. "How do you

 know these guys were G-men?"

 "He had an identification card, it said he was with the FBI."

 "Those can be printed up by the hundreds in any joke shop. What did they

 look like? Was it a little guy and a chubby kid with bad skin?"

 "That's them."

 "Dad, I hate to say it, but you've been had."

 "What d'ya mean?"

 "I did a story on those fish last year. They're a couple of con men.

 Because of me, the cops went after them, a lot of their victims turned

 up in court, and these guys got sent up. Did they try talking you into

 buying anything?"

 "No, they wanted to know where you were, and then someone broke the

 window--"

 "That was the third man in their team. They'll be coming back and trying

 to sell you some kind of phony U.S. government insurance"

 I gave Dad an imaginative account of their criminal career, stating that

 Braxton was a dangerous crazy and that he and Webber indulged in some

 bizarre sexual practices. Then I held my breath to see if he believed

 it, because I'd always been a lousy liar.

 Dad said a few well-chosen obscenities, but they were directed at his

 recent guests, not me.

 "Watch out for them," I suggested enthusiastically. "The little one's a

 real weasel when he's cornered. If they bother you again, just call the

 cops. Don't let them back in the house."

 "I won't, I just wish you'd called earlier. Why are you calling now?"

 "I've been moving, I wanted to give you my new number."

 "They said you'd moved. Where are you?"

 "I found a nice boardinghouse. If there's an emergency they'll get a

 message to me." I gave him Escott's phone number and told him to keep it

 to himself.

 "What about the address?"

 "I'll be getting a box at the post office, the landlord likes to steam

 things open."

 "That's illegal."

 "Yeah, but the rent's cheap and the food's good. How's Mom?"

 He put her on the line and we exchanged reassurances and other bits of

 information. She thought I had a job at an ad agency and asked how it

 was going. I let her keep thinking it. Except for the Swafford case, my

 modest living expenses and the money I sent home to help them out had

 come from an inadvertent theft from a mobster and some engineered luck

 at a blackjack table. Neither of them would have won her approval.

 I promised to call again in a day or two for further news and hung up,

 grinning ear to ear.

 A few years ago I walked into a small bookstore in Manhattan. The window

 on the street was just large enough to display the painted legend:

 BRAXTON'S BOOKS, NEW & USED, and the inside sill held a few sun-faded

 samples of literature. In the last few weeks I'd seen a hundred

 hole-in-the-wall places like this; I liked them.

 A bell over the door jingled as I entered. Dust motes hanging in the

 sunlight were stirred by the draft and I sneezed. By the time I

 straightened and wiped my nose he had appeared out of one of the alcoves

 formed by bookshelves.

 "Good afternoon, sir, may I help you?"

 He was shorter than me, with dark wrinkled skin like a dried apple.

 There was a suggestion of black shoe polish in his hair, but the world

 was full of people who didn't want to look their age.

 "Got anything on folklore or the occult?"

 "Yes, sir, in this first section." He indicated the area and watched

 with a pleasant smile as I went to look it over.

 It was a fairly complete selection. There were copies of Summer's works

 on witchcraft and vampires, even Baring-Gould's book on werewolves, but

 nothing I hadn't already seen and read before. I checked the fiction

 section, drew a blank, and finished off with the occult shelves. They

 were also very complete, but only with the usual junk. I said thank you

 to the general air and started for the door.

 "Perhaps," he said, stopping me, "if you're looking for something

 special I could be of help. I have other books in the back."

 It was my day off, I was in no hurry. "Well, sure, if you don't mind."

 "What are you looking for?"

 Speaking the title always made me feel vaguely foolish. "A copy of

 Varney, the Vampire by Prest."

 He knew what I was talking about, not surprising considering the

 contents of his well-stocked shelves. His brown eyes got brighter with

 interest. "Or the Feast of Blood," he said, completing the title. "Yes,

 that is a rare one. I have a copy, but it's part of my own collection

 and not for sale."

 "Oh," I said, for want of something better.

 "May I ask why you are interested in it?"

 The real reason I couldn't talk about, so I had a fake one practiced and

 ready. "I'm working on a book, a survey of folklore, fact and fiction."

 "That is a very wide field."

 "Not when you're tracking down certain books."

 He looked sympathetic. "I'd like to help, but it could only be in a

 limited way."

 Strings of some kind? He'd find out real soon I wasn't rich.

 "You'd have to read it here in the shop, that is if you want to. I value

 it too much to loan it out."

 "I can understand that," I said gratefully. "Are you sure it wouldn't be

 too much trouble?"

 "Not at all, but it would have to be during working hours."

 "That would be fine, thank you."

 He offered his hand. "I'm James Braxton."

 "Jack Fleming."

 "Come in the back, I'll show you where you may read."

 "You have it right here?"

 "Oh, yes. Yes." He threaded past ceiling-high shelves, leading me deep

 into the narrow shop. He switched on the light over a desk and chair and

 swept some account books to one side. The light revealed shelves crammed

 with a faded patchwork of book spines of every shape and age. It looked

 like a duplicate of the folklore section out front, but more so. Some of

 the volumes were very old, with odd titles, others were recent and by

 skeptical writers. One shelf held only copies of Occult Review. He was

 more than casually interested in the subject himself, and I wondered if

 he sincerely believed in it. If so, I'd have to watch my lip.

 He knew exactly where his copy was located and pulled it out, placing it

 on the desk. "I hope you enjoy it," he said.

 "Thank you, you're very generous to do this."

 "I'm just in favor of expanding knowledge in a neglected area," he

 smiled.

 "You have quite a collection."

 The bell on the door out front rang, interrupting his reply. He excused

 himself with a rueful smile, and for the next few hours was too busy to

 return.

 I'd already read the first chapter in another book, so I

 skipped it and went through the second and third in short order. I was a

 fast reader, but did not plan to spend the rest of my life poring word

 by word through the book's more than two hundred chapters. In its

 original state, it had been published a chapter at a time for weekly

 consumption by the newly literate masses. A fast writer could keep

 himself employed for years with a popular series. In the previous

 century, the penny dreadfuls were just as popular as the current radio

 and movie serials were now.

 I skimmed the pages, reading the brief descriptions given under the

 chapter titles, and touching on the dialogue whenever it popped up. The

 gist of it centered on the tribulations of the Bannerworth family as

 they nobly bore the attacks of Varney upon their daughter, Flora. A good

 family, but not too bright: if they'd simply moved away at the start

 they would have saved themselves a lot of trouble, but the plot dragged

 on regardless of such logic.

 It was really better than I expected--at least at first, then the

 quality of the writing began to deteriorate along with the continuity. A

 cliff-hanger ending was never resolved and one of the Bannerworth

 brothers seemed to disappear completely from the story. When he did

 return, the author had forgotten his name. Whole sections written for no

 other purpose than to fill a word quota tried my patience and I skipped

 them altogether. I focused on the few scenes where the vampire appeared

 and had dialogue.

 His blood requirements were only occasional, usually after he'd been

 killed and his body was carelessly left out in the moonlight, which

 revived him. The moonlight device had been lifted wholesale from

 Polidori's story and used shamelessly each time Varney was shot dead, or

 in one case, drowned. He had no trouble with running water, crosses, or

 garlic, not that anyone thought of using the latter two against him.

 Eventually all the Bannerworths disappeared, to be replaced with a

 steady parade of beautiful young girls that he kept trying to marry,

 either in the hope their love would end his curse or because he was

 thirsty. Sometimes, the reason was a bit vague. He was usually kept from

 the nuptial feasts by an interfering old enemy, the man the bride truly

 loved, or the bride's suicide. He soon ran out of nubile prospects as

 well as European countries to ravage.

 Tough, he was able to recover from mortal wounds with some lunar help,

 but he certainly lacked a talent for hypnotism. His victims always ended

 up screaming for help and interrupting his dinner. The one point I did

 find very interesting was that each time he was resurrected, he had to

 soon feed or die.

 I shut the book with a slight headache and a sigh of relief just as

 Braxton was coming back.

 "I was closing up for the day Surely you haven't finished it?" -

 "Not exactly." I explained my skimming method to him.

 "Are you sure you got sufficient detail for your research? I thought

 you'd be here for several days, taking notes."

 "I can hold it in my head long enough to jot the high points down

 later."

 He registered mock disappointment. "And I'd been looking forward to some

 company. It is so rare for me to meet someone with a similar interest in

 the unusual."

 "I couldn't help noticing your collection"

 He was proud of it and this time able to talk. "Fortunately my business

 gives me an advantage over others. I often get advance notice of private

 collections going up for sale and can get first pick." He pulled out a

 volume, but didn't open it. "That's how I found this one. A friend of

 mine who arranges estate sales told me about it, and I made an early

 purchase ahead of the auction."

 With a slight shock I deciphered the title; the script lettering was

 hard to read. "But I thought this was a fake, it has to be."

 "As did I when I saw it, but here it is. It came from the library of a

 university professor. His relatives sealed up his house when he suddenly

 disappeared. The police thought he'd been kidnapped and perhaps

 murdered, but never found the body--the case is still open. His family

 waited seven years, had him declared dead, and settled his estate."

 The story stunk like a barrel of very old fish. Braxton's friend must

 have taken him for plenty over that book. He had believed it, though,

 and expected me to as well. "What was his name?"

 "I don't remember, this was years ago."

 "Maybe he wrote it on the inside of the book."

 "No, not this book."

 "Mind if I flipped through it?"

 He was uneasy. "I'd rather you didn't. The Necronomicon isn't just any

 book, you know. That does sound ridiculous in the broad light of day, I

 realize I must appear to be superstitious."

 "Why did you buy it if it makes you uncomfortable?"

 "I don't really know, perhaps it's the collector in me. I suppose I also

 wanted it kept somewhere safe, where it would not be used." He sucked in

 his lips and looked embarrassed.

 He wanted to impress someone, anyone, and I was his latest effort.

 Projecting an air of mystery and implied danger concerning his

 possessions was his method, and it put my hackles up. I'd met people

 like him before; he was more subtle than most and probably had a small,

 handpicked circle of acolytes. I wondered where they held their weekly

 seance.

 "Yes, I guess it could be misused," I commented neutrally.

 He was relieved that I hadn't laughed, and re-placed the book. "Some of

 these others might help you in your research. I wouldn't mind you

 looking them over."

 "Thank you very much, but I'm afraid most of them are outside my

 immediate study range."

 "Are you researching vampires exclusively?"

 "For this book, yes. They're popular now."

 "They always have been. Hardly a week goes by that I don't have a

 customer asking for a copy of Dracula. Business was especially good last

 month, when the movie began showing. It would seem to be the last word

 on the subject."

 I knew better but said nothing. "Yes, I'm trying to locate Stoker's

 sources. I don't have the British Museum available so I've been hitting

 every bookstore and library in the city."

 "Why are you interested in his sources?"

 "To see if there were any true accounts of vampirism in them."

 "Do you believe in vampires?"

 I didn't like the way he focused on me. "In a way I've read about

 people like Elizabeth Bathory and others. There's always going to be a

 few oddballs running loose, but as for the Dracula kind of vampire, no,

 I don't believe in them." And I said it with perfect sincerity, but his

 intense, inquiring look made me uncomfortable.

 "You don't believe in supernatural vampires?" he pursued.

 "No."

 "But what if they exist despite your disbelief?"

 "They don't."

 He smiled tightly.

 "You believe in them?" I asked.

 "I'm not sure." He gestured at all the books. "I've read them, all of

 them, and there is a lot of evidence. Most of it is quite absurd, of

 course, but once sifted through, some of it refuses to be dismissed. I

 like to keep an open mind."

 "To each his own," I said meaninglessly, trying to think of a polite way

 to end the conversation. Someday I might want to come back, though that

 possibility was not looking very attractive at the moment.

 His expression was still disturbing. "But tell me, Mr. Fleming, and with

 all truth, what would it mean if there are such things? What would it

 mean to you?"

 "I'd have to think that one over."

 "I already have. I've thought a lot about it. We have this bright world

 of daylight, predictable and comfortable to us. Normal. But what do we

 do when something happens that simply does not fit into that world and

 makes us conscious of another world altogether, existing and blending

 closely with our own? A world we can but glimpse and then dismiss as a

 fantasy, a world we cannot sanely accept, for that would doom our

 complacent security. Its citizens are beautiful monsters, to be feared

 or laughed at as at a dream. But if their reality were to be proved to

 you, how would you react? You can deny it or accept the truth. One keeps

 your illusion of your world safe and the other well, your hand might

 hesitate tonight before it turns out the light. How can you slumber in

 peace when you cannot see what the darkness conceals? Our eyes blink

 against it, our ears hear things that might be moving, our skin shivers

 and anticipates crawling things beneath the covers. Within that dark,

 which is as sunlight to them, they watch and bide their time until sleep

 takes you; they sense it as we sense the heat and cold. They approach,

 marking you, stealing your heart's essence to strengthen their own

 Undead bodies, and when the dawn comes they're gone and one more part

 of your soul is gone with them."

 It was past time to leave. The man knew too much and yet too little. He

 was perceptive enough to know there were other reasons besides a bogus

 book to inspire my research. Maybe he hoped I would confide in him, show

 him the marks on my throat and ask for help. That was out. I was not

 under any restraining hypnotic suggestion from Maureen, but I did have a

 share of common sense. Even if I told him the truth about vampires, it

 would do no good. He was the wrong sort to unlearn all the nonsense he

 had sitting on his shelves, such truth would endanger his illusions just

 as he said.

 He read my face correctly and knew he'd gone too far too soon.

 Cultivating acolytes takes time. "I'm sorry, I do ramble on a bit."

 "That's all right. It was very interesting, but I have to be going.

 Thank you very much for letting me read the book. I really appreciate

 it."

 "Not at all," he replied, shaking hands. "I hope you'll come again?"

 "Sure," I lied.

 Social conventions sometimes come in handy. We smiled, said the usual

 things, performed the expected rituals, and pretended all was right in

 the world. It was for me as soon as I stepped out into the brisk March

 dusk to walk home. Braxton's outlook on reality was enough to throw

 anyone off center. If nothing else, he personified my own fears of

 vampirism and made me realize how groundless they were. Compared to

 Maureen, Braxton was far more frightening.

 The relationship Maureen and I shared was hardly consistent with the

 popular image of vampire and victim. Our love-making was astonishingly

 joyous and normal, and if at its climax she drew a little blood from me

 what did it matter as long as we both enjoyed it? Maybe she wasn't a

 typical vampire, maybe there were others just as dangerous as Stoker's

 creation. I did not know.

 I never mentioned Braxton to Maureen; I didn't want her to know about my

 fears, especially now that they'd been dispelled. She needed my love and

 support, not my insecurities. After a very short time, the incident

 faded from my memory.

 Chapter 5

 =========

 AGAIN TAKING REFUGE in a large, anonymous hotel under a different name,

 I stopped for the day in Indianapolis. My car was left several blocks

 away in another hotel's garage. Not the best kind of subterfuge, but I

 was hoping Braxton was not that good a detective. My hopes panned out or

 I was lucky again; the next night I was back in the familiar and

 relative sanity of Chicago. My first stop was Bobbi's place.

 I waved at the night clerk as usual, he nodded back, turned to a pillar

 near his desk, and resumed talking to it. This sort of behavior makes me

 curious, so I walked over to see what made the pillar such a fascinating

 conversationalist. Leaning against it, just out of my line of sight, was

 the house dick, Phil. He was a medium-sized, slightly tubby man in an

 old derby and a loose collar. He didn't look like much, but Bobbi said

 he could take care of himself and knew where to go for help if he needed

 it.

 He saw me and nodded. "Morning, Fleming. You up early or out late?"

 I shook his calluses. "I'm always out late. How's business?"

 "Slow, but there's the weekend coming up."

 That was when he made most of his tips. As long as the trysting couples

 were quiet about it, he was conveniently blind and deaf; disturb the

 other guests and the offenders were out on their ears.

 "Good luck, then. Listen, could you do me a favor?"

 "Depends." His face was as carefully blank as the lobby's marble floor.

 "There's been a couple of guys following me"I gave him an accurate

 description of Braxton and Webber and an inaccurate account of their

 activities. "They've already pestered my folks and I figure they might

 try bothering Miss Smythe next."

 "They can try." The only thing Phil liked better than bribes was kicking

 pests around.

 "I'd appreciate it if you kept your eyes open." I stuck my hand out in

 farewell and we shook again briefly. He pocketed the sawbuck I slipped

 him with the discreet manner that made him so popular with the other

 hotel patrons.

 "I will do that," he promised. The only thing Phil liked better than

 bribes and kicking pests around was to be bribed to kick pests around.

 "Please tender my regards to Miss Smythe."

 Phil and the clerk resumed their discussion, which had to do with the

 merits of various betting parlors in the city, and I completed my

 journey to the elevator. The operator put up a good imitation of being

 awake and he took me up to Bobbi's floor.

 "She's got guests tonight," he told me.

 "Anyone I know?"

 He shrugged and opened the doors. "They look the fancy type to me."

 That could mean anything. I stepped out and immediately picked up the

 loud thrum of conversation down the hall. Bobbi had mentioned her plans

 for a little party a few days ago. Her idea of a little party meant

 inviting only half the city, not all of h.

 The door swung open at my knock and a dangerous-looking female barred

 the way in. She sucked in a lungful of smoke from a skinny black cigar

 and let it blow out her nostrils to corrode the air. "Well, speak of the

 devil."

 Not knowing how to respond to that one, I waited for her to stand aside,

 only she didn't, and hung on to the doorknob to look me over.

 She had well-powdered white skin stretched over her bones, and dark

 eyes, which were made larger and darker by a liberal use of makeup. Her

 hair was jet black, shaped like a helmet with thick, severely cut bangs

 that just covered the eyebrows. The rest was leveled hard against her

 jawline. If any single hair dared to rebel, it had been rigorously dealt

 with by a dose of lacquer.

 She wore something box shaped and bright purple, with green sequins

 edging a deep neckline that didn't suit her long face. The talons she

 affected were another bad choice, as they accentuated the developing

 witchiness of her fingers. They were painted the same color as her wide

 mouth: a deep maroon. I put her down as a case that was determined to

 look a young and sophisticated twenty no matter what her actual age. As

 far as I could tell under the war paint, she'd just edged her way over

 forty.

 She'd finished assessing me as well, took a step backward, and swept her

 hand in a gesture to indicate I could pass. We locked eyes for a second

 and she smiled. It was no more than a thinning of the lips, but it

 expressed her contempt as plainly as if she'd spit in my face.

 Then Bobbi said my name, threw her body against mine, and we forgot

 about everything else for a few moments.

 "You should have called." Her mouth was very close to my ear and I

 enjoyed the tickling of her breath. "I didn't know when you'd be back."

 "I like surprising you."

 "It is easier to catch them out that way," the woman said agreeably.

 Bobbi pulled back a little, but kept her arms around me. "Jack, this is

 Marza Chevreaux. She's my accompanist."

 I had wondered what she was. "How do you do?"

 "Not as well as you, dear boy," she drawled sweetly, and held out her

 hand, forcing me to relinquish my hold on Bobbi in order to take it. It

 wasn't a fair exchange; her fingers lay briefly and limply in my palm

 and then recoiled to be better occupied at playing with the chain of her

 long necklace. She smiled again, took a step backward, pivoted on the

 same movement, and left us.

 I hoped she was out of earshot and opened my mouth, but Bobbi beat me to

 it.

 "You don't have to say it, I already know."

 "I never saw her at the club."

 "Slick didn't like her."

 "Fancy that."

 "She really is a good accompanist, once you get past all her dramatics.

 We're a good team and I got the station to agree to have her play when I

 sing."

 "She said 'speak of the devil'; should my ears be burning?"

 "A couple of the girls were wondering who I was dating, and I can't help

 but talk about you. Because of Slick, Marza doesn't think much of the

 men in my life, but she'll come around once she gets to know you."

 "Do you have some less discriminating guests in the meantime?"

 "Sure, come in and meet them."

 "What's this about again?"

 "Just a little pre-broadcast party, then afterward we'll have a

 post-broadcast party."

 "I didn't know you were so social."

 "Neither did I, but getting away from the club was like getting out of

 jail. I just want to celebrate." Then she kissed me again, linked an aim

 in mine, and pulled me into the living room with all the noise.

 It wasn't as large a group as I thought, but they made up for it in

 volume. A half dozen were in the immediate vicinity, with several brands

 of cigarettes and perfumes, none of it too breathable, so I only

 indulged when it was necessary to talk.

 Marza Chevreaux had taken up a station at the piano, but was clearly not

 about to play it. Her purpose must have been to prevent others from

 doing so. She clutched a drink and stared with glassy eyes at an

 intense-looking man crouched on the floor next to her. He wore thick

 glasses and had short skin-colored hair on the sides and long dark hair

 on top. It looked too much like a toupee to be one, so it had to be his

 own. He was making short, waving movements with his hands as he tried to

 prove a point of some kind to Marza.

 "That's Madison Pruitt," Bobbi whispered. "Marza brought him along

 because he irritates everyone."

 "He looks more than capable of it. Why is he so irritating?"

 "Because if you give him half a chance he'll try to get you to join the

 Communist party. He's as bad as the Jehovah's Witnesses."

 "You're kidding me, nobody could--" I hauled up short, staring at the

 mountainous back of a man on the sofa. "What's he doing here?"

 "Are you angry?"

 I thought it over. "Actually, no, just curious."

 She was relieved. "He's my friend. Jack. I wanted him here. You don't

 have to talk to him, he'll understand."

 "That wouldn't be polite. Besides, this place isn't that big and he's a

 hard man to duck."

 "You going to be nice?" She was half-joking, half-serious. I felt like

 kissing her and saw no reason not to and followed through.

 "I'll be nice," I promised, and walked over to the sofa.

 He was taking up most of it, a big man with hard muscle under the

 tailored lines of his evening clothes. With short-cropped blond hair and

 a grim set to his lips, he wasn't the sort you invite to liven up a

 social occasion. His eyes were slightly sleepy from the drink in his

 hand until he looked up at me. They visibly sharpened, went on guard,

 then relaxed into a pseudo-dullness. I knew that to be one of his

 defenses, that dull look. People expected a big man like him to be

 stupid. He let them think what they liked and consequently learned more

 about them than they cared.

 I put my hand out. "Hello, Gordy."

 He registered a flicker of surprise, slowly stood, and shook hands. He

 was beyond trying to prove himself with a crushing grasp and gave me a

 firm, careful grip.

 "Fleming," he returned. "Bobbi said you might turn up."

 "Yeah."

 "She says you're taking good care of her."

 I wasn't sure how he meant that. Bobbi wasn't dependent on me

 financially, so he must have been referring to our emotional

 relationship. He was too polite where Bobbi was concerned to make cheap

 remarks on our sex life.

 "She's a wonderful girl."

 "Glad you know that."

 "And if I didn't?"

 "I'd sic Marza on you."

 It was my turn for surprise. I hadn't expected him to make a joke. I

 glanced over to the piano and saw he was serious after all. Marza was

 glaring at us, and from her expression, all she needed were some snakes

 for hair to turn us to stone.

 "No, thanks." I hooked a chair so we could sit and be eye to eye.

 Standing with him was uncomfortable. I wasn't used to looking up at

 people, and Gordy was tall enough to give Paul Bunyan a stiff neck. "How

 are things at the club?"

 He shrugged and settled into the sofa. "Had to put up with a raid last

 week."

 "The casino?"

 "It looks good for City Hall in the papers, but they should hold off

 until just before election, like they usually do. They grabbed all my

 slot machines and chopped up the tables. Take a few weeks to get new

 ones, but by that time the heat will be off. The club's still open, lot

 of the regulars still ask after Bobbi."

 "You think she'll go back?"

 "Not after all that mess with Slick. Can't blame her."

 "Nope."

 "You working?"

 "Son of."

 "Need a job?"

 "What kind?"

 "What kind you need?"

 I shook my head and smiled. "Thanks."

 "About that mess with Slick--"

 "No hard feelings, Gordy."

 "Yeah?"

 "Yeah."

 "I mean, sorry if I hurt you. I was just doing a job."

 "You didn't hurt me."

 "I didn't? How come?"

 "You already know that."

 He took a long pull on his drink, studying me. " 'Sfunny, you don't look

 any different from a hundred other guys off the street."

 "If I did, I wouldn't survive long. People notice when you're

 different."

 "Hell, you don't have to tell me that."

 "You always been big?"

 "Ma said I weighed thirteen pounds when I was born. Damn near killed

 her. You wanna drink?"

 "No, thanks."

 Again the long study. "You eat anything?"

 "Not eat."

 "So that stuff's true, that you only drink--"

 "Yeah, that part's true."

 "What about Bobbi? Doesn't that hurt her?"

 "If it did, I'd stop seeing her. Why not ask her yourself?"

 "Nan, I couldn't do that."

 "If you're worried, just look at her, she's healthy."

 He looked. She was in a corner talking and laughing with a white-haired

 man with a beard. "She's not under some kind of spell or something?"

 I made an effort to match his serious face. "None."

 He digested this. "Okay. I just wanted to make sure about a few things."

 "On the other hand, I could be lying."

 His head went back and forth in a slight wobble, his version of

 laughter. "Hell, kid, you ain't no liar."

 Bobbi introduced me to some names and faces, and a couple of the voices

 that went with them were familiar because I'd heard them on the radio.

 We made the rounds, and then it was my turn to do some steering.

 "What gives?" she asked when I took a determined grip on her arm.

 "You'll find out."

 The only unoccupied place was the bathroom, not the most romantic

 setting, but it was private.

 "Alone at last," I sighed.

 "At least until the next customer comes--there's a lot of booze flowing

 out there."

 "Too bad. I wanted to see you for a minute without an audience."

 "Oh, so what do you think?" Hands on hips, she did a slow turn. She was

 in her best color, which was no color; something white and clinging,

 probably silk.

 I shrugged. "It's all right, but the hem's too long."

 She made a playful swat at my stomach. "Stinker, it's perfect and you

 know it."

 "Only because you're in it." Then we took up where we left off when I

 first came in.

 After a few minutes she came up for air. "Say, you did miss me."

 "Very much," I muttered, nosing around in her hair. Her head tilted back

 and my lips brushed against the large vein of her throat. I ran my

 tongue over the two small wounds there, taking in the slight salt taste

 of her skin and feeling the strong pulse beneath.

 Then the damn phone rang and made us both jump because it was so close.

 "Hell, what's that doing in here?" I complained.

 "Better in here than the bedroom. Hello?"

 It was someone from the radio station working late. They hashed out a

 minor scheduling problem and hung up.

 "Why the long face?" she asked.

 I curled my upper lip back and made a mock growling sound.

 "Oh," she said with vast understanding, and cuddled back into my arms.

 "When can you get rid of your friends?" I lisped.

 "As soon as the booze runs out, which shouldn't be too long with that

 crowd. Why wait? You can nibble on me in here."

 "That's like going straight to the dessert and skipping the rest of the

 banquet. I want us to take some time and enjoy everything."

 This disconcerted her a bit, and a blush fanned over her cheeks.

 "Dammit, sometimes I feel like a schoolgirl with you."

 "Isn't it great?"

 On this occasion, Bobbi proved to be a terrible hostess and ran out of

 drinkable alcohol before the guests had run out of party enthusiasm. But

 her guests were resourceful: one of the girls suggested removing to a

 nearby bar that she thought was still open and led an exodus for it.

 Bobbi and I promised to be along and somehow forgot about it the moment

 the last person was gone.

 Her white dress was certainly beautiful, but since I'd arrived, the

 major thought on my mind had been how to get it of)' her. The fastenings

 were located on the left side instead of in the back, but she slipped

 away before my inquisitive fingers could accomplish anything.

 "Help me search the place," she said from the kitchen.

 "For what?"

 "In case someone got left behind. That happened to me once, and it's

 damned embarrassing."

 We searched the place and then later, much later, in a sleepy voice she

 said, "Welcome home."

 "Thanks."

 "I mean it. Move in with me."

 "Move in?"

 "I want you around all the time."

 "What would the neighbors think?"

 "Whatever they like, I don't care."

 "Bobbi, I don't want to say no--"

 "But that's your answer."

 "It has to be."

 "Why?"

 "Because of what I am."

 "Because you have to be up to your eyeballs in some cemetery by dawn,

 right?"

 "Something like that. I'd be very dull company during the day. I just

 don't want you to see me like that. You don't let me see you in

 curlers."

 "Listen, if I can get used to your not breathing--

 "This is different, it's different for me. What I've been through, what

 I've become--I'm still trying to get used to it. I don't know how else

 to explain why. This is nothing against you."

 "I know. You've had a lot of things happen to you all at once."

 "I need some time."

 She signed. "Then don't worry about it. If it's no, it's no."

 "You can be pretty damn terrific."

 "Yeah, and I just realized what sort of commotion would happen if

 someone like the maid happened to find you while she was dusting. Having

 a coffin lying around with a body in it might upset the hotel staff."

 I laughed. "Good grief, I don't use a coffin.'"

 "I thought all vampires did."

 "Maybe they do, but not me--I have a more modern steamer trunk. It's

 smaller, just as light proof, and a lot less conspicuous."

 "Very clever."

 "I have to lay low for a while, anyway."

 "What's wrong? Is it Gordy?"

 "No, nothing like that."

 We lay comfortably tangled together in the dark, and I told her about my

 trip and in particular about Braxton and Webber. "They can travel during

 the day, so they're probably in Chicago by now and looking around. I

 just want you to watch out for them, or for anyone asking after me."

 "You're the one who needs to watch out if they're trying to kill you."

 "They won't. I can lose myself in a city this big."

 "Forever?"

 "Until I can figure out what to do about them or until they run out of

 money."

 "Look, I can call up Gordy. He and some of the boys can throw a scare

 into them--

 Bobbi, my sweet, they are determined to track down a hideous,

 bloodthirsty vampire; a demonic creature of the night. Do you think

 they'll be intimidated by a couple of gangsters with guns and brass

 knuckles?"

 "Who said anything about intimidation? Gordy can just have their legs

 broken."

 "I can do that myself," I said dryly. "Just promise me you'll be

 careful. They may try to save you from my evil clutches."

 "But I like being clutched by you."

 "I doubt if they could understand that."

 "Got any idea what to do about them?"

 "I don't know, I'd like to talk it over with Charles first and see what

 he thinks."

 "I'm glad you mentioned him. He called today, but I'd forgotten all

 about it because of the party. He wanted you to drop by when you got

 back, no matter how late."

 "Even this late?"

 "He said if the lights were on to come in."

 "I hate to leave you"

 "Oh, pooh, you'll have to go sooner or later, so come on.

 I'm hungry now, anyway." She rustled her way out from the sheets, and I

 obediently followed her to the kitchen.

 What with our reluctant good-byes and some unexpected early traffic, it

 was close to six before I got to Escort's. My rear-view mirror was clear

 all the way over, which was encouraging, and when I arrived, there were

 welcoming lights in the windows. He must have heard me pull up, for the

 door opened before I knocked and a cloud of stale pipe smoke and white

 dust billowed out along with his greeting.

 "I finally got your message. Sorry I'm so late."

 "Not at all. Do come in." He was dressed uncharacteristically in some

 ancient paint-spattered overalls and his hair was full of plaster dust.

 "Please excuse my appearance, I started the job today and it turned out

 to be more involved than I thought." He ushered me into the parlor.

 "What are you doing?"

 "At the moment, taking a well-deserved break. It seems the previous

 owners subdivided all the bedrooms so they could accommodate more

 customers at one time. I've been upstairs knocking down a wall."

 "You've been at it all night?"

 "It's a very stubborn wall, if I may anthropomorphize it."

 "When do you sleep?"

 "Hardly ever," he said in an indifferent tone.

 "What'd you want to see me for?"

 "This. I'm not in a position to judge. It will be for you to decide what

 to do." Before I could ask what he was talking about, he reached for a

 folded newspaper and pointed to a circled item in the public notices. My

 fingers grew cold as I read it.

 Jack, will you please call me. I want to talk to you about Maureen.

 There was no name, only a phone and room number. I stared at the symbols

 on the page as though they could tell me more.

 "Sorry about the shock, old man," he was saying. "I knew you would want

 to know about this as soon as possible, but I couldn't really give any

 details to Miss Smythe."

 I read the ad again, not believing it, but none of the wording had

 changed. "How long has it been running?"

 "It started the day after you left."

 Then I stopped being stunned and things cleared up for me. "That old

 bastard"

 "I beg your pardon?"

 "Braxton must have planted it to try and trap me."

 "Who is Braxton?"

 "Someone else you can check up on when you go to New York. He knew

 Maureen, or at least I think he did." I settled back and told him the

 story of the last three nights of my life. "The kid said they began

 looking for me when they noticed my ad was gone. This is probably just

 bait to flush me out."

 "I think not. I took the liberty of tracking down the number. It belongs

 to a small but respectable hotel near the Loop. When I made inquiries, I

 was told to go to room twenty-three, occupied by a Miss Gaylen Dumont.

 She arrived two days ago from New York; a semi-invalid, she takes her

 meals in her room and is regarded as a very quiet, trouble-free guest.

 The name suggests that she is a relative of Maureen Dumont."

 "Gaylen?" I repeated blankly. "I wouldn't know, Maureen never talked

 about her family."

 "People who don't generally have a good reason. In the simple cause of

 common sense, I counsel you to be cautious about this."

 "Hell, yes, I'll be cautious. Did you learn anything else?"

 "She is in her seventies, listens to dance music on the radio, and

 doesn't like fried foods."

 "How did you--"

 "It is amazing how much one can learn from a hotel's staff when the

 right questions are applied in the right manner. Have you any reason to

 think that Braxton might be connected with this woman?"

 "If he knew Maureen, he might know this Gaylen. I just don't know."

 "This could be bad timing or coincidence, but it will be safer if you

 assume it is not. You removed your ad and some people noticed."

 "Yeah, but not the one that mattered." The paper twitched in my hands.

 "I'm checking on this first thing tomorrow night. Want to come along?"

 "I was leaving for New York tomorrow, or rather today, but I can

 postpone the trip if you wish."

 "No, I couldn't ask you to do that. I guess I can handle one old lady."

 Escott looked out the front window. "Jack, it's getting lighter. If

 you've no other place to stay, perhaps we should move you in now."

 "Jeez, I forgot."

 My second trunk went into the basement next to the first, and between us

 we emptied the car of thirty-six bags of earth, piling them neatly in a

 corner. The faint gray of dawn was just beginning to hurt my eyes when

 we finished. Escott dusted his hands off.

 "I'll bid you good morning now, I still have some cleaning up to do."

 "It won't disturb me," I assured him.

 "No, I daresay it would not. Pleasant dreams." He climbed the basement

 steps and shut the door.

 As long as I had my soil around me I was past the point of being able to

 dream. All the speculations tumbling through my brain would have only

 given me nightmares, anyway. There were some compensations to my

 condition, I thought as I wearily lowered the lid of my trunk to hide

 for another day.

 Chapter 6

 =========

 ABOUT THIRTEEN HOURS later I emerged from the basement, drawn by the

 swish-and-crinkle sound of pages being turned. Escott was in the parlor,

 half-buried in a drift of newsprint.

 "I thought you'd be on a train by now," I said, dropping into a leather

 chair next to his radio.

 He gave out with a slight shrug. "I seem to be acquiring your habits. I

 was up late and overslept."

 "The whole day?"

 "Most of it. Knocking down walls is a very exhausting exercise. This

 afternoon was too late to make a good start, and by then my curiosity

 about Gaylen Dumont had grown considerably. If she has any useful

 information it could save me much trouble. I'd like to meet her, but if

 you would rather go alone, please don't hesitate to say so. I shall be

 more than happy to wait here for your return."

 "Nothing doing, I could use the moral support."

 He looked relieved, but covered it by picking up his cold pipe and

 fiddling with it. "I'll do my best."

 The papers weren't thrown about haphazardly, but shuffled into stacks on

 the sofa and floor. A neat pile was on one end of the table, each

 refolded so that it was open to the personal column. I flipped through

 them, and each had the same ad he'd shown me the night before.

 "They are all the papers that you had used," he pointed out. "Either she

 knew which ones or she is remarkably thorough."

 "I'll find out."

 His phone was clinging to a dingy wall in the kitchen, which he hadn't

 gotten around to repainting yet. With one of the papers in hand, I

 carefully dialed the number. A professional voice answered, identifying

 the West Star Hotel and asked if it could help me. I asked for room

 twenty-three and heard clicking sounds.

 After five rings a woman said hello. Her voice jarred me to the core

 because it was Maureen's voice. I bit my tongue and counted to five

 until I could respond normally.

 "I'm calling about the ad. I think I'm the Jack you want to talk to."

 There was a pause at the other end and I heard a long, soft sigh being

 released. "Jack," she finally said. "Could you prove that somehow? I've

 had two crank calls already."

 It wasn't Maureen. The voice and inflection were very similar, but this

 one had the reedy quality of age in it. "How can I do that?"

 "If you could just tell me the color of Maureen's eyes--

 "Blue, sky blue, with dark hair."

 This time there was an intake of breath. "I am so glad to hear from you

 at last, Jack. My name is Gaylen Dumont and I would like very much to

 meet you."

 "Where is Maureen? Do you know?"

 It was as though she hadn't heard me. "I am so very glad you called, but

 it's difficult for me to talk over the phone. Could you come over?"

 There was no other answer but yes. I got her address and promised to be

 there within half an hour. She thanked me and hung up. I stared at the

 earpiece and wondered suspiciously what her game was.

 "She wasn't too talkative," I told Escott.

 "Some people don't like to use the phone."

 I was more inclined to think some people don't like to deliver bad news

 on the phone. Maybe I could have stayed on longer and tried to get more

 information. I was vulnerable to making mistakes because of my emotional

 involvement and was very glad Escott was coming. He might help me to

 think straight. As we drove over, half-formed thoughts and questions and

 alternatives to what I should have said were running through my mind

 like insane mice.

 The West Star Hotel was nothing to write home about; neither old or new,

 flashy or drab, there were hundreds like it all over. We parked, went in

 past the front desk and elevator, and walked straight up the stairs to

 the right room. I hesitated before knocking.

 Escott noticed my nerves. "Steady on," he said under his breath.

 I nodded once, shook my shoulders up, and tapped on the door. No

 immediate answer came from within. I knocked again and heard faint

 movements now: a shuffling, a muted thump, the knob turned, and the wood

 panel squeaked open.

 The voice was softer and less reedy than it was on the phone. "Jack?"

 I swallowed. "Yes, I'm Jack Fleming."

 The small shadowy figure in the dark dress stepped away, turned slowly,

 and retreated into the room. Her heart and lungs were laboring. She was

 either very excited, very ill, or both. I stepped forward and Escott

 followed quietly, taking his hat off with a smooth and automatic

 movement and nudging me to do the same.

 We took in her plain impersonal room with a quick glance. The window was

 open only a crack, and the air well tainted with the smell of soap and

 strong liniment. A radio on a table crackled out the news of the day.

 She hobbled to it, using a cane for balance, and turned it off, then sat

 down with obvious relief.

 "I'm so glad you could come over to talk," she said. "I did so want to

 meet you, and it is difficult for me to get around."

 A suitcase stood at the foot of the bed and beyond that a stiff and

 ugly-looking wheelchair. She noted where my eyes went.

 "That's for my bad days. They come more and more often, especially when

 it's damp. I have arthritis in my legs and it gives me a lot of

 trouble."

 "Miss Dumont, this is my friend, Charles Escott."

 She extended a frail, yellow hand. "How do you do?"

 Escott took it and said something polite, making a little bow that only

 the English can do without looking self-conscious.

 She smiled, pleased at the gesture. "I'm glad to meet you, both of you,

 but you must call me Gaylen, everybody does. Pull those chairs a little

 closer to the light so we may have a good look at each other."

 We did as she said and sat down. Maureen's eyes looked back at me, but

 the dark hair and brows had faded and gone white. The angle of her jaw

 was the same, and there were a hundred other similarities too subtle for

 immediate definition. Her face was scored with wrinkles, the skin puffy

 and gone shapeless with age--a face like and unlike Maureen's. It was an

 agony to look at it.

 She was smiling. "I can hardly believe you're here. I hardly dared hope

 you would see my notice, especially after yours stopped. I was afraid

 you'd moved again."

 I explained how Escott had pointed it out to me.

 "How very fortunate. You see, it was only a few days ago that I saw it.

 I live in upstate New York, pretty much by myself, and don't read the

 papers often. My housekeeper had a stack of them for her chores, though,

 and I saw one opened to the right page, and Maureen's name caught my

 eye. I remembered she once knew someone named Jack years ago, and I had

 to find out. I called the paper and they said you'd moved to Chicago. By

 then I'd found some of her letters to me and I knew you were the right

 person, so I came out."

 "Gaylen, do you know where she is?"

 She bowed her head. "I'm sorry, I am so dreadfully sorry to disappoint

 you."

 Everything inside me twisted sharply. "Is she dead?"

 "I don't know," she whispered. "I haven't heard from her for nearly five

 years."

 The twisting got tighter. "When did you last see her? What did she say?"

 "I didn't see her, she called me. I don't know from where. She said she

 was going to be gone on a long trip and not to worry if she didn't write

 for a while."

 I shut my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, I was able to speak

 quietly, lucidly. "Gaylen, tell me the whole story, tell me everything

 you know."

 "I'm not sure that I know very much. I only wanted to see someone else

 who knew her, who could remember her with me. I'd hoped you may have

 seen her in the last five years."

 I felt sorry for both of us. "You have the same name. How are you

 related to her?"

 She seemed surprised. "I thought you knew. Surely she mentioned me?"

 "She never talked about her past."

 "How very unlike her Are you certain? Well, I am her sister--her

 younger sister, Jack."

 "Younger," I echoed back softly.

 "I'm seventy-two, Maureen seventy-six--did she tell you nothing?"

 Her look made me acutely uncomfortable. "No, I'm afraid not."

 She shook her head. "You poor young man, you must be starved for

 information. I'll try my best, but I hope you'll be as frank with me."

 "How so?"

 "When I told you her age, you were startled, but not incredulous. You

 are aware of her--her unusual state?" Her eyes went from me to Escott

 inquiringly.

 Escott cleared his throat. "Please feel free to speak openly about your

 sister. Jack has made me acquainted with the facts. All the facts."

 She regarded him soberly, pursing her lips. "Your accent, you're from

 England?"

 He nodded once.

 Gaylen's eyes were lighter in color than Maureen's. Now they faded to

 pale gray as she thought things over and made up her mind. "If it's all

 right with Jack but some of my questions might be too personal."

 "Questions?" I said. "No, Charles, stay, it's all right. What

 questions?"

 She hesitated, struggling with something difficult within. She finally

 took a deep breath and said: "How close were you to Maureen?"

 "We were in love."

 "Then why did you separate?"

 "It wasn't my choice, believe me. She left me a note she said she had

 to leave because some people were after her. She would be back when it

 was safe."

 "What people?"

 "I don't know."

 "And that was five years ago. Were you in school?"

 "No, I was working for the--" I stopped and we looked at each other. Her

 expression was kindly and concerned, but I was in sudden doubt about how

 much I should confide in her.

 She saw it and leaned forward. One of her small bony hands closed over

 mine, light and cool. "Jack, I'm old enough now to understand these

 things, and I hope wise enough to accept them. You can tell me, you

 loved each other Were you lovers?"

 The words got stuck in my throat so I nodded.

 She smiled. "Then I'm glad that she found some happiness. Could you tell

 me why you stopped the ad? Had you given up or was there another

 reason?"

 "It's been so long. If there had been word, a single word from her, I'd

 have waited forever, but there was nothing. I had to get out of New York

 to try and start over, so I came here." I stopped, wanting to get up and

 pace. She patiently waited me out. "Well, I met new people and have new

 friends. I thought it was time to let the past go. If Maureen's alive,

 if she wants to find me, I left word at my old paper; they'd send her

 here."

 "You don't think she's alive?"

 "I don't know."

 "Jack, I must ask you just one more question: you were lovers did she

 change you?"

 That was one I didn't want to answer, but my long silence was an answer

 regardless.

 "If she did well it's all right. She was my sister. When it

 happened to her I still loved her; she was different, but not in any way

 that really mattered."

 "Your older sister," I prompted, wanting to shift the subject around.

 "Yes, it's hardly fair for me to ask all the questions. I should tell

 you some things as well. Go over to that table, bring me the picture on

 it."

 I picked up an old-fashioned hinged frame for photos. It was ornate

 silver and just a little tarnished. I gave it to her and she opened it

 lovingly.

 "You see?" She smiled and pointed at the soft, distant images on either

 side of the hinges. "I was just seventeen when we sat for these, and

 very nervous. I was afraid of shaking too much and ruining it. but it

 turned out very nice, after all. I'm on the left and this is Maureen on

 the right."

 I knew her instantly. Her hair was different, piled high with a cluster

 of small curls over her forehead. She wore a high collar, and pinned to

 it was a gold-and-ivory cameo that I remembered her wearing. Her pose

 and expression were stiff, but it was Maureen, her face identical to the

 likeness in my memory. Escott leaned over for a look.

 "Maureen was twenty-one. As you can see at the bottom, those were taken

 in the year 1881. Oh, but we were pretty girls back then, all the boys

 were after us."

 "Did she marry?" Escott asked.

 "No. Neither of us. We were destined to be spinsters. Sometimes it works

 out that way. You don't plan on it, it just happens. Our dear parents

 passed on and we were alone; we couldn't bear the idea of becoming

 separated by a marriage. Life just went on and we were busy with charity

 work and the church and the literary club and the sewing circle. There

 seemed so much for us to do back then and the years slipped by so fast,

 but then it all changed.

 "She met him at one of the literary club meetings. They'd got to talking

 about some terribly popular book that had just come out, though I

 couldn't name it now if I tried. His name was Jonathan Barrett, and we

 had all teased him a little because of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you

 know. He was very nice about it and so handsome and all the girls were

 silly about him, but it was Maureen that he talked to at each and every

 meeting. She was in her thirties then and he in his twenties, and I

 tried to tell her he was too young, but she didn't care. He was so

 charming and proper I couldn't dislike him or be jealous of her, and so

 he often stopped by our house in the evenings.

 "You can probably see the rest, but at the time I did not. Our lives

 were changing and I didn't see it at all. Maureen was so happy then and

 I was glad for her and I suppose these days no one would be too terribly

 shocked at what happened.

 "Now back then, ladies were properly courted. They had chaperons and

 other difficulties, it's a wonder anyone ever got married with all the

 manners, requirements, and formalities. Only 'fast' girls would think of

 meeting a man alone, and of course if you went beyond that you were no

 longer considered fit for decent society. But she was in love with him.

 I suppose I was, too, a bit sometimes a look would flash from his

 eyes and that made me quake all over. If it had been me instead of

 Maureen I would have done the same thing as she, and we would have been

 lovers as they were."

 I was not surprised at this news, but it was remarkably painful to hear.

 "They saw each other for several years. He often had to be away on

 business--investments or something, he said-- and in all that time he

 never mentioned marriage. Our friends speculated about it and I did,

 too--at least to Maureen--but she told me not to push her into things

 and forbade me to speak of it to Jonathan. Not to push her--this went on

 for eleven years, if you can believe it. Eleven years of courtship, or

 so I thought at the time.

 "He only came at night. We'd visit, the three of us, then he would bid

 us good night and leave. Maureen and I would lock the doors, turn down

 the gas, and go up to our rooms. I suppose they waited until I was

 asleep, and then somehow he would come to her.

 "I must have been completely blind at the time or it was my sheer

 innocence. Not once did I ever guess what went on, and it did go on for

 many years. It might still be going on."

 "What do you mean?"

 "If she were still alive still breathing, that is. It was 1904--they

 say things were quieter back then, but it wasn't so, things were just as

 noisy in the streets as they are today. Wagons made such a rattle and

 rumble, especially on the paving bricks. People shouted, children

 played, perhaps if there had been a little less noise that day she would

 still be with me, who knows?

 "We were just crossing the street, it was nearly Christmas, there were a

 lot of people around us, other shoppers. I remember a band playing on

 the corner to collect money for the poor. It was cold and we were

 wondering how the players could keep warm if they never marched around.

 We laughed and skipped along in step to the drum. What a sight we must

 have been; two spinsters in their forties acting so silly. We heard only

 the music, nothing else. Then Maureen turned her head to look up the

 street and suddenly pushed me. She pushed very hard, my shoes slipped on

 some dirty ice, and I was almost flying away from her. There was a

 rumble that drowned out the band and a bell was ringing and I was thrown

 up against a mass of people on the sidewalk. I was stunned und couldn't

 move; they said I struck my head when I fell. Some men carried me into a

 store, I fainted, and was then taken to a hospital.

 "She saw it coming, but there wasn't enough time for her to do anything

 but push me out of the way. They said she couldn't have felt much, that

 it was very quick. I like to believe it did not hurt her. It was a

 firewagon and the horses were running at full speed.

 "I woke up in the hospital ward. I thought I'd die when they told me

 she'd been killed. Jonathan came by that night and tried to comfort me,

 but I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn't notice his, or his

 lack of it. The funeral was held the day I left the hospital, but he

 didn't come, and I was very angry with him. He'd known her for eleven

 years and did not come to see her buried. I was alone, utterly shattered

 and alone.

 "He came back again after a few days. It was a very difficult interview

 between us and he asked me some strange questions. He was talking about

 living after death, whether I would consider such a thing as a reality.

 He wanted to know it I wanted to see Maureen again. Then he looked at

 me-- just looked--and it did not seem so absurd or horrible anymore. He

 told me I should be happy because Maureen was really all right. I was

 shaking my head and smiling; it was like dreaming, but he said he could

 prove it. He opened the door and Maureen walked in.

 "She wore a new dress it was blue, just like her eyes, and she was

 young, a girl again, and so pretty" Gaylen's head drooped, she looked

 very tired. She pulled a bit of lace and muslin from her sleeve and

 dabbed her eyes. "I'm sorry to get like this, it just all came back to

 me again."

 "Can I get you anything? Some water?"

 "No, I'm fine, I want to finish. They talked to me most of the night and

 I learned a great deal about things I'd thought impossible. But they

 were right there in front of me--Maureen had been changed by Jonathan

 and had returned from the grave because of it.

 "They were going to go away; she said she could not be with me anymore,

 it was hardly something our friends could understand, and of course she

 didn't want any of them knowing about her. She had wanted to see me

 again, she couldn't bear the thought of me grieving for her. It was so

 hard, almost cruel to have her back and then lose her again. She wrote

 me often, from many places, and she mentioned meeting you and how happy

 she was. I thought perhaps you knew more than I did about where she

 went. I'd hoped so hard"

 "I am sorry." The words were inadequate, but they were all I had to give

 her.

 She took my hand again. "That's all right, there's nothing we can do

 about it. At least for her sake--if you don't mind-perhaps we may be

 friends."

 "Of course."

 "What happened to Barrett?" asked Escott.

 She looked at him, her face blank for a moment. He'd been keeping very

 still throughout the whole story and she must have forgotten his

 presence. "He was with Maureen at first, and then I suppose they drifted

 apart. I asked--but she said she didn't want to talk about it--she acted

 unhappy and I didn't want to pry."

 "So you did see her occasionally?"

 "Yes, but not very often."

 "I see," he said neutrally.

 She turned back to me. "Jack, would you be able to confide in me?"

 I started to act puzzled, but she waved me down with a gentle gesture.

 "It's all right. I think you know I've already guessed. It was from the

 first you have the same look about you as Jonathan; it's some quality

 that I've never been able to define."

 "I do?"

 "Perhaps you are yet unaware of it. How long have you--

 "Just after I moved here," I said quickly. It was damn hard for me to

 acknowledge the truth to myself, much less a near-stranger.

 "You poor man, was it an accident?"

 "No, I was--" But I couldn't tell her. It was an ugly story and I

 couldn't tell her the truth of how I'd died.

 Escott broke in. "Jack doesn't like to speak about it, it was rather

 unpleasant at the time. The doctors diagnosed it as food poisoning. He

 remembers being ill, passing out, and then waking up in the hospital

 morgue. It was quite sudden."

 I gave him a quick, grateful glance. He looked concerned, but with a

 touch of blandness. He was an excellent liar.

 "It must have been horrible for you."

 "Not really, just a surprise." It had indeed been a surprise, so I

 wasn't exactly lying. "Maureen told me pretty much what to expect and

 what to do if it happened."

 "And your family?"

 "They know nothing about this. They think I'm still alive-- in the

 conventional sense."

 "Yes, that's good. At least you're not completely cut off as Maureen

 was; you can still visit them. It may be hard for you in the future when

 they begin to notice you don't age."

 "I'll let the future take care of itself."

 She turned her eye on Escott. "And you, Charles, how did you come to

 know about Jack?"

 "I happened to notice that he did not reflect in polished surfaces and

 became curious to make his acquaintance."

 "But you don't care what he is?"

 "Not really. I find the condition of vampirism to be a fascinating

 study, but not something to fear. Knowledge is an excellent cure for

 fear. On the other hand. Jack is the only vampire I know. If this genus

 of the human race is at all representative of the majority, then there

 might well be a few of whom we should be wary."

 "You sound like a very exceptional individual."

 He made a depreciative little shrug.

 "Gaylen, I asked Charles along to meet you because he wants to help us

 find Maureen."

 "After all this time?" She was very doubtful.

 "I can make no promises, ma'am, but if you could provide me with enough

 solid facts about Maureen and perhaps the loan of this photograph--

 "But I don't understand. How can you?"

 "1 am a private agent, an investigator. I shall be leaving for New York

 tomorrow on business, and as long as I'm there I'm going to look into

 the matter of her disappearance."

 "To New York? Tomorrow? You mean you're all prepared?"

 "Yes, I've planned on this for some lime. In fact, I was to leave today,

 but decided to stay to meet you. Your notice appearing when it did was

 very fortunate. Any information you give me about Maureen could be

 helpful."

 "I don't see how. After all this time do you really think there's any

 hope?"

 "We shan't know until I try."

 "When do you plan to return?"

 "In two or three days, sooner if I should be lucky."

 "That seems a very short time."

 "Not when one is digging through official records and documents."

 "He knows his job," I added.

 She took her eyes from Escott, visibly changing mental gears. "Of course

 I'll help in any way I can."

 "For a start, what do you know about a man named Braxton?" he asked.

 "Who?"

 "James Braxton." he repeated. "He owns a bookstore in Manhattan."

 "I've never heard of him."

 A stray thought occurred to me. "You said you had some crank calls;

 could you tell us about them?"

 "Why do you want to know?"

 "Just tell us."

 My insistence was not what she wanted to hear, and I felt frozen out for

 a moment. There was also a quality about her. a kind of authority that

 made me very much aware of our age difference. She swallowed it and

 decided to answer.

 "The first call was a girl. She said she was Maureen and she didn't like

 people talking about her, then she giggled and hung up. The second was

 from some man who wanted to know more about the notice. He called

 yesterday with a lot of questions that were not his business, and I

 finally told him as much. He never said who he was and I didn't want

 someone like that bothering me."

 "Maybe that was him," I said to Escott.

 "It would seem likely," he agreed.

 "Who? Are you talking about this Braxton?" she asked.

 "Yes."

 "Who is he?"

 "A self-styled vampire hunter."

 Her expression went from curiosity to complete horror and her heart rate

 shot up accordingly. "What?"

 I smiled. "Please don't worry about it, he couldn't find his a--his head

 with both hands."

 "But if he knows about you, if he's after you--"

 I took her hand and made reassuring noises until she was calm enough to

 listen, then told her a little about Braxton and his acolyte, Webber. In

 the end, she was still upset, but mastering it.

 "There's really nothing for you to worry about," I said. "They don't

 know where I'm living now, and in a city this big they never will,

 unless it's by accident."

 "But he read my notice and connected it with you--he knows where I am

 and could be watching this hotel. He could already know you're here and

 be waiting outside."

 "There's an idea," I admitted. "But I've been keeping my eyes open. If I

 spot them, I can lose them."

 "But if they find you during the day"

 "They won't, I promise. I'm in a safe place, really. I am much more

 worried about them bothering you."

 "But what will you do about them?"

 I shrugged and shook my head. Since coming back I hadn't had much time

 to think about it, and there had been no real chance to talk strategy

 out with Escott.

 "Can't you do something to make them go away?" she pleaded.

 Her concern for my safety was touching and embarrassing in its strength.

 She'd just found someone she could link to a pleasant past and was in

 danger, at least in her mind, of losing him. She would worry, no matter

 how much I reassured her. I regretted letting her in on the story, but

 she was better off knowing about Braxton; at least now she would be on

 guard.

 Escott pulled out a small notebook and pencil. "And now.

 Gaylen, if you can put up with a few questions about your sister"

 She blinked at him, distracted out of her worry. "Oh, yes, certainly."

 It didn't take long. He gleaned a phone number and a couple of addresses

 from her memory, none of them familiar to me.

 "I only wish I could be of more help," she said.

 He gave her his best professional smile. "I'm sure this will be of great

 help, though I can make no optimistic promises."

 "I understand."

 "We have imposed upon you long enough, though, and must be going

 ourselves."

 "Will you let me know if you find out anything?"

 "Are you going to be in town when I return?"

 "Yes, I shall be here awhile; it's a change for me. Jack, have you a

 number I can reach you at?"

 "Um, yes, just a second." I scribbled down Bobbi's number. "You can

 leave a message for me at this one."

 "And will you let me know what happens with this Braxton fellow?"

 "As soon as I know myself."

 Her eyes were shining. "Thank you. Both of you."

 Chapter 7

 =========

 WE LEFT HER, neither of us saying much of anything. Escott was mulling

 things over in his head, and I was too drained and disappointed to want

 to talk right away, but not so tired that I didn't check the mirror now

 and then. There were plenty of headlights to fill it, but none of them

 belonged to a black Lincoln.

 It was past Escott's suppertime, so I drove at his direction to a small

 German cafe a few blocks off the Loop. He gave his order in German,

 hardly glancing at the menu chalked on a blackboard above the cashier.

 We found a booth and settled in to wait for the arrival of his food.

 "Thanks for the poisoning story. I was about to say it was a car wreck."

 Not at all," he said, absently aligning a saltshaker up with the checked

 pattern on the tablecloth. "An accident would have been acceptable, but

 she might decide to look up any records on it. There's the same problem

 with hospital records, but they can be more difficult to obtain."

 "You don't think she'd check up on me, do you? She doesn't seem the

 type."

 "Hardly, but if one must lie, it should be a simple one and difficult to

 disprove."

 "What'd you think of her?"

 "An interesting woman; she told a very pretty story. She seemed too good

 to be true."

 "You didn't like her?"

 "Emotions are the enemy of clear thought; my appraisals have nothing to

 do with personal affections."

 "I'll put it this way, then: what bothered you about her?"

 The pepper joined the salt on the checkered pattern. "She seemed

 terribly old."

 "She is seventy -two."

 "I speak of her state of mind. You can be seventy-two or ninety-two and

 still feel young inside."

 "People are different."

 "Mmm. Well, call it my natural caution at work. You were cautious as

 well. Why did you give her Miss Smythe's telephone number and not my

 own?"

 I shrugged. "I didn't really think about it at the time. You're going to

 be gone for a while and I'm over at Bobbi's a lot."

 "And perhaps you're worried that Braxton might trick or force my number

 from Gaylen and trace it down."

 I frowned agreement. "There's that. I've got the house detective looking

 out for him, though, so Bobbi should be all right. The geezer's a little

 cracked, but I don't see him getting violent with an old lady."

 "No doubt, but violence can emerge from the most unexpected sources. I

 can recall an exceptionally sordid case of two children knifing their

 grandmother to death to obtain her pet cat."

 Escott's food arrived and delayed conversation for a while. Between the

 smell of the steaming dishes and his story, my stomach began to churn.

 "I saw a drugstore on the corner and need to get some stuff," I said.

 "Be back in a few minutes."

 He nodded, his attention focused on carving up his meal.

 My shopping expedition left me with some mouth gargle, shoe polish, new

 handkerchiefs, and a handful of change for the phone. I folded into the

 booth and got the operator.

 This time my mom answered, and for the next few minutes bent my ear as

 she reported the latest domestic crisis. Webber and Braxton had shown up

 at the house early the next morning, but unfortunately for them my

 brother Thorn had dropped by for breakfast. The last three generations

 of Fleming males have been on the large side, and so he and Dad had no

 trouble throwing the troublemakers out. The yelling and language woke up

 any late-sleeping neighbors, but they were more than compensated by the

 show.

 That same day the cops came, and at first Mom thought Braxton had called

 them, but they had different business altogether. Someone from the

 Grunner farm had reported vagrants on our old place, but the Grunners

 maintained total ignorance about the call. However, there had been a

 break-in as reported.

 "Your father is fit to be tied over this, I can tell you," she concluded

 after giving me a full inventory of the damage.

 "Is he fixing it, then?"

 "Well, certainly, but it will take him awhile, and then there's no

 guarantee that the place will be left alone."

 "Oh, yes, there is."

 "What do you mean?"

 "I mean, what would it cost Dad to install some real indoor plumbing?"

 When we'd still been living there. Mom had known the figure down to the

 penny, but now she wasn't so sure. "What does it matter now, anyway?"

 "Because if he puts some in he can rent the place out. That way it's

 occupied and you two have some extra income every month."

 "You want a bunch of strangers running all over our old house?"

 She'd never been so affectionate about the place when we'd been living

 there. "Better a bunch of strangers paying you rent than some tramps

 tearing it all up."

 "Well"

 "Try to find out how much and I'll put up the money--"

 "But you can't afford to--"

 "I can now. I have a very understanding boss who pays bonuses for good

 work."

 "In these hard times? He must be one of the Carnegies."

 "Just about. Will you do it?"

 She would, and when I hung up it was with a little more confidence in

 their future.

 My personal future included immediate plans to visit Bobbi. I dialed her

 next and asked if she were receiving callers.

 "That's a funny way of putting it," she said.

 "I'm feeling old-fashioned tonight."

 "Oh yeah? Well, come on over. I'm rehearsing, but I think we can squeeze

 you in."

 I was disappointed, but kept it out of my voice. "You've got company?"

 "Uh-huh."

 "Marza?"

 "Yes, that's it." Her phrasing indicated she was being overheard.

 "Maybe I should stay away."

 "No"

 "You mean if you can stand it so can I."

 She laughed. "Sure, that sounds right."

 "Okay, but if she threatens my life I reserve the right to withdraw to a

 safe distance."

 She laughed again in agreement and we said good-bye.

 Escott was in deep conversation with a stout bearded man wearing a white

 apron when I returned. They seemed to be talking about food from their

 gestures. They were using German and I only knew a couple of words. The

 man made some kind of point, Escott conceded, and the man looked pleased

 and left.

 "What's all that about?"

 "Against my better judgment, Herr Braungardt has tempted me into

 dessert, a torte of his own invention. This may take some time, I don't

 wish to tie you up."

 "How long could it take to eat a dessert?"

 "Long enough for him to try and persuade you to have a sample. I can

 find my own way home. Don't worry."

 "If you need help, I'll be at Bobbi's." Grinning, I left him to his

 overstuffed fate.

 I found a place that sold flowers and bought a handful of the least

 wilted-looking roses. They were cradled in my arm when I stepped off the

 elevator onto Bobbi's floor. The operator didn't have to tell me she had

 company this time, I could hear the piano and her voice clearly enough,

 despite the walls and solid door.

 I thought to wait outside until the song was finished, but she cut off

 in mid-note. There was a murmured consultation, then the music began

 again. Marza's voice was hardly recognizable, and when she spoke to

 Bobbi her tones were soft and affectionate and heavily sprinkled with

 endearments.

 "You've got to hold the note just a bit longer, baby. Count one, two,

 three, then we both start the next phrase"

 I knocked and a second later Bobbi answered.

 She just looked at the flowers, and her face lit up in a smile that sent

 me to the moon and back. She accepted them gracefully, her hands

 lingering on mine. "Any special reason?" she asked.

 "I felt sentimental."

 "Do I do that to you?"

 "Among a lot of other things."

 She took my hand and led me inside. Marza was at the piano, just

 lighting a thin black cigar. Her posture was straight and stiff and she

 was wearing another V-necked disaster, this time in yellow. It was quite

 a contrast to the pink satin lounging pajamas that Bobbi had clinging to

 her rounded figure. Marza glanced once in my direction without making

 eye contact, then pretended to study the sheet music before her.

 On the sofa sprawled her Communist friend, Madison Pruitt. He looked up

 doubtfully, having seen my face once, hut unable to attach a name to it.

 He was holding a tabloid, apparently interested in a murder

 investigation that the police weren't conducting to the satisfaction of

 the paper's editor.

 "Madison, you remember Jack Fleming from last night?" prompted Bobbi.

 "Certainly," he replied, still uncertain. At the party he'd been too

 involved spouting politics to Marza to notice our introductions. I

 regretted that the present circumstances were not similar, and didn't

 relish the prospect of conversing with a zealot.

 "I think we should take a break," said Marza, not looking up from her

 music. "My concentration's all broken. Some coffee, Bobbi?"

 Bobbi took the broad hint and I offered to help, so we had some

 semi-privacy in the kitchen. It was cramped, but organized; she worked

 on the coffee, and I ended up scrounging for something to put the roses

 in. I found a container that looked like a vase and loaded it with

 water.

 "Here, put a little sugar in the bottom, they'll last longer. What's so

 funny?"

 "Marza. I have to laugh at her or sock her one."

 "I don't blame you, she can be a little trying at times."

 "A little? That's like saying Lake Michigan's a little wet."

 She stifled her own smile, and then we said hello to each other until

 the coffee was ready.

 "Time to get the cups," she murmured.

 "Couldn't we do this for a few more hours?"

 "The coffee'll get cold."

 "I don't want any."

 "Yes, I suppose you want something else."

 "Bobbi, you're psychic."

 "Nope, I've got eyes. You're showing."

 I snapped my mouth shut, trying the gauge the length of my canines with

 my tongue. Bobbi snickered and pulled out a tray, cups, and saucers. I

 carried it all in while she got the coffeepot.

 Marza was next to Pruitt on the sofa and looked up. "What did you two

 do, go to Brazil for the beans?"

 "No, just to Jamaica," Bobbi answered smoothly, filling the cups.

 Marza approached her coffee delicately, tested one drop on her tongue,

 and decided to wait for it to cool. In contrast, Pruitt just grabbed his

 cup, leaving his saucer on the tray. I supposed he considered saucers to

 be an unnecessary bourgeois luxury.

 "Your flowers, Bobbi, where are they?" Marza asked.

 "Forgot 'em. I'll be right back." She slipped into the kitchen, but

 didn't come right back. Instead she was opening a cupboard, clattering a

 plate, and making other vague sounds.

 "Flowers, such a thoughtful gift," Marza said sweetly. "You did know

 that Bobbi is allergic to some of them, or didn't you?"

 "A lot of people are," I said evenly, and smiled with my mouth closed. I

 was speaking normally, but taking no chances on revealing the length of

 my teeth.

 "Waste of money," said Pruitt, his nose still in the tabloid. "They die

 in a day or two and then you're left with rotting plants and no money.

 People are fighting and dying, you know."

 "So you've told us, Madison," she said. "I don't notice you joining

 them, though."

 "My fight is right here, trying to bring the truth to--"

 "Cookies?" said Bobbi, just a shade too loud. She put the roses on the

 piano and offered the plate of cookies to Pruitt. It was a skilled move

 on her part--he had to choose between the plate, his coffee, or the

 paper. A hard decision for him, but the food won out and he dropped the

 paper. He was further distracted from his train of thought as he tried

 to figure out how to help himself to a cookie with both hands occupied

 holding the plate and his cup.

 "You're not joining us?" Marza asked me as she walleyed Pruitt's

 juggling act. If he dropped anything it would be on her.

 "No, thank you."

 "Watching your weight, I suppose."

 "No, I have allergies."

 Pruitt finally gave the plate to Marza, then grabbed some cookies from

 it. They didn't last long and disappeared all at once into his wide

 mouth.

 "You'll have to excuse Madison, he was raised in such a large family

 that he had to compete with his siblings for food, and learned to eat

 quickly in order to gain any nourishment."

 "You know I'm an only child, Marza," he mumbled around the mass of

 crumbs in his mouth.

 "Oh, I must have forgotten."

 Pruitt nodded, content to correct her.

 "What do you do for a living, Mr. Fleming?" she asked.

 I couldn't say I was an unemployed reporter doing part-time jobs for a

 private investigator and opted for the next best thing. "I'm a writer."

 "Oh? What do you write?"

 "This and that."

 "Fascinating."

 "Need a writer," said Pruitt. He cleared his mouth with a gulp of

 coffee. "We need people good with words, articles for magazines,

 slogans--can you do that?"

 "I'm sure anyone who knows even a little about the alphabet can help

 your cause, Madison," she said.

 "Great. You think you could help out, Fleming?"

 I could see how he was able to get along with Marza, since he was

 totally oblivious to her sarcasm. I was beginning to like him for it. "

 'Fraid I don't have the time."

 "For some things in life you have to take the time. People have to wake

 up from their easy living and realize they must join with their brothers

 to battle for the very future of man on earth."

 "H. G. Wells."

 "Huh?"

 "That sounds like his War of the Worlds."

 "Who's that again?" He pulled out a little book and scribbled it all

 down. "What else has he written?"

 "Lots of things. They'll be in the library." I wondered how many English

 courses he'd skipped in school to go to political rallies.

 "Madison can't go there," said Marza. "They won't let him in."

 Pruitt got a look on his face that would have done justice to a New

 Testament martyr.

 "Why not?"

 "Because there is no true freedom of speech in this country. The people

 here think there is because their capitalistic lords say so, but that

 isn't really true."

 "Why not?" I tried again, this time with Marza.

 "The library didn't happen to have a copy of some book he wanted. There

 was no English translation available and they weren't planning to order

 one. Madison protested by setting fire to some newspapers in the reading

 room, and they had him arrested."

 "I had to bring to their attention that censorship to one is censorship

 to all."

 "His father paid the fine, but the library still won't let him back in

 again."

 "Censorship." He shook his tabloid. "This story is a prime example. A

 man speaks his mind in a so-called public place, and then the police

 arrest him because his political views disagree with the established

 order."

 "They arrested him because he shot at a heckler," I said.

 "That's what the paper wants you to think. That 'heckler' was really an

 assassin for Roosevelt's Secret Service. He'd been sent to silence a

 voice of freedom for the masses and only got what he deserved."

 My mouth sagged a little. Pruitt got the satisfied look of one who had

 scored a real point. A half dozen counterarguments popped into my head,

 but the best course was to say nothing. There was absolutely no point

 having a battle of wits with someone who was unarmed.

 Bobbi put her cup down and suggested more rehearsal. It was gratefully

 accepted and the ladies returned to the piano. Madison stretched his

 legs out, crossed his arms, and yawned loud and long. The volume was

 sufficient for yodeling and the size of his mouth--a quantity of crumbs

 were still trapped in his molars--was an inspiration to well drillers

 everywhere. He wound up his musical solo and shut his eyes. From the

 not-so-subtle movements of his jaw, he seemed to be rooting out the last

 remnants of cookie with his tongue. I settled back in my chair to listen

 and wondered what the hell Marza saw in him, not that she was any social

 bargain herself.

 Her true worth, as Bobbi had said, was as an accompanist. Her hands went

 solidly over the keyboard with expert ease, though she had to hold them

 at a low angle to keep her long nails from clicking against the ivory.

 They did a warm-up on scales, and then Marza began one of the songs

 Bobbi would sing for the broadcast. It was a rich slow number and made a

 good showpiece for her voice, which was excellent. I sighed and let the

 sound wash over me, soothing and exciting at the same time. Perhaps

 later in the soft darkness of her room I would ask her to sing again.

 They finished and held a consultation over it and I cast around for

 something to read, my eye catching on a fresh copy of Live Alone and

 Like It on the end table. I flipped through, noticing it was a gift to

 Bobbi from Marza. It would be. I was just starting to read a chapter

 with the unbelievable title: 'The Pleasures of a Single Bed,' when the

 room got unnaturally quiet.

 Pruitt was staring at some point behind me, mouth and eyes looking as if

 he'd borrowed them from a dead fish. Marza and Bobbi were also frozen

 and doing a reasonable imitation of gaffed sea life. My back was to the

 door, and with a sinking heart, I turned to see what inspired the

 tableau.

 Advancing slowly from the wide-open door, with large silver crosses

 clutched in their hands were James Braxton and

 Matheus Webber. Both of them looked determined, but very nervous.

 What made the bottom of my stomach drop out was the revolver Braxton

 held stiffly in his other clenched fist. His finger was right on the

 trigger, and I didn't know how much pressure it would take for the thing

 to go off. If the damned idiot forgot himself

 I stood up cautiously, my hands out and down and my eyes fixed on

 Braxton's. His were little pinpoints in a sea of white, gleaming with

 fearful triumph. Mine must have been just as wide, but without the

 triumph, only the fear. Unless that gun had wooden bullets, I had no

 concern for my own life, but anything else was another matter. If he

 shot at me, the bullet would pass right through, going on to Bobbi and

 Marza, who were right in the fool's line of fire.

 From somewhere I heard myself speaking, pleading, "Please don't do

 anything, Braxton. These people are innocent, please don't shoot."

 The seams on his brown face twitched a little, but I couldn't read him.

 I didn't dare try any kind of hypnotic suggestion-- the least mistake on

 my part could kill Bobbi.

 "I'll do what you want, just don't shoot," I told him. "These people

 they're they're not like me, I swear they're not. They know nothing

 about this."

 "That remains to be seen, you leech," he said. He punctuated this by a

 wave of his cross and took a step forward. I flinched and fell back, but

 also stepped to one side. Bobbi and Marza were still out of sight behind

 me. Maybe they were marginally clear, but only if Braxton were a good

 shot.

 Matheus was as keyed up as the rest of us, but he looked around and

 tapped Braxton's shoulder. "Mr. Braxton, look-- they had coffee."

 His eyes snapped to the tray and cups. "Is that true? Did you have

 coffee?"

 Only Bobbi understood the significance of his question. "Yes, we did,

 and cookies, too. Didn't we Madison?"

 Pruitt's head bobbed several times.

 I heard Marza shift next to Bobbi. "That's right, we all had coffee and

 cookies." She spoke slowly, as though to an idiot child. In this case

 she wasn't too far off the mark.

 Braxton shook his cross at me. "But not him."

 I repeated my flinching act and moved another step to the side.

 "Braxton. they know nothing at all. You have no reason to involve them--

 "Shut up."

 He had the gun and I still couldn't see Bobbi. so I shut up.

 "You two--sit on the couch. Now!"

 Bobbi and Marza made haste to join Pruitt. Good.

 "What are you going to do?" Bobbi asked.

 Braxton smiled at me. "I'm going to wait. We're all going to wait for

 morning."

 "But why? What do you want?" demanded Marza.

 He ignored her and stared at me grimly. Bobbi knew very well what such a

 wait meant, but hid it. The three of them fell silent, their stares

 divided between me, Braxton, and the gun.

 "What kind of bullets, Braxton?" I asked.

 "The best kind. They were expensive, but I judged them worth the cost."

 "Silver?" I mouthed the word, not wanting the others to hear.

 He smirked.

 Bobbi moaned and her head swayed. "Oh, God, I'm going to be sick." Marza

 put a protective arm around her.

 "What do we do, Mr. Braxton?" Matheus was bug eyed at Bobbi's white

 face.

 "What?"

 "I'm going to be sick." She gulped air and jerked to her feet.

 "Follow her," he told the kid. "The rest of you stay where you are."

 Bobbi ran to the bedroom with Matheus close behind, but she shut him out

 when she reached the bath and slammed the door in his face. He was still

 very much the kid and hardly had the gumption to go inside after her.

 Through the walls I heard her coughing, then the rush of water when she

 flushed the toilet. She took her time at it and Braxton started to

 fidget.

 "Look," I tried again, "we don't need to be here."

 "Quiet and keep your eyes down."

 "What do you want?" asked Marza. A large chunk of her veneer had come

 off in the past few minutes. She looked much more real to me now.

 Braxton pretended not to hear and called to Matheus. "If she's done, get

 her out."

 The water was still running. Matheus knocked gingerly on the door.

 "Uh miss uh you all right?"

 Bobbi mumbled a no and turned on a sink faucet.

 "You have to come out now." She didn't answer. He appeared at the

 bedroom door, shrugged helplessly at Braxton, and went back again.

 "I'll go get her," said Marza.

 "No." Braxton was not about to let the situation get any more out of

 hand.

 "How did you find me?" I asked, distracting him.

 "What? Oh, it was the old lady. I knew you would go see her eventually,

 so we waited at her hotel and followed you from there. This time we were

 more careful about it."

 "Smart, real smart."

 He made a little formal nod of acknowledgment like an actor in a play.

 He must have cast himself as Edward Van Sloan to my Lugosi. The only

 things missing were the accents and evening clothes.

 "Miss? You've got to come out." Matheus sounded a little more impatient

 now, and that gave him confidence. "I mean it, come out of there."

 The water cut off and the knob rattled. "Don't rush me, big shot," she

 growled. She pushed unsteadily past Matheus and stood in the doorway.

 The tableau hadn't changed. She took a step toward me.

 I shook my head minutely. "You look done in. Miss Smythe, you'd better

 sit down."

 She nodded, figuring out the reason behind my sudden formality. She had

 no wish to have Braxton breathing all over her neck looking for telltale

 holes. Things were safe for the moment; her lounging pajamas had a high

 Oriental collar. She glided back to the sofa, glaring at him.

 "You mugs have no right barging into my home. My neighbors are bound to

 hear all this and call the cops."

 He waved her down. "I have every good reason behind my actions, however

 strange they may appear to you. If you do not yet understand my mission,

 I promise you that you soon will, and when you do, you shall approve of

 what I am doing."

 "It's the police state," said Pruitt, gaining a revelation from God

 knows where. "Who are you with, the Secret Service?"

 "Secret Service?" said Matheus, looking blank. He was standing next to

 Braxton now, keeping me covered with his cross.

 "Yes, the Secret Service, you fascist."

 Marza spoke through her teeth, which were exactly on edge. "Madison,

 this is no time for politics, so shut up."

 "I'm telling you--ouch!"

 "I said shut up."

 "Who's a fascist?"

 "Matheus--"

 "But he called me--

 "Everyone quiet!" Braxton must have felt the situation physically

 slipping out of control. He was already sweating from the strain and

 certainly not used to it. He'd never last until morning the way things

 were heading.

 "Braxton, please listen."

 He liked the pleading tone in my voice and considered my request like a

 magnanimous ruler. "All right, what is it?"

 "What Miss Smythe said was true, this is no place to settle things.

 There's a hotel detective downstairs--"

 "You think there is, leech."

 So they had slipped by Phil somehow. It was time to change tack. "I

 can't help what I am, I've tried to tell you that."

 He shook his head. "And I am sorry for you. I think I know what kind of

 hell you face each night I will end it for you."

 Good God, he thinks he's doing me a favor. "No, not here, please, at

 least for the sake of the ladies."

 "We will remain here. You seem to care for these people. I do not wish

 to use them as hostages for your behavior, but I see no other way."

 He sounded very certain of his hold over me. He was either stupid or had

 an extra ace up his sleeve he hadn't yet shown. I was inclined to think

 he was stupid. He was badly underestimating my will to survive and

 believed crosses and silver to be a strong check. The only thing

 actually holding me back was trying to come up with a way of safely

 disarming him without revealing my true nature to Marza or Pruitt.

 I glanced at Bobbi to see how she was doing. Perched stiffly on the edge

 of the sofa, her whole posture was tense, natural enough under the

 circumstances, but something in her manner struck me as odd. Her left

 arm lay across her knees, the right hand resting on the left. The long

 sleeves of the pajamas were pushed up to the elbows. Her eyes caught

 mine and her mouth twitched in an almost-smile and she winked, her eyes

 dropping to her hands. Her right index finger was tapping once a second

 against the crystal of her watch.

 I got it, or thought I did.

 "Matheus," I said, sounding reproachful. "I asked you to talk with him.

 I was pretty reasonable about it all. Remember, I could have hurt you

 then, but I didn't. Does that fit in with the things he's been saying

 about me?"

 "It was a trick," he said. He spoke with the haughty conviction of a

 convert. "Besides, you left us stranded and stole the car."

 "I left it at a fire station, for cryin' out loud. You two were

 bothering my family, I had to do something."

 "We were trying to warn them about you."

 "How would you feel if I did the same to your folks? Do they know what

 you're doing? What do they think of this quest you and Braxton are on?

 Do they approve?"

 That one hit a sensitive spot and the kid went all red, right up to the

 ears. "They wouldn't understand."

 "So you haven't told them. Maybe you should. Write a letter: 'Dear Mom,

 tonight Braxton and I held four people at gunpoint--' !

 "Enough!" Braxton was actually stamping his feet. "Matheus, I warned you

 how he would twist things. He's one of the devil's own and will try and

 confuse you."

 "Not me, Braxton, you've already done that. You don't want the kid to

 think for himself. You might lose your only hold on him."

 "Shut up."

 "I figure he's really smarter than you, but you don't want him to find

 that out."

 "Shut up!''

 I am not overly brave, and baiting a nutcase holding a gun is not

 something to do for fun, but it is a hell of an attention getter.

 Everyone was gaping at me, each with expressions

 P. N.- Elrod varying from rage to puzzlement to worry, and one in

 particular of intense concentration. The last and most welcome face

 belonged to Phil, the hotel dick. He had just walked in the still-open

 door and was trying to sneak up on Braxton. In this hotel he never got

 much practice at being quiet, so it was costing him some effort. I

 opened my big mouth again to cover any creaking floorboards.

 "Yeah, I guess the truth hurts. It must be nice to have someone around

 to agree with you all the time, or do you pay him money for it? There's

 not enough of that stuff in the world to make me want to put up with

 your kind of bull--"

 Then Phil lunged, both hands grabbing Braxton's arm and Dragging it

 down. Marza and Pruitt screamed as the gun went off and thunder and

 smoke filled the room. A furrow appeared in the floor near my left foot,

 and I foolishly jumped back from it.

 There was a good fifty-pound difference between them, and Braxton's

 light frame didn't stand a chance. He went down like a tackling dummy,

 his knobby joints knocking hard against the floor. Phil was on top and

 his extra weight had pushed all the fight out of the little guy. A

 second later Phil was in possession of the gun and getting to his feet.

 He dusted his knees absently, and glared all around. 'Someone want to

 explain things to me, or do I really want to know?"

 Matheus began to edge toward the door, but Bobbi spotted him. "Hold it

 right there, buster."

 He held it right there and looked to Braxton for help, but his mentor

 was too busy getting his breath back and nursing his new bruises. Phil

 went to the door and checked the hall, keeping the gun out of sight.

 "Nuthin" to worry about, folks, just a party trick. Sorry about the

 noise." He waved an apology at someone and shut the door.

 "What is this all about?" demanded Marza, her voice shaking.

 "They're just a couple of mugs from my shady past," I said. "The geezer

 here is a con man that I once did a story on. It blew his game to hell

 and he's looking to get back at me. The kid is just his latest trainee.

 The last I heard, it was an insurance scam. Looks like he's switched to

 religion. What are you doing these days, Braxton. swindling old ladies

 for church funds?"

 Braxton flushed, jerkily stood up, and shoved his cross at me. I ducked

 back so it missed my nose. "Away, you demon." Somehow, he'd sounded a

 lot more convincing on that lonely road in the country.

 "He's crazy," concluded Pruitt.

 "For once, I'll agree with you," said Marza.

 The cross jerked again and I stepped away from it.

 "Braxton?" Phil made certain he could see the gun. "Sit down and shut

 up."

 "But you don't know who or what this man is--

 "As long as he's not waving guns at the tenants, I don't give a damn, so

 clam up. What do you want I should do with 'em. Miss Smythe?"

 Bobbi looked at me. I shrugged. "Call the cops?"

 Pruitt suddenly found his feet. "I think I'll go home now, it's awfully

 late." He grabbed his hat and hurried out.

 Marza stared after him. "Why, that no-good--how does he expect me to get

 home?"

 "Oh, Marza," Bobbi groaned.

 "What's with him?" asked Phil.

 "He's crazy," said Matheus.

 "So coming from you that means something?"

 "He called me a fascist--

 "Shut up, kid," Bobbi told him. He looked hurt. "Jack, I don't think the

 cops could do much for us."

 "They could take his gun away and lock him up if we pressed charges, but

 that'd mean court appearances, the paper--you don't need any bad

 publicity before your broadcast."

 "Yeah. But what do we do with them? I could call Gordy."

 "Don't tempt me. Phil, have you got some place you can stash these two?"

 "Depends for how long."

 "An hour?"

 He nodded. "If you give me a hand."

 "Sure."

 We wrestled Braxton into the hall and took the service stairs down to

 the basement instead of using the elevator because the operator liked to

 talk. It was an interesting parade:

 I had Braxton's arms twisted behind his back and Phil was keeping the

 kid in line with the borrowed gun.

 In the basement, Phil directed us to a broom closet that was made to

 order. Brooms must have been at a premium in the building, because the

 place was like a bank vault. Two of the walls were part of the cement

 foundation and the third was solid brick. It was about ten feet long and

 only four feet wide. We pushed them in with the mops and buckets and

 Phil locked it up.

 "They gonna be able to breathe in there?" I asked.

 Phil studied the blank face of the door for a while, then nudged it with

 one toe. "There's a pretty good gap at the bottom. If they get

 desperate, they can stick their noses down there."

 We heard a thump and dull clang from within. Someone had tripped over a

 bucket. Matheus hit the door a few times and yelled to be let out.

 We climbed upstairs. "Sure it won't be too noisy?"

 "I'll make certain no one bothers them."

 "Thanks. I'll go see if Bobbi's all right and work out what to do with

 them."

 "I'll be in the lobby."

 Four floors later I was back in Bobbi's apartment. She was just giving

 Marza a drink, then ran over to me, her arms open. We held on to each

 other, not speaking for a long while. Marza finished her glass, put it

 on a table, and stood.

 "No more rehearsal tonight. I'm calling a cab."

 Bobbi whispered, "She was really shook, can you take her home? Would you

 mind?"

 When she looked at me like that I wouldn't mind walking over hot coals,

 or even taking Marza home. "If you'll be okay."

 "I'll be fine. Marza"

 She got in my car and said nothing for the next ten minutes except to

 give directions. We stopped in front of her apartment building and I

 waited to see if she wanted me to walk her in or not.

 "We're here," I said when she didn't move.

 She stopped boring a hole in the windshield and tried it with me. I was

 getting another once-over, and the reappraisal was even more critical.

 "Why were they after you?"

 "I told you."

 "The truth this time."

 I shook my head.

 "Are you with the gangs?"

 "No. This is some old business that followed me from New York. The guy

 is crazy, you saw that."

 "Yes, I saw that. So what was it about? Why come after you with a couple

 of crosses? Why call you those names?"

 "I said the guy's nuts. Can you account for all the stuff Pruitt lets

 out?"

 "Madison's preoccupied with politics and being paranoid, so what is your

 friend preoccupied with?"

 "With trying to blow my head off."

 "And what happens to Bobbi when he comes back?"

 "They're after me, not her."

 "They were holding all of us. Do you think he won't try again?"

 "He won't get the chance. I'm going to have a little talk with him

 tonight and straighten things out. Bobbi will be okay. I promise."

 "I hope you mean that. I don't want her hurt. Not by them or you, you

 know what I mean? She's a beautiful girl and that's attracted the wrong

 kind of men to her in the past. Did she tell you what the last one was

 like and what happened to him?"

 "I know all about it," I said truthfully.

 "Good, because that's what I want to see her free from. You have no

 right to bring it all back."

 She had some guts. If I'd really been like Slick Morelli, she was

 courting some broken teeth. "I don't plan to. I'm on your side."

 She was anything but convinced, but there was no way I could prove my

 sincerity except to go back and deal with the problem. She gave me a

 "we'll see" shrug and got out. I waited until she was inside and drove a

 beeline back to Bobbi.

 She unlocked the door after hearing my voice. "I thought you'd never get

 back."

 "Same here."

 "Thanks for taking her, Jack."

 She was hugging me again. It was becoming a habit, a very nice one. Then

 it was time for my reaction and I couldn't stop it. My arms moved on

 their own, wrapping around her and lifting her from the floor. I held

 her hard, as much for warmth as for comfort. I was cold from the inside

 out and shaking all over.

 "Jack? What is it? What's wrong?"

 It was a long time before I had the strength of will to release her. I

 was damned near to crying. "That idiot I was afraid he'd kill you."

 Her light fingers stroked my brows and lids. "But he didn't.

 Everything's okay. He wasn't even aiming at me."

 "He didn't have to, the bullets would have gone right through me. His

 silver is no more use against me than any other metal."

 "You mean the bullets--"

 "They're metal. The silver makes no difference. He's gotten vampires

 mixed up with other folklore."

 "His cross held you back, though," she said in a small voice.

 "That was acting." I looked around. She'd been cleaning up. The coffee

 service was gone and there was a throw rug covering the bullet furrow in

 the floor. On the table was Braxton's cross. He'd dropped it in the

 tussle with Phil. I carefully closed my hand over it and held it up for

 her to see. "There, nothing happens and it's made of silver."

 "But why not?"

 "I guess it's because God doesn't work the way Braxton thinks he

 should." I opened my hand and let her regard what lay in it. "I'm not

 evil, Bobbi. I have no fear of this, but I was afraid of losing you and

 can only thank God you're safe."

 She came into my arms again and this time we did not let

 I carried her to bed and tucked her in, which she thoroughly enjoyed.

 She was always a little sleepy afterward, regardless of how little I

 took from her. I sat next to her on top of the spread and kissed a few

 spots that had been missed earlier and made her giggle.

 "Damn, you're good."

 "So are you."

 "Do you have to go?"

 "There's some unfinished business downstairs. Say, how did Phil know to

 come up here, anyway?"

 "You forgot about that phone I keep in the bathroom."

 "Then your getting sick--

 "Hey, you think you're the only one who can act if you have to?"

 Her door was locked and I left it that way, slipping quietly through

 into the hall and taking the stairs to the lobby. Phil was behind his

 pillar, talking odds with the night clerk again. He saw me and nodded,

 then led the way down to the basement.

 I planned to have him baby-sit Matheus while I had a private talk with

 Braxton. It wasn't something to look forward to, but I'd decided to try

 hypnosis on him. The man was stubborn and would be on guard, though. I

 was certain I could break through, but afraid of hurting him, of hurting

 his mind. The last man I'd done it to well, the circumstances were

 different now, things were controlled, and I was emotionally calm. I had

 no wish to hurt Braxton, only to find out his connection with Maureen

 and then make him go home.

 Plans are just fine when they work out, but this one would have to wait.

 The closet door was hanging open and the two hunters were gone. Phil

 stooped to examine the lock, holding a match to the inside of the door.

 He shook his head in mild exasperation.

 "The old goat musta had skeleton keys. Who'da thought it?"

 "I should have."

 Braxton had underestimated me and I'd stupidly returned the favor. The

 man most certainly planned to kill me, and to do so he might have to

 break into almost any kind of building. He was sure to be outside to

 track me home when I left. The keys would jingle, the lock giving way to

 them, and then his shadow would fall across my trunk

 "Can you keep an eye on four tonight--make sure Miss Smythe stays okay

 without disturbing her?"

 "I can do that. What about you?"

 "I'm going to get lost."

 "Sounds like a good idea. I'll show you the back door."

 Chapter 8

 =========

 HE LET ME out in a wide alley where delivery trucks trundled through

 during the day with their loads of food and linens. Things were

 comfortably deserted now, but I still felt like a shooting gallery

 target, and vanished as soon as Phil locked up.

 I didn't know this area particularly well and being in a non-corporeal

 form only added to the disorientation. My sense of solid objects, even

 the push of the wind was heightened and extended, but since I couldn't

 see, it was hard to gauge distance. When moving, I had to rely on

 memory.

 The alley entrance to the street was fifty feet to the left, with a row

 of garbage cans just before it, but the wind was throwing my direction

 off and to the right. Compensating, I drifted past the cans like smoke

 that wasn't there, then found the corner of the building. Left, right,

 or straight? Right. Move away from the hotel and car, float softly down

 the sidewalk, gain some space, and look around.

 An alcove opened in my path, which meant a doorway. I entered the

 building and solidified in a closed pawnshop. The street looked clear;

 they might have returned to their own hotel for fresh strategy, but I

 couldn't count on that. They might also have my car staked out, so it

 would have to stay put. It was getting late for me and playing car chase

 with them might take too much time--was there anything in the car that

 would lead them to Escott's? The papers inside were in my name, with my

 old hotel as an address. No one there knew Escott except by sight. The

 dealer could be traced, but that would lead them to the hotel again. I

 could relax. If they did break into the car all they'd find was a dead

 end, along with some mouth gargle, shoe polish, and handkerchiefs.

 All the same, having to leave my car behind was a disgusting situation.

 Braxton would have a lot to answer for the next time I saw him.

 I took some bearings, disappeared again, and didn't reform until several

 city blocks were behind me. I checked the view, found it clear, and

 started walking.

 Maybe I could have scoured the area until I found them, but there was no

 guarantee that Braxton didn't have a second gun on hand. If he used it

 the racket would bring all sorts of trouble. I shook the thought out of

 my head. One thing at a time, one day, or rather night, at a time. I was

 tired, the sunrise was coming, and I still had to make sure they weren't

 following me to Escott's.

 I eventually seeped inside his back door and listened. The place had its

 own little creaks and pops, each loud in my straining ears. There were

 also small scratchings and a rhythmic gnawing sound; mice in the

 basement. Overall, it was a good normal silence, but it meant I was

 alone in the house. Where the hell was Escott?

 My answer was propped against the saltshaker on the table.

 JACK,

 ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, I DECIDED TO TAKE A NIGHT TRAIN TO N.Y. AND CLEAR

 UP THIS BUSINESS. MY OVERSEAS SHIPMENT SHOULD ARRIVE TOMORROW AT 7:45

 P.M. PLEASE CALL ME WHEN IT COMES. I'LL BE STAYING AT THE ST. GEORGE

 HOTEL.

 ESCOTT

 On my own again. Great.

 There wasn't enough time to call a cab and find a hotel to hide in, I'd

 have to hope Braxton hadn't had Escott followed from the restaurant. And

 then there was Gaylen--had he bothered her? I speculated briefly and

 irrationally if she had put him onto me, but shook that thought off as

 well. She'd been far too concerned for my welfare; no one was that good

 an actress. My troubles were my own; no one else could be blamed for

 them and no one else could clear them up. But that was tomorrow's

 problem.

 Escott had given me the run of the house. I went up to the top floor,

 floating carefully over a patch of undisturbed plaster dust so as not to

 leave footprints. A small door at the end of the topmost hall led to yet

 another stairway, a short one that served the attic. There was dust

 everywhere and a number of interesting artifacts left by previous

 generations of owners. It looked suitable, but I still did not feel

 really safe.

 I ghosted over to the one window at the far end. It faced another window

 in the next building just across the narrow alley. I gulped, tried not

 to think of the drop, and vanished, feeling a dull tug all over as I

 passed out of Escott's house to the one next door.

 The attic was similar to the one I'd left: full of dust and domestic

 junk, but I felt much more secure. The place was occupied below, but I

 was more willing to chance spending the day here. It would be better to

 be found by Escott's neighbors than by Braxton, though from the

 condition of things they hadn't been up here in years and it was likely

 to remain so.

 I went back to Escott's, retrieved a single bag of earth from the

 basement, and borrowed a blanket and pillow. The invisible nets that

 went out around me when I vanished, the ones that allowed me to retain

 my clothes and such, were sufficient to take in my light burdens. I

 floated directly up through the many floors to the attic again and moved

 next door, leaving no trace of my passage for inquisitive eyes.

 Somewhere outside, the sun was creeping to the horizon, hut the one

 window was deep in the shadow of the roof overhang and opaque with

 grime. The light would not be too bad. I had certain powers, but very

 strict limitations as well, and sunlight was one of them. It blinded the

 eyes and stiffened the limbs, and then the numbness beginning in my feet

 would travel slowly to the head until it mercifully brought

 unconsciousness. Being subjected to the unpleasant inertia of dying only

 happened if I fought to stay awake after dawn, or if I was without my

 earth. Since my change I'd tried staying up only once voluntarily as an

 experiment. It was not something I ever wanted to repeat.

 Spreading the blanket, not for comfort, but to protect my clothes, I

 stretched out behind some old boxes, the pillow resting firmly over my

 face to block the light. The earth was in the crook of my arm and

 reminded me of the stuffed toy rabbit my oldest sister Liz had given me

 thirty years ago. They were her specialty. She'd made them for her own

 children and all the nieces and nephews of our big family. She was a

 sweet woman.

 And then I surrendered all thought and became very still.

 The pillow slid from my face as I sat up and listened. A car rumbled by

 down below, interrupting the neighborhood kids in their game of street

 tag. Another day had slipped past and they were playing all the harder

 at its end before their mothers called them in to supper, bath, and bed.

 The air was dry with the smell of dust and coming up from the kitchen

 was the odor of boiled cabbage and fried fish. I wondered if the kids

 would survive to adulthood on such a diet. I had, but maybe I'd been

 tougher.

 My own diet was of concern for me tonight. The relationship Bobbi and I

 shared was an emotional one, after all. The small amount of blood she

 provided was for the purpose of lovemaking, and not to satisfy my

 nutritional needs. More blood than she could spare was required for

 that. Later on I'd have to visit the Stockyards, but my trips there were

 less frequent than they were before we met--only once every three or

 four nights, rather than once every other night.

 Gathering up the bedding, I sieved across the alley to Escott's attic

 and sank down through the floors to the kitchen. It was a neat trick; if

 Escott ever went back to the stage we could make a fortune with a magic

 act. The only drawback was that I'd never be available for the matinees.

 I worked the phone and Bobbi's welcome voice said hello and I said hello

 back and we each made sure the other was healthy.

 "Phil told me you were going to lay low for a while," she said.

 "Just until I can locate those bozos. I didn't have the time last

 night."

 "You won't have to look far. Phil called and said they're parked down

 the street in a black Ford."

 "Is he sure about that?"

 "Fairly sure, and so am I. I took a gander out the window a minute ago

 and there's a car there now that's new to the usual scenery. Phil thinks

 they're waiting for you to come back for your own."

 "Good conclusion. I'm just surprised that Braxton thinks I need it."

 "What do you mean?"

 "Considering his expertise, he's more likely to suspect me of traveling

 around as a bat or a wolf."

 She giggled. "They might miss a bat, but a wolf's kinda noticeable out

 on the sidewalk."

 "Maybe I should reeducate him. What do you think?"

 "I think I'm going to take a cab to the studio."

 "I'm sorry, I know I promised--"

 "Oh, don't be a sap, this is an emergency. Oops, I just remembered, some

 woman named Gaylen called a minute ago. You running around on me?"

 "Never. What'd she want?"

 "For you to come by and see her tonight. Who is she?"

 "It's something I'm working on with Charles. He's out of town, so I gave

 her your number for daytime calls."

 "Wish you'd told me."

 "We were kind of busy Did she say anything else?"

 "Nope. You going to tune in and listen to me?"

 "I'll be at the studio. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

 "But what if Braxton follows me there?"

 "Don't worry, I'll have taken care of him by then."

 "But what if you miss him?"

 "I said don't worry. You aren't going there alone, are you?"

 "No, Marza's coming with me."

 "Then God help Braxton if I do miss him."

 "Oh, Jack." She was exasperated. "The man is trying to kill you."

 "He won't. I'm only trying to keep him from hurting others."

 "And I don't give a damn about others"--she cut off a moment and

 collected herself--"I'm worried about you."

 "And about that broadcast, too. All this mess came at a bad time for

 you. Try to calm down and think about how great you'll be tonight. You

 don't have to worry about me, you know I'll be fine." I put a lot of

 confidence in my tone and it worked. We said a few things and she gave

 me directions to the studio twice and I told her to break a leg. It was

 a phrase picked up from Escott and apparently applied to all performers

 because she was glad to hear it.

 I hung up and dialed Gaylen. She was upset because Braxton had been

 calling her, and now she wanted to see me. The little bastard was

 becoming a real nuisance.

 "I'm pretty tied up tonight" I was also reluctant to face another

 emotion-laden talk with her.

 "Not even for a little while? Please?"

 A supernatural softy, that's me. Besides, she might have some useful

 news. "It may take me awhile to get there, and I can't stay long."

 "I understand, I'd really appreciate it."

 The schedule would be tight. Bobbi's broadcast was at ten and I was

 stuck in the house until quarter to eight, or at least until Escott's

 delivery came. In between I had to have a heart-to-heart with Braxton,

 and then go hold Gaylen's hand. If things went right I could go home

 with Bobbi, enjoy the party she was throwing, and still have time to

 visit the Stockyards.

 It looked like a busy night ahead, and I wanted to get on with it; the

 waiting chafed at me like starched underwear. I filled in some of the

 time by cleaning up and changing clothes, but with that out of the way,

 the minutes dragged. At five to eight I was annoyed, and at a quarter

 after I was ready to strangle the driver.

 Twenty after the hour a truck finally rolled into the street, stopped

 two doors down, and backed up. The guy inside squinted at house numbers.

 I went outside and he asked if I were Mr. Escott. To save him confusion

 I said yes, unintentionally puzzling any neighbors taking in air on

 their front steps. We gave them a good show and lugged several crates

 off the truck and into the narrow hall. He didn't say much, which suited

 me, and I signed Escott's name to the sheet on his clipboard. He gave me

 a receipt and drove off.

 There was one last obligation and I was free. The operator put a call

 through to Escott's hotel, and then asked their operator to connect me

 to Escott.

 "I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Escott is not here."

 "Then I'll leave a message for him."

 "I'm sorry, but he has checked out."

 "What?"

 "Yes, sir, earlier today. He left Kingsburg as his forwarding address."

 Now, why the hell was he running upstate to a little backwater like

 Kingsburg? Gaylen hadn't mentioned the name. He was probably returning

 something to one of the many blackmail victims on that list. "Did he

 leave any messages for a Jack Fleming?"

 "No, sir. No messages at all."

 I hung up and pessimistically wondered what was wrong.

 My visit with Gaylen was going to be brief, so I told the cabby to wait.

 He rolled an eye at the meter and agreeably turned me down, having been

 stiffed once too many in the past.

 She was waiting at her door and I apologized for being so long.

 "I'm just glad that you could come by." She eased painfully into her

 chair.

 Nothing had significantly changed since yesterday, except for some

 watercolor paints scattered on a table with some brushes and a glass of

 gray water. A wrinkled sheet of paper taped to a board was drying next

 to it all. I expressed some interest, which warmed her.

 "It's only a hobby, just to pass the time," she demurred, but held it up

 for inspection. The light gleamed off some damp patches. There was no

 model in the room of the pink, blue, and yellow flowers on the paper, so

 it had come out of her own head. As in most amateur efforts, it was

 noticeably flat, but the colors looked nice, so I complimented her and

 knew from her reaction that she would someday make a gift of it to me.

 "Sorry I got held up, but I really don't have a lot of time," I

 explained.

 She took it without visible disappointment, because some-thing else was

 on her mind. "That Braxton man tried to get in to talk with me. I had to

 have the manager throw him out."

 "That's good. I'm very sorry you were bothered."

 "Then he started calling. I kept hanging up until I finally decided to

 talk and tell him to go away."

 "What'd he say?"

 "All kinds of things. He was very excited and asked if you had hurt me,

 and practically begged for the chance to talk to me face-to-face. My

 legs were aching and made me a bit short with him. I said it was the

 phone or nothing. He asked if I knew what you were and what kind of

 danger I was in, and what did I know about Maureen, and if I would help,

 and a lot of other nonsense. I told him he was a very silly and stupid

 man and never to bother me again, or I'd get the police on him. After

 that he stopped calling."

 "Good for you."

 "But he still frightens me; not for myself, but for you."

 "I'm safe enough. Anyway, the next time I see him, I'll talk him into

 going back to New York."

 Her expression was sharp. "But how can you do that? What will you do?"

 "Only talk to him, I won't hurt him. Please, Gaylen, don't worry about

 it."

 Her eyes dropped and she looked away. "What will you do?"

 Had I been breathing I would have sighed. "Remember telling me about

 Jonathan Barrett and how he talked to you just before Maureen came back?

 That's how I'll talk to Braxton."

 "And you'll ask him about Maureen?"

 "Yes."

 She was quiet a moment, thinking.

 "I'll let you know what he says. Charles says even negative information

 is better than none at all."

 "What about him? Has he left yet?"

 "He left sometime last night. I guess he was in a hurry to get on with

 things."

 "But you haven't heard anything from him?"

 "Not directly. I tried calling him, but he's gone to a little town

 called Kingsburg Does that ring any bells with you?"

 She went still and thought, her heart racing. "I'm not sure. I think I

 once got a letter from Maureen from there, but memories fade--I don't

 know."

 "It could be some other errand as well. He'll let us know."

 "Yes. please, I want to know everything." But there was a hollow note to

 her voice, something else was bothering her. What is it?" I asked

 gently.

 She made a brief gesture with her blue-veined hands. "This is hardly the

 time I wish"

 I stayed quiet. She would either talk or not, with or without my

 encouragement.

 Her eyes had changed color. The blue had faded and now they were light

 gray. Maureen had been the same way when she was upset over something.

 "Oh, Jack, how can I put it in words? How can I ask you?"

 "Ask what?"

 "You can see how it is for me. I'm not well and it seems that with each

 passing day it grows worse; not just my legs, but other things. It's so

 awful to be like this, to feel so weak and helpless all the time."

 I waited her out, for the moment unsure.

 "And I haven't seen Maureen in so long. What if I never see her again?

 That could happen, I am so afraid it will."

 What she wanted was right in front of me now, and I didn't want to look.

 She saw the answer in my face long before she could word the question.

 "Oh, please. Jack, you can't deny me in this!"

 I wanted to get up and put some space between us, but her eyes held me,

 eyes full of anguish and asking for something I would not be able to

 give her.

 "I'm sorry."

 "But why not?"

 I had no answer. That was the really hard part. I had no answer, no real

 excuse--and she must have known it. "Because I can't. You don't know

 what you're asking."

 "But I do. I'm asking for a chance to live. I'm asking for a body that

 doesn't hurt all the time. Is it so much to want to be young and healthy

 again?"

 "I'm sorry." I had to turn away and pace or blow up. Her eyes followed

 me up and down the small room until I stopped in front of the window to

 stare out at nothing. "You don't know what it's like. I'd give anything

 to go back, to walk in the sun again, to eat food, feel real heat and

 cold, to feel my heart beating. I have no stability. I can't go back to

 my family and will never have one of my own. Worst of all, Maureen's

 gone."

 "And yet she changed you. If the life you have is so awful, why did she

 do that?"

 "Because the kind of love we had would have made it all bearable. There

 was no guarantee that I even would change, but it was a hope we shared.

 At the very least we would have been together for as long as I was

 alive. But something happened and she had to leave."

 "And if she ever comes back, you'll still be here. I don't have that

 luxury. She was going to change me, she promised me that in our last

 talk. You are all of her left to me. All I ask is for you to fulfill a

 promise she could not keep."

 "Why didn't she do it earlier?"

 "I don't know." Her eyes held mine steadily, still pleading, then

 dropped to her lap. "I don't know."

 She knew and Maureen knew. I didn't and would have to go by my own

 instincts. A lot of emotions were getting in my way, and I wasn't sure

 if I was right to say no, or reading things into her manner that weren't

 there. I could do as she asked, the chances were very great it wouldn't

 work, but everything in me recoiled away from taking that step.

 "I'm truly sorry, but it's impossible. I can't."

 "No, please don't leave yet." She stopped my move for the door.

 "Please will you at least just think about it?"

 If I said yes, she would know it for a lie. I crossed the room, hat in

 hand, head down.

 "Jack?"

 I paused, my back to her. "I'm sorry. If there's anything else you need,

 you can call me. But not this." Then I walked out, my guts gone cold and

 twisting like snakes.

 The cab dropped me within sight of a two-year-old Ford parked across the

 street from Bobbi's hotel. Gaylen's voice still lingered in my head,

 pleading. None of my reasons to refuse seemed very good now, but even

 after discarding them all, I was not going to do it. Something was

 bothering me; I wanted advice, or at least to have someone tell me I was

 right. Escott might be back in a day or two; I'd talk it over with him.

 Or maybe not.

 Hands in pockets, I made myself small behind a telephone pole and tried

 to see the driver of the Ford. From this angle, he wasn't too visible.

 He was slouched down in the seat, it could have been either Braxton or

 Webber. They worked as a team; why was only one on watch? On the remote

 chance that there was a third member on their hunt, I copied the

 license-plate number in my notebook for Escott to check. The plates were

 local. They might have rented it, wanting something less conspicuous

 than the big Lincoln.

 The Ford was parked in with a line of other cars. If Bobbi hadn't tipped

 me, I'd never have noticed it or the man inside. The rest of the street

 looked clean. No one was loitering in any doorways, it seemed safe

 enough to approach. I strolled along the sidewalk, breasted the open

 passenger window, leaned over, and said hello.

 The man inside turned a slow, unfriendly eyeball on me. He wasn't

 Braxton or Webber and looked bored to death. I landed on my feet and

 asked if he had a light, hauling out my face-saving cigarettes.

 He considered the request with indifference, then pawed around the car

 for some matches. It took some hunting before he found them; the seat

 was littered with sandwich wrappings, unidentifiable paperwork, crumpled

 cigarette packs, and smoked-out butts. I offered him one from my pack

 and he took it.

 "Been here long?"

 "What's it to you?" He lit his cigarette on the same match that fired

 mine, his long fingers shielding the flame from the faint night breeze.

 He was a good-looking specimen, with a straight nose, cleft chin, and

 curly blond hair. Up on a movie screen he might have stopped a few

 feminine hearts. I pegged him to be a college type, but he was too old

 and had seen enough to have a cynical cast to his expression.

 "You're making the hotel dick nervous."

 "I should if I'm doing his job for him. He send you or are you from Mrs.

 Blatski?"

 "What's the difference?"

 "He sent you then." He blew smoke lazily out the window.

 "What if I am from Mrs. Blatski?"

 "No skin off my nose. She has a right to hire someone as long as they

 leave me alone--or are you the guy she's sleeping with?" He eyed me with

 a shade more interest.

 "You a dick?"

 "Got it in one, bright eyes."

 I pushed away from the Ford in disgust. Not Braxton or any connection to

 him, just a keyhole peeper trying to get the goods on his client's wife.

 Three steps later a crazy thought occurred and I was back at the window

 again.

 "Charles, is that you?"

 He gave me an odd look and I deserved it. A second and more detailed

 check on his face was enough confirmation that he wasn't Escott got up

 in disguise. The eyes were the wrong color, brown instead of gray, and

 his ears were the wrong shape, flat on top, not arched.

 "What's your problem?" he asked, squinting.

 "Thought you were someone else."

 "Yeah? Who?"

 "Eleanor Roosevelt. I was gonna ask for an autograph."

 "Hey, wait up."

 I waited up. He got out of the car slowly, stretching the kinks from his

 legs and back. He was average in height and build, but it wasn't padding

 that filled out the lines of his suit. He didn't look belligerent, so I

 wanted to see what he wanted. He came around to the front of the car

 without any wasted movement and rested his backside against the fender.

 "Yeah?" I said.

 "Nothing much, you just look familiar to me."

 "I got a common face."

 "Naw, really, you from around here?"

 "Maybe. What's your game, anyway?"

 "Minding other people's business."

 "That can be dangerous."

 "Nah. Like this job, nothing to it but following some old bitch around

 to see what kind of flies she attracts. She's filthy rich and all that

 dirt attracts plenty."

 I nodded. "And you think I'm one of them?"

 "It don't hurt to ask. Sometimes you can do a fella a good turn, keep

 him outta the courts, then maybe he feels like doing me a good turn."

 A shakedown artist to boot. Well, it's a big nasty world and you can

 meet all kinds if you stand still long enough. "You got the wrong man

 this time, ace."

 "Malcolm," he said, holding out a hand.

 My manners weren't quite bad enough to refuse, so we shook briefly and

 unpleasantly. He had a business card palmed and passed it on to me.

 "Just in case you need a troubleshooter." He smiled, tapped the brim of

 his hat, and went back around to the driver's side. "You never know." He

 slid behind the wheel, still smiling, his lips pressed together into a

 hard, dark line. He had dimples.

 I barely smiled back in the same way, but without dimples, and took a

 walk. Creeps make me nervous and I felt sorry for Mrs. Blatski, whoever

 she was.

 Oozing through the back door, I found my way to the lobby, kept out of

 view of the front windows, and got Phil's attention by waving at the

 night clerk. He crossed over casually.

 "How'd you get in? The back's locked."

 "Better check it, then. Any sign of Braxton?"

 "He ain't in the car?"

 "I had a look. It's some private dick on a divorce case."

 "Then I ain't seen him."

 "I guess that's all right, as long as they leave Miss Smythe alone."

 "It doesn't mean they stopped lookin' for you, though."

 "Yeah, but I'm being careful." We went to the back door, which I had

 unlocked once inside. Phil let me out and locked it again.

 After five minutes of studying the street I tentatively decided that my

 Buick was unobserved. I was back to feeling paranoid again and went as

 far as checking it for trip wires and sticks of dynamite. Bombs were an

 unlikely tool for Braxton, but then why take chances?

 The car was okay and even started up smoothly. There was little time

 left to get to the broadcast, but the god of traffic signals was with me

 and I breezed through the streets as quickly as the other cars would

 allow. Bobbi had left instructions with the staff about me, and as soon

 as I was identified, a brass-buttoned usher gave me an aisle seat with

 the rest of the studio audience.

 The room was smaller than I'd expected, roughly divided between audience

 and performers, with only slightly more space given over to the latter.

 There was a glassed-in control booth to one side filled with too many

 people who didn't seem to be doing much of anything at the moment. Bobbi

 was on the stage, looking outwardly calm. She was seated with a half

 dozen other people on folding chairs, all of them dressed to the nines,

 which didn't make a whole lot of sense for a radio show. Across from

 them a small band was tuning up, and in between, seated at a baby grand,

 was Marza Chevreaux flipping through some sheet music.

 I caught Bobbi's eye and gave her a smile and a thumbs-up signal. She

 smiled back, her face breaking composure to light up with excitement.

 She was in her element and loving it.

 A little guy with slicked-back hair and an oversized bow tie stepped up

 to a microphone the size of a pineapple. Someone in the booth gave him

 the go-ahead, he signed to the band, and they started up the fanfare of

 the show. For a minute I thought the little guy was Eddie Cantor, but

 his voice was different as was his style of cracking jokes. A studio

 worker in an open vest and rolled-up shirtsleeves held up big cards

 printed with instructions telling us when to clap or laugh. The audience

 liked the comedian, though, and hardly needed the prompting.

 A deep-voiced announcer stepped in to warn us against the dangers of

 inferior tires, then the band came up again, and Bobbi was given a

 flowery introduction. She was standing and ready at the mike. Marza got

 her signal from a guy in the booth, and they swung into a fast-paced

 novelty number. It was one of those oddball songs that gets popular for

 a few weeks and then you never hear of it again, about a guy who was

 like a train and the singer was determined to catch him. Off to one

 side, a sound-effects man came in on cue with the appropriate whistles

 and bells. Before I knew it I was applauding with the rest of the

 audience and Bobbi was taking her bows. She'd gone over in a big way and

 they wanted more.

 When the noise died down the comedian joined her, and they read from a

 script a few jokes about trains the song had missed. The tire man came

 on after them with his stern voice of doom, and that was when someone

 poked me in the ribs from behind.

 Braxton had turned up another gun and was hunched over me with it

 concealed in a folded newspaper.

 "Stand up and walk into the hall," he told me quietly.

 He was damned right that I'd do what he wanted. We were in a vulnerable

 crowd, and all I wanted was to get him alone outside for just two

 seconds. Showing resignation, I got up slowly and preceded him. The

 usher opened the door, his attention on the stage. He must have really

 liked tire ads.

 The hall was empty except for Matheus, who was clutching his cross and

 looking ready to spook off. Braxton had done quite a job on him.

 "I give," I said. "How'd you find me this time?"

 Braxton was smug. "We didn't have to! We've been waiting. Last night you

 said Miss Smythe was going to be in a broadcast. I merely called around

 to find out which station and when. There was a risk you wouldn't show,

 but it all worked out."

 If he expected me to pat him on the back for smarts, he'd have a long

 wait. "Okay, now what? You gonna bump me off ten feet away from a

 hundred witnesses? The wall between isn't that soundproof."

 He hadn't picked up on the fact that I wasn't as afraid of him and his

 silver bullets as I'd been last night. The gun moved a degree or two

 left. "In there, and slowly." He indicated a washroom across the hall.

 "That'll be some headline," I grumbled, " 'Journalist Found Dead in

 Men's Room; Police Suspect Lone Ranger.' Matheus, you better stay out

 here, this could be messy."

 "Shut up."

 "Have some heart, Braxton, you don't want the kid to see this. Save him

 some nightmares."

 The elevator opened at the far end of the hall and a man in a long

 overcoat got out. He noticed our group, looked at his watch, and walked

 away, turning a corner. He was just part of the background to me, but he

 made Braxton nervous. He was suddenly aware of the openness of the hall

 and didn't like it.

 "Move," he hissed. "Now. "

 I looked past him to Matheus. Our eyes locked for an instant. It was

 long enough. "Stay out here, kid."

 His expression did not change, nor did his posture, but I knew I'd

 reached him. He stood very still.

 Braxton saw this exchange and his eyebrows went up, adding more lines to

 his dry, scored forehead. The gun wavered as he tried to decide whether

 to snap the kid out of my suggestion or shoot me outright. I saved him

 the trouble; when he came a half step closer and tried to urge me

 backward, I shifted my weight as though to comply and turned it into a

 lunge. It was faster, literally faster, than he could see and much

 faster than he could react.

 The gun was now in my pocket, and he was staring at his empty hand as

 unhappy as any kid whose toy had been taken away. He looked up at me and

 thought he saw the grim reaper and made an abortive attempt to run, but

 I grabbed two fistfuls of his clothes and swung him around against the

 wall. His mouth opened and sound started to come out, but I smothered it

 with one hand.

 Far down the hall I heard approaching footsteps. It was too public here,

 so I adopted his plan and dragged him to the men's room. The door swung

 shut and I rammed a foot against its lower edge to keep people out.

 He was trying to struggle, his body bucking ineffectually against my

 hold. He was finally getting a clear idea of just how strong a vampire

 can be at night, with all his powers.

 "Hold still or I'll break your neck," I said, and perhaps I meant it. He

 subsided, his eyes squeezed shut. From the pressure of his jaw, he was

 trying to hold his chin down. I was hungry, but not that hungry. It'd be

 a cold day in hell before I'd touch his blood.

 His breath was labored, the moist air from his nose blowing out hard

 over my knuckles, and his heart raced fit to break. He needed to be

 calmer and so did I. Emotions, the kind of violent ones he stirred up in

 me, would only do him harm. I sucked in a deep lungful of air and let it

 out slowly, counting to ten. Outside someone walked past, the same steps

 that had chased us in here. They paused slightly, then went on, fading.

 His eyes turned briefly on me, then squeezed shut again.

 He had an idea of what I was trying to do and was on guard. It might be

 too difficult to break through to him without doing permanent harm. I

 shifted my grip and his eyes instinctively opened.

 "Braxton, I won't hurt you, just listen to me."

 He made a protesting sound deep in his throat. My hand relaxed enough

 over his mouth so he could speak.

 "Unclean leach--"

 "Listen to me."

 "Damned, you're--"

 "Braxton."

 "--damned to--"

 "Listen to me.''

 His muscles went slack, his lungs changing rhythm slightly. Id gotten to

 him, but had to ease up.

 "That's it, just calm down, I only want to talk."

 He looked up in a kind of despair, like a drowning man whose strength

 has gone and knows you won't make it to him in time.

 "Everything's all right"

 I didn't understand how it worked any more than I understood the

 mechanics of vanishing at will, but I had the ability and now the need.

 My conscience was kicking up, but beyond moving to another state or

 killing him, there seemed no other practical way of getting rid of him.

 "Everything's fine, we're just going to talk"

 Without any more fuss, he slipped under my control. I relaxed and opened

 my cramped hands. His eyes were glassy rather than vacant.

 "Braxton?"

 "Yes?" It was the quiet voice this time, the reasonable one he'd used at

 my parents' house.

 "Where is Maureen Dumont?"

 "I don't know." was disappointed, but not surprised. "When did you meet

 her?"

 "Years ago, long time."

 "When? What year?"

 "I was twenty-five or -six." He struggled to remember. "I opened the

 store in 1908, she would come and buy books and talk. She was so

 beautiful" His voice was softer with the memory. "She would talk with

 me. I dreamed about her. She was so beautiful."

 What had he been like back then? The brittle body might have once been

 wiry, the seamed face once smooth. There had been a firm chin and dark

 eyes and skin; yes, to a woman he might have been handsome back then.

 "Were you her lover?" I had to keep from touching him or he'd shake off

 the trance. Jealousy was foaming up inside; I couldn't touch him or lose

 control of myself.

 "I loved her. She was so--"

 "Were you her lover?" Stay steady.

 His eyes were wide, blind, searching inward for an answer. "I don't

 know."

 "What do you mean? How can you not know?"

 "I was, in my dreams. I loved her at night in my dreams. She would kiss

 me." One of his hands stole up to his neck. "She would kiss me. God, oh

 my God"

 I turned away. I never meant to hear this. "Stop."

 He became quiet, waiting and unaware while I mastered myself. There was

 no point in hating him, no point in condemning Maureen; not for

 something that had happened nearly thirty years ago. She'd loved Barrett

 and Braxton and then me. Were there others? Had she indeed loved me?

 "Braxton did you take did you ever kiss her in the same way?"

 "No."

 It was something.

 "She wouldn't let me."

 Oh, Maureen. Yes, it was something. He hadn't been that important to

 her. She'd been lonely and needed someone to hold and touch, if only in

 his dreams. That was it and that was all.

 "When did you last see her?"

 "Which time?"

 I made a guess. "The first?"

 "A year after we met. She never said good-bye; the dreams just stopped,

 I forgot them. But she came back."

 "When?"

 "Twenty years later? Twenty-two? One night she walked into the shop. I

 knew her instantly and I remembered it all. She hadn't changed, not aged

 a single day, but I--she didn't know me, not until I said her name. I

 was frightened, I knew what she was, what she had done to me and what I

 would become unless--" He relived his fear quietly, the only outward

 sign of the inner turmoil was the sweat that broke out on his face. His

 heart was racing.

 "Unless what?"

 "I wouldn't be like her, feeding on the living, sucking men's souls from

 them. If I killed her first, then I would be free. I could die free of

 her curse. I began to hunt her."

 "When? What year?"

 "In 1931."

 So this was the man. She'd run from him, leaving me standing in an empty

 room, a scribbled good-bye note in one hand and the life draining from

 my eyes. Five years of hurt, doubt, anger, and fear because this foolish

 man thought she wanted his soul instead of the warmth of his body when

 he was young.

 "Did you find her?"

 "No, but I found out about you. I knew what she'd done to you, but if I

 tried to help, you wouldn't have believed me. Your only hope was the

 same as mine--to kill her--but then you died first and now you're one of

 them. I'm sorry I couldn't have saved you."

 It was pointless trying to explain it to him. Whether Maureen lived or

 died didn't matter; we'd exchanged blood, and hoped. She'd loved me, and

 had expressed it by giving me a chance for a life beyond life so we

 would always be together. But then something had gone wrong.

 "Do you know what happened to her? Do you know where she is?"

 "No."

 "Are you the only one? Are there others hunting her?"

 "Matheus, he believed me, he knows."

 "Who else?"

 "I don't the old woman, she must know."

 "Gaylen? The old woman here?"

 "Yes. She knows something, she knew back then--"

 "What do you mean?"

 Something bumped against the door.

 "I asked, but she wouldn't--"

 Bump. "Hey, open up." A vaguely familiar voice, but not Matheus.

 --tell me. She wanted--

 "Come on out, Fleming."

 "--life to live--"

 "The kid says you're in there."

 "Cheated. She was sick--"

 "Who was? Of what?" The other voice was distracting, and I was losing

 the thread of Braxton's talk.

 "--strong frightening. I told her my story, but it was you she--"

 "Fleming, it's now or I scrag the kid."

 What the hell? I yanked the door. He was in a long coat, which changed

 him enough from the last time, so from a distance he was unrecognizable

 when he stepped off the elevator, looked at his watch, and walked away.

 A long coat, which was all wrong because it was only mid-September and

 still mild. But he wore it because that made it easy to walk into a

 building with a sawed-off shotgun concealed under it. He shouldn't have

 been here, he was supposed to be in a parked Ford waiting for Mrs.

 Blatski.

 He grinned at my surprise, his dimples nice and deep, and without any

 more expression or warning he pulled first one trigger, then the other,

 emptying both barrels into the open doorway.

 Chapter 9

 =========

 I WAS ON the tile floor. It smelled of soap, cordite, burned fiber, and

 blood.

 The impact of the blast had thrown me back against a washbasin, which

 altered the angle of fall and twisted me facedown. The agony of the shot

 passing through my body left me stunned as few things could. I fought to

 hold on to sanity and solidity. It was several long seconds before my

 shivering, jerking limbs recovered enough control to stand.

 The door still hung open, and the air was thick with blue smoke. Ten

 seconds to find my feet, five more to stagger to the hall, but it was

 long enough. Malcolm was gone.

 So was Braxton. He was on his back and not moving. The shot had all but

 cut his slight body in two. His blood flooded the black-and-white tiles.

 His face was calm and dreamy. Death had come so fast there'd been no

 time to react.

 Matheus was on his side in the hall, one hand still clutching his cross.

 A smear of blood was over his right eye and a crimson thread flowed from

 it into his hair. Still alive.

 The studio door opened. There was no time to explain, I vanished before

 anyone saw me, and sank down through the floors, hoping to reach the

 ground ahead of Malcolm. A few people were standing in the main lobby of

 the building. I took the risk of re-forming, but no one noticed; they

 were looking out the front doors. I pushed past and went outside. No

 Ford in sight, but there was a man running away, his long coat flapping.

 My legs gobbled up his fifty-yard lead and I hauled him up short and

 spun him around.

 Watery eyes, a three-day beard, no chin, stinking of booze and sweat, he

 wore Malcolm's coat or one just like it.

 "Easy, Captain!" he wheezed.

 "Where is he? Where's the blond man?"

 "Did what he said, was it good? I get another two bits if it's good. Was

 it good?"

 "What'd he tell you to do?"

 "Wait on the stairs 'n run. Captain. Lizzen fer the bang 'n run. Good

 joke, huh? Was it good?"

 It was good, it bought Malcolm enough time to get out another way while

 I chased down the wino. I ran back to the lobby. The doorman was the

 first official-looking type, so I collared him, said there'd been an

 accident at the studio and to call an ambulance, then raced upstairs to

 look for Malcolm. It was a poor chance at best, he'd be gone by now.

 The studio hall was in a mess. Men were peering into the washroom, and a

 small knot had formed around Matheus. Some woman was crying and another

 man was holding her. The stage was empty except for the chairs and

 piano. Crossing the divider between it and the audience, I was stopped

 by the man in shirtsleeves. He gaped at my shredded clothes.

 "Sorry, you have to stay out."

 "I'm with Bobbi Smythe, she was on tonight."

 "She'll be backstage, but--

 The backstage door opened to a hall full of people all looking at me,

 questions on their troubled faces.

 "Where's Bobbi Smythe?" I asked no one in particular.

 "I think she left," a woman suggested.

 "When?"

 "She was here just a minute ago," someone else said.

 There was another set of washrooms down the hall. I opened up the

 ladies' and called for Bobbi and Marza. No one answered.

 "They must have taken the back elevator," the woman told me.

 That was down the hall and around the corner, with more people in the

 way.

 "What the hell happened?"

 "I heard an explosion."

 Was it a bomb?"

 "Nan, Big Al must be back an' havin' a party."

 "Musta been a gun--Johnny said someone got shot."

 "Goddamned drunks, screwing up the show."

 I ignored their speculations and punched at the elevator button. This

 time I couldn't sink through the floors without getting unwanted

 attention, besides, the operator might have seen something.

 He had, and told me about it on the way down.

 "Yeah, the blond, a real bombshell--she stood out from that group like

 fireworks."

 "What floor?"

 "They got off on ground a few minutes ago." They?"

 "She had some harpy with her. Seemed anxious to leave, and a couple of

 others, too. What's goin' on? What happened to you?"

 We made the ground floor and I left him guessing. The back hall was

 empty, so I went around front. There was a cop in the lobby by now,

 asking questions. I waited until he was in the elevator and scanned

 faces. No Bobbi, but the doorman was still there.

 "Hey, did a blond in a red dress go out? She was with a black-haired

 woman in green."

 "Haven't seen 'em."

 "If you do, ask 'em to wait."

 "Cops say everyone has to wait, nobody gets out now."

 I went through the ground floor, again checking the washrooms, but with

 no luck. They should have left by way of the front; it was a busier

 street and more likely to have cabs, but then they shouldn't have gone

 at all. If she'd heard a man had been shot, Bobbi would have been on the

 scene to make sure it wasn't me. Marza must have dragged her out to

 protect her. Damn Marza, anyway.

 The rear exit was ajar and unguarded--so much for the cops'

 instructions. It opened to another street busy with cars and nothing

 else. I called her name, but no one answered.

 After wasting a lot of time, I finally wised up and drove back to

 Bobbi's hotel. It would be the place for them to go since it was closer

 than Marza's. Before I reached the elevator, Phil flagged me down.

 "What happened to you?" he asked, staring at the hole in my clothes

 where the shell had gone through.

 "Fight." I was in a hurry to get past him.

 "Some kid brought this in a minute ago." He gave me a large envelope

 with my name printed on it.

 "Has Miss Smythe come in?"

 "Her friend did, she's--"

 I broke away. The elevator crawled up to the fourth floor. Without

 knocking I went in. Marza was on the sofa and jerked to her feet. Her

 lacquered hair was messed up and her eyes were blazing fire.

 "Who were they?" she demanded.

 "Where's Bobbi?"

 Her body was shaking inside the green frame of her dress. "Who were

 they?" If looks could kill, I'd be on a slab next to Braxton. She

 started for me, her hands reaching. One of her inch-long talons had

 broken, but there were still nine more left and aimed at my face. I

 dropped the envelope, caught her arms in time, and held her at a safe

 distance. She kicked and struggled until she ran out of breath, then her

 knees gave out and she sank to the floor, trying not to sob from

 frustration.

 "What happened?" I asked. Somehow her raw display kept me cold and

 thinking.

 "They took her," she spat. "Who were they?"

 "When?"

 "When we left the studio. He said to come here and wait for you."

 Oh, God. "A blond man, long coat?"

 "Who was he? He had a gun--"

 "Anyone else? Was he alone?"

 "The woman with the knife." She gulped air, still shaking and her head

 sagged. Near her was the dropped envelope and its meaning suddenly

 blossomed in my mind. I grabbed it up.

 It was flat on the edges and slightly thicker in the middle and whatever

 was inside rustled against the paper. I tore one end off with stiff,

 clumsy fingers and the contents spilled out.

 Marza went dead silent, not even breathing. Her hand shot out and caught

 a last tendril of the cascade of platinum silk before it sifted to the

 floor.

 Neither of us could move, each staring with numb shock at the bright,

 soft nest between us. Marza swayed, her eyes flat from the faint coming

 on. I got her to the sofa, then went to the liquor cabinet and poured a

 straight triple from the first bottle I grabbed and made her drink it.

 She choked and pawed me away, but I made her drink it all.

 "God, I hate that stuff." Her breath smelled of rum.

 The dullness had left her eyes and she looked as though she might be

 useful again. I felt the shock hitting me now as I looked again at the

 pile of shining hair. A small piece of paper was lodged in the tangle.

 My guts were ice as I fished it out.

 Sit tight or we'll give the whore more than just a haircut.

 That was all. Marza whipped it from me and read. She was trembling, but

 trying to hold in the panic.

 "Why? What do they want?"

 There was nothing sane I could tell her. The fragments of Braxton's last

 words gave me an answer, but I was repelled by it.

 Ring.

 Marza flinched and stared at the phone as if it were a bomb.

 I picked it up and waited.

 "Jack? Marza?" It was her voice, breathless, strained.

 "Bobbi!"

 Marza stiffened and rushed in, trying to pull the phone from me.

 "Oh, Jack, they're--"

 And that was all, except for a muffled noise in the background and the

 final click of disconnection. Marza glared at me, for all the good it

 did her. I felt just as angry and helpless. We waited, but the thing

 didn't ring again.

 "What do they want?" she repeated.

 I shook my head and went to the bedroom to get away from her questions.

 Bobbi's rose scent hung lightly in the air. A couple of dresses tried on

 for the broadcast and then rejected were flung on the bed. The closet

 was open. I fumbled out of my tattered coat and shirt. Since I started

 coming over so often, she insisted I leave some spare clothes in with

 hers.

 I pulled on a fresh shirt, my fingers working mechanically, as I tried

 not to think.

 Marza was where I left her on the sofa, head in hands. "Why won't you

 tell me anything?"

 "You know as much as I do, even more. I've seen the man in the coat, his

 name is Malcolm, said he was a private eye. He shot and lulled Braxton

 tonight."

 She swallowed. "And the other? That woman?"

 "What'd she look like?"

 "I don't know."

 "Yes, you do, you said she had a knife. What else?" . "About my age,

 bony all over, and hungry. Her eyes she looked crazy. The man grabbed

 Bobbi and the woman put that knife to her throat, and they went out. He

 said to come here and wait for you."

 "Was that all he said?"

 She nodded.

 Someone knocked at the door. Our heads swiveled and she went bolt

 upright. They knocked again. I signaled to her to stay put and looked

 out the peephole. It was Madison Pruitt. He saw my eye and waved and I

 opened the door a crack.

 "Oh, Fleming, hello." He moved to come in, but I didn't stand aside.

 "Something wrong? Is the party still on? The broadcast stopped in the

 middle of--"

 "Sorry, the party's off, Bobbi got sick at the last minute--

 Marza was at my shoulder. "No, let him in. Please."

 I didn't exactly want to, but she looked like she needed him and pulled

 him inside. She wrapped her arms around him. He didn't understand what

 was going on, but instinctively offered what comfort he could.

 "What's happened? Was there an accident?"

 "Come on, I'll explain." I shut the door and made explanations. "There's

 going to be more people coming over soon, you'll have to get rid of

 them."

 "But what can we do?" Marza asked.

 "Just what I said. This guy's trying to make us nervous so we lose our

 heads. We do that and we lose Bobbi."

 "And the police?"

 "No. We don't dare."

 The phone rang again. I picked it up before the bell had died.

 P. N.- Elrod

 "It's me, Jackie boy. Malcolm--you remember."

 He got no answer.

 "You gotta behave or I might get mad. Did you read my note?"

 "Yes."

 "And you heard her on the phone?"

 "Yes."

 "Good. Now you know we mean business. Your girlfriend got her ears

 lowered a little this time, but that's all--no real harm done. You do

 what we want and she gets to keep "em."

 "What do you want?"

 "Nothing you can't handle, Jackie."

 "What?"

 "You gotta pencil?"

 I wrote out the address he gave me.

 "You come straight here and no cops. Just you or you'll never be able to

 find her again. Leave the other bitch where she is, out of trouble."

 "I'll come."

 "No smart ideas, either. We know all about you. That's why I aced the

 squirt, just to let you know. You see, I can't really hurt you, but the

 people around you is something else. No tricks. When you walk to the

 door you make noise and stay in sight, 'cause if you don't, your girl

 won't be using mirrors, either, but for a different reason. You got ten

 minutes to get here before she goes into surgery." He laughed, the line

 clicked, and my ear was pressed to dead air.

 Marza's nails dug into my arm. "What do they mean? Where is she?"

 "They want me, not her."

 "But why?"

 I memorized the address and tore the sheet from my notebook, folding it

 around Malcolm's business card. I scribbled Escott's name and the name

 of his hotel on the outside and gave it to her.

 "This is a friend who can help us, but he's in New York. Call this

 hotel, they might be able to locate him. Say it's an emergency, life and

 death, but don't tell the truth to anyone but him. If he calls, give him

 the story, but no cops or Bobbi's dead. You got that?"

 She nodded.

 "He's got an English accent. In the meantime stay off the phone and keep

 the door shut."

 "Yes, but-"

 But I had bolted out the door, car key in hand and murder on my mind.

 The address led to a warehouse that was a mountain of dingy red bricks

 and old wood held together by crumbling mortar and rusty nails. The

 street was deserted, the other nearby structures hollow and silent

 except for the rats. It was a good spot to kill someone. The river was

 only ten feet from the back entrance, and a body could easily be slipped

 unnoticed into the oily water on a black night.

 The building was three stories tall, and a faint light shone in one of

 the top windows, outlining Malcolm's head and shoulders. He took his hat

 off and waved it. There was nothing else to do but go inside and see the

 setup. They knew what I was and what my capabilities were, but Malcolm

 was supremely confident, and that meant a bad situation for Bobbi. I

 glared at the grinning, waving figure, then tore open the warehouse door

 and left it on the walk.

 The stink of wet rotted wood, oil, and exhaust filled the place. The

 exhaust was new and had come from Malcolm's Ford, the engine was still

 hot and ticking. Next to it was a paneled truck backed up against a

 loading bay, and beyond that, a freight elevator. Somewhere a motor

 whined into reluctant life, and the elevator descended from the top

 floor. It leveled and stopped. The doors opened horizontally like a set

 of teeth.

 "Hey, it's the death of the party," said Malcolm, still grinning.

 "Where is she?"

 "I'll take you to her, Jackie boy." He gestured and I stepped onto the

 split, cracked boards, and he sent us grinding upward, to the top floor.

 He wrenched the doors open and motioned me to follow, feeling safe

 enough to turn his back on me as we crossed a hundred feet of empty

 storeroom. The dirty windows overlooking the street and river had been

 tilted open in an attempt to make a cross breeze, but the place was

 still stuffy. We approached a line of doors against the far wall; three

 on the right, four on the left, in the center an arched opening to a

 stairwell. Light seeped from under two closed doors in the line. He went

 to the one next to the outside wall and opened it.

 A bare bulb hanging from a plain wire and socket disclosed a small bare

 room. Broken glass was all over the floor, and empty panes framed the

 sky and some buildings across the river. In years long past, someone had

 had a nice view. Malcolm followed me in to stand by the windows. He

 looked out and down, waved once, then turned to me.

 "Where is she?"

 "One thing at a time." He pointed at something on the floor. It was a

 flat parcel of folded brown paper. "You check that out first."

 There was no reason to refuse; he had a purpose to his games and I had

 to play. I picked it up. It was very light and (he paper came apart

 easily. Bobbi's red silk dress slithered into my hands.

 I started for him and he took an involuntary step back, then recovered.

 "Don't do it, not 'til you see--"

 My hands closed on his throat.

 "See what, you shit?"

 His eyes rolled toward the window and I followed their path.

 The river was night black and smooth, stray lights caught in the surface

 barely moving. Below the window was a concrete loading pier with metal

 rings set in it. A length of rope was tied to one, and the other end

 went to an old flat-bottomed boat floating some thirty feet out. The

 woman Maria described crouched in the boat, leaning over its near side

 with her hand in the water. She was looking anxiously up at us.

 "Let go now," he gasped out urgently, and his distorted tone

 suddenly convinced me. I released him and backed away so that we were

 clearly separated.

 The woman in the boat took her hand out of the water and pulled on

 another piece of rope as though for an anchor, but instead a head broke

 the surface. It shook and shuddered, water streaming only from the nose,

 because the mouth was taped shut. Her eyes were bulging with utter

 terror.

 Oh, my God.

 Malcolm coughed, recovering. "And don't run down for her. She's tied

 like a mummy and weighted. The second you walk away from this window

 Norma lets the rope go, and down she sinks. You'd never get to her in

 time, not with your problem about crossing water."

 I could cross water if I had to, but it was slow going. I'd never get to

 her in time. Never. I swung back on him, but he read my purpose and

 didn't look directly at me.

 "No fish-eye, Jackie, I gotta stay in sight from now on. Norma has her

 orders, and if she thinks something's wrong with me, the girl is dead.

 You understand that? I gotta stay in her sight."

 Numbly, I looked down, straight into Bobbi's eyes. They locked

 helplessly on mine, pleading. I called to her, not sure she could hear

 me. Her expression didn't change.

 "Good," he murmured. "Real good." He took the dress from me, folding and

 rolling it into a ball. "I don't blame you. She's a classy twist. Nice,

 like I always wanted to get for myself. She needed a lot of help getting

 out of this. I had to hold her down while Norma did the honors. I like

 'em to fight, y'know? That always gets me going. A body like that must

 feel good under you, huh?"

 "Shut up!''

 He abruptly stepped away from the window. Norma pushed Bobbi under. I

 grabbed for him, but he dodged.

 "Say you're sorry."

 "I'm sorry! Damn it, come back! I'm sorry!"

 He eased back. Norma brought her up again. Bobbi's eyes flickered

 groggily, and her head lolled.

 "Again, like you mean it."

 "I'm sorry," I whispered sincerely, but it was to Bobbi.

 "You promise to behave?"

 I nodded. Tried to swallow. Couldn't.

 His smile returned. "That's real good."

 "What do you want?"

 "Like I said, nothing you can't handle." In a louder voice aimed at the

 next room over he called, "It's all right, you can come now."

 A door scraped open, a rubbing, grating sound crawled over the floor,

 and she rolled into sight. The harsh yellow light did funny things to

 colors and Gaylen's blue eyes had faded to a pale, cold gray. She was in

 her wheelchair with the rubber-tipped cane across her knees. She looked

 up.

 frowning. Malcolm turned to face the window, giving us a kind of

 privacy. Neither of us spoke, each holding still like actors at the end

 of a play before the lights go out and the curtain falls.

 At last she drew in a breath and spoke. "I didn't want to do it this

 way. I really didn't, but you wouldn't understand, you--

 "You asked this of Maureen?"

 Her answer was plain. There'd been fire in Marza's eyes, but Gaylen's

 held acid. Sometime long ago they had argued it all out, and Maureen had

 realized the truth and run. Her note said, Some people are after me

 because of what I am Turned another way, the meaning changed. It was

 not Braxton she had feared with his cross and silver bullets, it was her

 sister. Five years ago she'd left to protect me. Had she stayed it would

 have been me down there with Norma, and Maureen standing where I was

 now.

 "I begged her. It was just one little thing, and I would have left her

 alone forever had she wished. I asked you, and is it so much? All you

 can tell me are the shortcomings. They're nothing to what I'm going

 through now. This body is old and crippled and I hate it! I want to

 live!"

 "You have to die for that--if it works."

 "What's death compared to the pain I feel whenever I move? And as for it

 working, it must! Maureen changed and I'm her sister, I know it would

 change me."

 "What about Braxton?"

 "I tried to explain to him and he was too pigheaded with his talk of

 contamination and souls to listen."

 "He was never a danger to either of us."

 "Never?"

 "I was taking care of the problem when this Braxton was a nuisance,

 but he didn't deserve to die."

 "He did if I wanted to make you understand how serious I am. It could

 have been anyone else--someone walking next to you on the street, your

 detective friend--anyone. Time and circumstances made him a convenient

 target." She let that sink in.

 My hands clenched and I longed for the luxury of closing them around her

 neck.

 "But that's past and finished. I want you to think about the girl.

 You've seen her and you know there are no safe alternatives but one, and

 what I'm asking for is not so terrible."

 I turned away as though thinking. I had no choice but to agree, but she

 expected reluctance and was getting it. "You don't know what you're

 asking."

 But she'd heard that one before and had the same answer ready. "I do

 know, and I'm not asking now. Do what I want and the girl goes free. You

 already know what happens otherwise."

 "You'd let them do that?"

 "Yes."

 My eyes were on Bobbi's face. "Will you free her unharmed?"

 "Yes."

 "All right."

 She gave a sigh, very much like the one that came over the lines when

 I'd first called. "Good, then come here."

 "Let her go first."

 "No."

 I glanced over my shoulder at Malcolm.

 She shook her head. "No. He is to watch. If he thinks anything is wrong,

 he will take steps."

 "Steps?"

 "Whatever he thinks is necessary." She gave him her cane.

 I looked at him. He was watching me, but not smiling as before, and I

 liked it a lot less.

 "Come over here," she repeated. She extended her left arm, wrist up,

 blue veins bulging slightly beneath the thin crinkled skin. "Now. Do it

 now."

 At least I'd be spared the intimate contact with her throat. To save

 Bobbi I would have done even that, but the thought of touching her in

 this way was sickening, and it showed on my face. She waited, though,

 until I moved a few reluctant steps closer. Her eyes took in every

 movement, as did Malcolm's. It was worse than being naked.

 "Now, Jack," she whispered.

 But the body was not cooperating. True, I had not yet fed; the hunger

 was there, but not the will. It would be many more days of fasting

 before I could overcome the physical revulsion with physical need.

 My mouth came within an inch of the crepe-textured flesh, smelling

 faintly of some kind of soap and with a smear of paint on the upturned

 wrist. She painted pictures.

 "Now."

 Pictures of flowers. What had Pruitt said about flowers? Roses for

 Bobbi, fading now, and I had to do this or Bobbi--

 "Wow. "

 Damn her. With cattle in the Stockyards it was simple feeding, a

 necessary chore. With Bobbi it was the only means left to express

 physical love. With Gaylen it was obscene and humiliating, and blinding

 white fury was the result. Most of my concentration was on holding in

 the rage or the old woman would find herself and her chair crashing

 through one of the walls.

 She refused to meet my eyes, staring at her bared arm instead.

 "Look at me," I said.

 "No. "

 "Look at me."

 "Malcolm"

 His step behind me.

 Bobbi. My eyes dropped.

 "Wait, Malcolm."

 He paused, then moved back.

 Damn her. God damn her to hell.

 Then anger tipped things and my canines emerged the necessary length and

 cut hard through her skin, tearing silently. It hurt and her arm jerked,

 but her free hand came down and she forced it to be still again. I

 swallowed her thin, bitter blood and tried not to choke. I thought of

 cattle and tried to pretend it was no more than a routine feeding,

 something my mind could handle to keep from retching, because if I

 stopped now I could not do this again and Bobbi

 The worst of it was that blood was blood, and my body began to accept

 it. Never mind the source, that didn't matter. This was food, all food

 and usable. Hot strength flowed down and through and I held on more

 firmly. She wanted me to take her blood, then so be it. Tonight I could

 and would take it all, and then I'd deal with Malcolm. I'd open his mind

 up like a tin can and not care what mess I made of it as long as he

 freed Bobbi.

 "That's enough." Her teeth were set from the pain because I was not

 being careful with her.

 No, now I make my own choice.

 "Stop."

 I'll drain you dry until there's not enough blood in you to keep your

 brain conscious and your head droops--

 "I said enough."

 --and your heart stops because there's nothing left to pump and

 everything winds down to a final stillness and all that's left is a

 hundred pounds of carcass and a bad memory--

 "Malcolm" Her voice was weaker, frightened.

 --and I lift my head in time to see it coming as a blur, but he's

 already into the swing and it's too late to react. The thing hits me

 square and hard and sends my skull spinning into the light, and I

 fall--fall--and hit something hard--and lie still--

 The yellow bulb burned my eyes; I was faceup on the boards, with the two

 of them staring down at me to see if I were alive. That's hard to do,

 since there's no pumping of lungs or beating heart.

 Malcolm set aside the cane he used to crack my skull, waved out the

 window with his hat, and knelt closer.

 "Jesus, look at his eyes."

 "Yes, they get that color during feeding. It fades."

 And when we make love, so Bobbi and I leave the lights out Light--the

 damned thing was boring right through me.

 "If he's dead-"

 "He can't be. You said they were tough, that there's only one way for

 them." He passed a hand over my eyes. His pink fingertips brushed the

 lashes and I blinked. He looked relieved. "It's all right, he's just

 stunned. What went wrong?"

 "Never mind. Are they coming?"

 "Yeah, but I think Norma needs some help."

 "She can handle it." She was wrapping a handkerchief around her arm to

 stop the flow. Her face was white and her hands shook. I'd been very

 close but could do nothing more. The room spun sickeningly with the

 light bulb in the center and I couldn't move. It was different from

 being hit with a stone, I wasn't vanishing to heal. Something about my

 nature and the nature of wood prevented it, but I knew I'd recover soon

 and the feeding would help. A few more minutes

 Malcolm grabbed my ankles and dragged me from the room. My arms fanned

 out uselessly over my head; I was unable to control them or anything

 else. He had struck with killing strength, leaving me helpless.

 Grunting and straining, he got me through the door and around a corner

 into the stairwell. We were on the top floor, but there was still one

 last flight leading up to the roof. He struggled hard with my weight

 until the length of my body was stretched halfway up. My head hung off

 the angle of the step, turning the room upside down for me. My knuckles

 brushed the landing.

 I tried to move and got only the smallest quivering along the muscles

 for all the effort. Not yet, perhaps in a few more minutes, but not yet.

 "Hurry," she said. She had wheeled her chair into the landing, set the

 brake, and Malcolm helped her out. He was as solicitous as any boy scout

 helping an old lady across the street. She shuffled close to me and

 stiffly sat on one of the steps below my head. With icy misery, I

 realized what was coming.

 Her breathing was hoarse and labored. I'd taken a lot of blood from her,

 after all. Now she was going to take it back. This was the exchange she

 had to have. It had been very necessary for Malcolm to hit me and keep

 me quiet or I would not have been able to stand it.

 She hovered close with something in her hand, but kept it just out of

 view. She turned my head away and I was staring at Malcolm. His eyes

 were peeled back with excited interest and he struggled to control his

 nervous laughter.

 A tugging at my throat, a sharp sting, and then a strangled gag escaped

 me as she cut into the artery. I'd been placed head down so that gravity

 would speed the flow. Warm and wet, it trickled past my chin onto my

 face, filled a crevice in the corner of my mouth, overflowed, and

 skirted my eye and into my hair, tickling my ear and finally dripping

 onto the stairstep.

 She drew a steadying breath and lowered her mouth to the open wound.

 I didn't know how much it might take to secure the change she wanted,

 perhaps only a single mouthful was sufficient. She kept her lips hard on

 my neck, swallow after swallow, drinking quickly to keep up with the

 flow until it was too much for her and she had to stop. She was still

 alive and a living human unused to it cannot handle large quantities of

 blood, physically or mentally. She leaned back against the wall, eyes

 shut as she caught her breath.

 Malcolm stepped forward and helped her back to her chair. "Can I-"

 "No, later. I'll do for you later. I promise. Take me to the truck, I

 must rest."

 "I thought--

 "Yes, you're right. Finish it."

 The flow from my neck slowed and stopped. She must have used some wooden

 instrument to cut me--a sharp piece of ebony, perhaps. The pain in my

 head was subsiding, but not as fast as I wanted. Controlled movement was

 still a moment or two away. My arms were working a little, enough for

 the muscles to contract. It was a start

 Malcolm's upside-down image was smiling at me; it grinned, it giggled. A

 long pole was in his hands, one chiseled end protected by a sharp metal

 tip to keep the point on the wood from splintering.

 Panic roared up and took over. I tried to vanish and felt only a flicker

 of response brush over the nerves. The shock of the wooden cane had been

 too much. I needed more time and had none. My hands came up in a feeble

 effort to push away the tip of the pole. There was no strength in them.

 I was absolutely, utterly--oh, God wo

 With all his weight behind it, he rammed the thing into my chest and

 blood shot up and out. My body shook and bucked as if with seizure,

 hands clawed, legs kicked. A terrible suffocating weight settled on me,

 crushing and smothering out the life.

 He pushed once more and the shattering, engulfing agony negated all

 thought and effort as a dying animal's shrieks filled the building;

 ugly, frightening screams that shook the walls and went on and on until

 there was no more air for the lungs to push out. The mouth hung

 uselessly open, and the last echoes hammered down the stairs and were

 finally lost in the darkness below.

 Chapter 10

 ==========

 FIRE.

 BLACK FIRE.

 Black fire you can't see or hear or smell, only feel, and by then it's

 too late. It's caught hold and is consuming everything.

 Searing black fire that fills the chest from the inside out, until it

 should explode from the heat and end things forever, hut doesn't. The

 silent body lies inert, enduring and somehow still conscious. Death is

 too far away for sanity to remain.

 Gaylen's chair wheels grinding over the flooring, Malcolm's steps

 fading crunch, bump, and they were in the elevator. The door was

 pulled shut and they began to descend. He would load her into the truck

 and they would go somewhere else. Somewhere Bobbi They'd pulled

 her out--their voices said as much in the distance

 Move. Move something.

 Bobbi had seen their faces, they couldn't afford to let her go. Gaylen

 would never take that chance.

 But she had promised. She had--

 Did a finger twitch? Or was that imagination?

 My hands had only found movement at the end, when the wood stake plunged

 into me. The right one found direction, clawing to pull it out, and the

 left had convulsively torn through part of the steps. It was still

 there; damp river air curled around my fingers.

 Doors slammed shut. The motors started, gears shifted, and they rumbled

 into the street.

 Try to move.

 Nothing. The body was still and dead, the brain was just taking a little

 longer. The cold was creeping slowly up my legs--cold and then numbness,

 something familiar and unpleasant. It was what had happened when I tried

 to stay awake past sunrise to see what it was like. I fought the

 numbness and clung to the pain. If I gave in and let the sleep take me

 now I would never wake up again.

 Move.

 Nothing.

 Nothing at all for an infinity.

 Alone in the dark with the pain and the cold and the fear for Bobbi.

 Would it be quick for her? Would they let her go?

 Foolish thought.

 Numbness from feet to knees. In a few hours it would reach my burst

 heart and smother the black fire raging there.

 A soft crunch, conducted up through the stairs. It repeated and

 resolved; grit trapped between shoe soles and the flooring. Probably

 Malcolm returning at last to get rid of the body. I hadn't heard the

 truck coming back; must have blacked out for a while. I thought

 unhappily of the dirty river water closing over my head.

 Scrape, scrunch. Pause. Not Malcolm, he wouldn't be so cautious. A

 tramp, then. He was in for a nasty surprise when he got to the top

 landing.

 Numbness from knees to waist. Death was taking me an inch at a time and

 moving faster than I'd thought. Soon the ice and nothingness would flow

 over my brain

 Move, damn it, move.

 Someone breathing softly, listening at the foot of the landing below me,

 heart pounding, anticipating possible danger from above. Maybe he'd

 spotted my left hand poking through the underside of the steps and was

 having second thoughts about coming the rest of the way.

 The first thin tendrils of cold streamed into my vitals like a dusting

 of snow off a glacier.

 Heart thundering now, lungs taking short drafts of air, and then a long

 one as he came up the last flight and stopped because now he could see

 me. I heard in his voice some fraction of the agony that was holding me

 so helpless. Jack Oh, my God Oh, my dear God" tried to

 speak, tried to move, but the slightest flicker of an eyelid was too

 much. The thing piercing my chest held me frozen. I could not tell him

 that some part of me was still alive.

 Then Escott's hand closed around the stake.

 God, yes, pull it out.

 He pulled once, twice, then stopped because the gurgling sob that came

 out of me startled him. Coming back to life was almost as bad as dying.

 The third tug did the job, and it scraped between the ribs, shook the

 breastbone, and finally came free. Blood welled up coldly in the wound,

 quenching the fire there, and the body shuddered as the numbness

 retreated a little.

 His hands went under my arms and he eased me from the stairs until my

 body was level, slowing the downward flow of blood I couldn't afford to

 lose. My eyes were open now.

 He looked worse than I felt, with his paper white face and new lines

 formed by the horror of what had been done to me and what he had had to

 do. I'd read a lot of nonsense about vampires, but there was truth to

 the stories about those killed; when the end came, it came violently and

 loud, and mine had been no different. The walls of the stairwell were

 splashed with gore, and from the dampness soaking into my clothes, I

 knew I was lying in a pool that had formed on the floor below the steps.

 The cold was coming back and I tried to tell him about it, but couldn't

 draw the breath to do so. Thanks for coming, Charles. It's too late, but

 thanks all the same. Maybe you can track them down before they kill

 Bobbi.

 My eyes rolled up and the dark closed in. Jack!"

 The lids twitched. They were so heavy. At least this time it wouldn't

 hurt.

 He was doing something, making short, choppy movements above me. "Stay

 with me, Jack. Damn your eyes, stay with me."

 Fingers forced my lips back. He pulled my teeth apart and the first

 drops seeped into my mouth. I gagged, fighting him.

 "Stay with me," he hissed.

 It was hardly more than a taste, enough to seize my attention, but not

 nearly enough to do me any real good. I couldn't let him risk himself.

 "Stay"

 I turned my head away or tried to, but his other hand grabbed my hair

 and held me in place.

 "Stay"

 Then I accepted it. Fully.

 My teeth abruptly pierced his skin, and the red warmth flowed more

 freely. He recoiled--perhaps from pain, perhaps from revulsion at what I

 was doing--then recovered, knowing that I couldn't help myself. I still

 desperately wanted to live. The instincts born from my changed nature

 had taken over and ignored the faint, dissonant warning that I could

 kill him if I went too far.

 I ignored it--and I drank.

 A heavy engine driving a heavier load. Men distantly shouting to each

 other. The lazy lap of wash as the barge passed along the river three

 stories below. The city was slowly waking, or maybe it had never really

 been asleep.

 Some long time earlier I'd found the strength to push away his lifeline,

 hopefully before it was too late.

 My eyes were squeezed shut as much from the effort of recovery as to

 avoid looking at him. I wasn't quite able to do that just yet.

 "Come on. Jack, no games. Are you still with us? Wake up."

 His voice was thin, but conversationally normal. Some of the crushing

 weight on my soul melted away. I wanted to shout from the relief.

 "That's it, open them so I know you're all right."

 I did, but couldn't focus too well and didn't want to look at the stuff

 on the walls. The lids came down again like lead bricks. He, at least,

 was still alive. I was too shattered and sick to be very certain of my

 own chances.

 He continued, trying to encourage me. "The bleeding in your chest

 stopped. It closed right up once I took that bloody great stick out."

 He couldn't have meant it as a joke. My head wobbled from side to side

 as though to deny the thought. The cold and numbness were gone, but

 shock and weakness were left in their place. I could move again, barely.

 "You'll be all right." He sounded very convincing, but I wasn't quite

 ready to believe him yet.

 I drew an experimental breath to talk, and heard and felt a bubbling

 noise within. It developed into a spasm and I rolled on one side in a

 fit of coughing. One of my lungs had been pierced and was full of blood

 and fluid. This alarmed Escott, but I felt his steadying hand on my

 shoulder as I hacked some of it out. The business passed and I flopped

 back, exhausted.

 I took another breath, shallow this time, to avoid coughing. It stayed

 inside without discomfort and wheezed out in what I hoped was a

 recognizable name.

 He understood. "Your friends told me where you'd gone. They've heard

 nothing from the kidnappers yet."

 I tried another breath, felt the cough beginning, and forced it to

 subside. "Gaylen did this--"

 "You needn't explain, I found out a great deal about Miss Dumont in New

 York."

 "Came back?"

 "Yes, that's why I returned early. I thought things might be urgent, so

 I flew back. It only took five hours, but I'm sorry it couldn't have

 been faster."

 He was sitting, his knees drawn up and his back to the wall about a yard

 away, a handkerchief tied around his left wrist. With a wry expression,

 he retrieved a folding knife from the floor.

 "Hadn't time to sterilize it. If I get lockjaw, it will be your fault."

 He tucked it away in a pocket and said nothing more of what else had

 happened.

 "Did they give you any idea where they were going?" he asked.

 I shook my head. "Took her away. Another woman with them. Malcolm--" I

 had to stop for the coughing.

 "That's all right," he told me. "I'll see to it, I'll do my best."

 "No cops?"

 "No," he assured me. "Do you think you can move?"

 "Can try." One thin, stained hand gripped the stair rail and pulled, the

 other pushed against the floor. He helped, but it was too much. The

 cough returned and the convulsions doubled me over.

 "Have to wait." I whispered. "Weak."

 He looked away, uneasy. "You can't wait long, the sun will be coming up

 shortly."

 "When?" I had no sense of time passing. The whole night must have

 slipped by.

 "About thirty minutes."

 It was no good, I needed hours to recover--and my earth. "My trunk.

 Bring it here. I have to--"

 "Certainly, if you'll be all right alone."

 There wasn't much choice. He could probably carry me down to his car,

 but I was in no shape to move. The trip could kill me if I were exposed

 to the sun in this weakened state. I nodded yes, and hoped I was telling

 the truth.

 It took him a little longer than thirty minutes. Though I was in a

 shadowed area, I was too feeble to fight the daylight blaring through

 the broken windows. I slipped into a half-aware trance, eyes partially

 open and unblinking.

 He did finally return with the smaller of my two trunks, loaded down

 with two bags of earth. I must have looked really dead then, for he

 paused to check for a pulse and heartbeat before putting me into the

 trunk. There were none to be found, of course, but he was optimistic.

 As soon as I was lowered onto the bags inside I went out completely.

 The next night I surprised myself and woke up.

 Escott was perched on a chair, peering at me. "How do you feel?"

 A reasonably important question, I thought it over while checking things

 from the inside out. "Alive," was the conclusion. I didn't mention the

 ton of iron wrapped tightly around my chest or that my head felt like a

 balloon ready to pop. My nose and throat hurt as well, but they were

 much less noticeable.

 "Bobbi?" I asked.

 He shook his head. "I have been trying."

 We were both silent. If Bobbi were not free by now there was little or

 no chance of her still being alive. After what Gaylen had done to

 Braxton and then me The emptiness inside yawned deeper and blacker.

 Escott saw and guessed what was going on. "Jack, I need you thinking,

 not feeling. There's still a chance for her."

 "Yeah, just give me a minute." It took longer than a minute to shut it

 all down. I had to make myself believe she was alive. Anything else had

 to be kicked out or I'd be useless. Bobbi was alive and needed help, and

 that was that.

 Escott got up while I was adjusting things. We were in his hare dining

 room, the only place on the ground floor with just one window. The panes

 of glass were now covered with sheets of cardboard to block out the

 day's sun. He pulled it all down, stacking the stuff neatly on a packing

 crate and twitching the curtains back together. Outside, a steady rain

 was streaming down the glass.

 I was on a cot set up near one wall, on top of a bedsheet on top of a

 layer of my earth. It felt much more comfortable and civilized than

 lumpy bags inside a cramped trunk. My stained clothes had been stripped

 away and most of the blood on my skin cleaned off. Modesty had been

 preserved by a blanket tucked up to my chin.

 He came back and sat down. Instead of the handkerchief, there was a neat

 padding of bandage circling his wrist. The skin on his face was tight,

 with dark smudges under his eyes from no sleep. Last night and the

 following day had been no picnic for him, either.

 "I'm glad you're better. You looked quite ghastly earlier."

 "How bad was it?"

 "Bad enough. The blood loss was massive--it was as though your death a

 month ago had caught up with you." His eyes shifted uneasily away from

 the memory.

 I dimly recalled my hand clutching the stair rail and noting its

 thinness. In retrospect, it was not so much thin as skeletal. I looked

 at my hands now. They were normal.

 The movement caused a tugging at my cheek. "What's all this?" There was

 tape on my face and a rubber tube leading into my nose. The other end of

 it was connected to an upside-down glass bottle hanging from a metal

 stand. The bottle was half-full of some recognizable red liquid.

 He stopped looking so grim. "It began as an experiment and proved

 successful. I borrowed the equipment from Dr. Clarson--remember the

 fellow who stitched me up--then made a visit to the Stockyards to obtain

 six quarts of animal blood. I daresay they thought I was more than a

 little mad, but they humored me and I returned here to set it up. You

 looked awful and I couldn't tell if you were alive or not, but thought

 it all worth a try. It did help you that time you were sun-blind"

 I was astonished.

 "You needed it. The first bottle was empty within a quarter hour and the

 others with decreasing slowness throughout the day, and each one filled

 you out a little more. With the lack of normal vital signs it was

 extremely encouraging. I originally considered trying a needle and tube

 in your arm, but decided against it. Your body, I suppose, has been

 adjusted to absorb and process blood through the stomach walls, and I

 was reluctant to tamper with the system by putting it directly into the

 veins. I'm still very much mystified by your condition. It really

 shouldn't work--not without a heart to pump and lungs to oxygenate, it

 really shouldn't."

 He looked as though I should have an answer for him. I shrugged and

 shook my head, just as puzzled. "Beats me, but as long as it does work

 I'm not complaining. Where'd you learn to do all this?" I tugged at the

 tube, which itched where I couldn't scratch.

 "Please, allow me." He began gently pulling the tube out; there seemed

 to be a lot of it. "I learned in a hospital when I was very young. I

 once thought I wanted to be a doctor, so one of my father's friends got

 me a job there, but it never worked out."

 "Why not?"

 He rolled up the tubing and unhooked the bottle. "Too squeamish," he

 said with a perfectly straight face, and carried the stuff off to the

 kitchen.

 I sat up cautiously, my chest still aching. Some leftover fluid in the

 lung shifted and burbled with the position change.

 When I didn't collapse into a coughing fit, I stood and followed him,

 but slowly, wrapped in the blanket like a refugee.

 Near the sink were a number of similar glass containers, all empty.

 "All that went into me?"

 He turned on the tap, upended the bottle, and rinsed it out. The beef

 blood gurgled around the drain, and rushing water diluted it and carried

 it down. Involuntarily I thought of the walls in the stairwell and

 looked away.

 "Nearly five out of six," he said. "There's one left in there if you

 need it." With his elbow he indicated the refrigerator. He'd been

 through a lot setting this up and then waiting to see if it worked.

 Faced with the same grim task and my inert and unpromising carcass, I

 might have given up before starting.

 "Are you all right?" I asked him in turn.

 He knew just what I meant. "A little light-headed when I move too fast,

 but otherwise there are no ill effects." Charles I"

 He could see it coming and grimaced. "Please don't be an embarrassing

 ass about this. I only did what was necessary."

 I nearly said something anyway, but held it back. He acted as though

 he'd done nothing more than loan me a book, and wanted to keep it that

 way. All right, my very good friend, if you insist. But thank you for my

 life, all the same.

 The phone rang, and he answered.

 "Escott."

 The voice on the other end was familiar and not one I expected.

 "Yes, he's up now He seems to be. What have you heard? Very well.

 We'll talk and I'll let you know." He put the earpiece back on the hook.

 "Gordy?"

 "You're surprised."

 "The last time you saw him he was poking a gun at you."

 "Forgive and forget. Besides, he never really wanted to kill me."

 Unconcerned, he crossed back with the bottles and busily loaded them

 into a cardboard box on the table. "From whut you told me about him, I

 decided we needed his assistance. He has a large organization of eyes

 and ears and is more than willing to help us locate Miss Smythe. I

 called and told him everything that happened and he's been tearing this

 city apart since dawn. He just called now to inquire after your health,

 but unfortunately has no news for us."

 Next to the box on the table were some of my things-watch, pencil, keys,

 wallet, and notebook. He'd made an attempt to clean it all but the

 notebook was a loss. The pages were rusty brown and stuck together. If

 he were so squeamish, how the hell had he been able to--

 "Charles."

 He paused, following my hand as I peeled a page open.

 It was still legible. "There, I wrote it down and forgot it. Can you

 trace license plates this late? Can Gordy?"

 "Is it Gaylen's?"

 "No, her bullyboy. That blond crazy, Malcolm."

 He remembered. "Yes, Gordy and I went to his office, but could trace him

 no farther. He was very careful about his personal papers; the place was

 cleaned out."

 "This was to his Ford, the one he was in outside her hotel. Maybe

 there's an address other than his office."

 "We can try." His voice was level, but charged with hope as he got back

 on the phone, relayed the numbers to Gordy. then quickly hung up. "Now

 we must wait. He'll call as soon as he has anything."

 There was someone else waiting. "What about Marza?"

 "She's still at Miss Smythe's hotel with Mr. Pruitt. She is upset, but

 in control, as when I talked with her last night. You'd left for the

 warehouse quite some time before I arrived, and I got only her version

 of things. I would be most interested if you could tell me what events

 led up to your being impaled in a stairwell in such a disreputable

 neighborhood."

 It was the way he said it that made it seem funny. I started to laugh.

 It was probably just a normal release of pent-up emotion, but it turned

 into a coughing fit. I forced it all back, holding on to my aching

 chest.

 "You should lie down, you're not nearly recovered yet."

 "Nah, I'll be all right. Lemme get some clothes on and I'll tell you

 what happened."

 I wandered up to the bathroom and tried not to think about Bobbi while I

 bathed, shaved, and hacked out the last of the junk in my lung. In less

 than thirty minutes I was dressed and in his parlor, finishing my story

 to him about last night's events. I stuck to the bare facts and left out

 the emotions. The earlier laughter was long gone by now, and my hands

 were trembling when I'd finished.

 With a pipe clenched in his teeth, Escott listened, with closed eyes,

 stretched out on the sofa. The only sign he was awake was an occasional

 puff of smoke from his lips. It drifted up to get lost in the dusk of

 the ceiling. Only one lamp was on in the room, a stiff brass thing on a

 table by the window. The rain had slacked off a little, but in the

 distance, the sky rumbled with the promise of more.

 "Your turn," I said. "Why did you leave for New York so suddenly, and

 what were you doing up in Kingsburg?"

 He removed the pipe to talk. "It wasn't sudden to me. I was here

 digesting Herr Braungardt's excellent meal and thinking over our

 interview with Gaylen. The more I thought, the more my eye kept drifting

 to my packed bag. There was a night train leaving for New York and I

 simply saw no reason to delay."

 "So you left."

 "When I got to the city and began looking into things, it became obvious

 that Gaylen's information was useless. The addresses were nonexistent

 and the phone number a blind. The address you gave me was real enough,

 but by then I had reversed things and was intent on backtracking Gaylen

 rather than Maureen. It did not take long once I located the right

 papers and records, and then the reasons behind the falsehoods began to

 emerge. That led me to Kingsburg. Ten years ago Maureen had Gaylen

 confined to a private asylum located there."

 "What? She put her own sister in a nuthouse?"

 He opened one eye in my direction. "You know you have a bent toward

 colorful language that I find most entertaining."

 "And you're funny, too. Go on."

 He shut his eye and continued. "It was an expensive place, the sort that

 the wealthy patronize when they have inconvenient relatives. The

 patients, no matter how lively, are treated with velvet gloves, but kept

 under strict watch. The usual sort found there are alcoholics and drug

 addicts, but occasionally they take in someone like Gaylen. Her

 daughter, Maureen, had her declared mentally incompetent--"

 "But they--"

 "Yes, you and I know they were sisters, but I imagine it would have

 looked odd if Maureen gave that fact to the doctors."

 "And if Gaylen insisted--"

 "Which she did at first, according to the doctor I talked to, and that

 insistence only reinforced the reasons for her being there, at least for

 a while. It was there she became friends with another patient, Norma

 Gryder."

 "The woman helping them. Why was she there?"

 "Morphine addict. They escaped together in 1931 and vanished."

 "Maureen found out and had to run to protect herself and me, to try and

 prevent what I walked right into."

 "It seems likely. Perhaps all this time they were keeping an eye on you

 through your ad just as Braxton had been doing. She would also need more

 dependable help than Norma could provide and would be looking for

 someone like Malcolm. When your notice was canceled they had to find out

 why. I should never have brought it to your attention."

 "You couldn't have known. They were worried, though. She was genuinely

 relieved when I showed up on the doorstep."

 "And genuinely horrified about Braxton, and she lost no time in trying

 to persuade you to this blood exchange when she knew I'd be going to New

 York. My return or an untimely telegram would have ruined it all for

 her, but your own instincts made you turn down her request, causing her

 to make it a demand. Either way, you lose."

 "Not me--Bobbi. Why didn't you send a telegram?"

 "I did. One here and the other to Miss Smythe's hotel. Both must have

 been intercepted by Malcolm or Gryder. I received no replies and decided

 to take an aeroplane back. An interesting mode of transport, I quite

 enjoyed it, despite the noise.

 "I checked with her hotel the moment I was back, and they told me she

 was out, then I went looking for you. This morning I called Gordy and he

 started his own investigation. We visited Gaylen's room, of course, but

 she was gone. She went to a great deal of trouble to set up the facade

 of a harm-less and endearing soul, no doubt to arouse your sympathies

 before making her request."

 "I suppose all that stuff about Maureen's death was a lie."

 "I don't know. I had no time to trace down those records; perhaps on the

 next trip. At the moment we can do nothing. The management at her hotel

 hasn't seen Gaylen since she left yesterday evening. Her clothes are

 still there, but some few personal items, toiletries and such, are gone,

 and I doubt it she will return now. Gordy has men watching just in case,

 hut if she's anywhere, it will be with Malcolm and Gryder."

 "And Bobbi. It'd have to be isolated, maybe out of town."

 His pipe had gone out. He sat up and fiddled with it. "Not necessarily.

 You saw how isolated you were in the warehouse. I also checked on it.

 The owners are bankrupt and because of legal problems it's been unrented

 and empty for months."

 "Then who paid the electric bill?"

 "There's a generator in the basement. Gordy has two men waiting there as

 well, just in case Malcolm returns to dispose of your body."

 "He didn't strike me as being that neat. What about the kid?"

 "Kid Oh, yes, the Braxton shooting was given an excess of coverage in

 the newspapers, but the police have little to go on. Young Webber

 received a concussion, but is recovering in hospital. He described

 Malcolm as his attacker, which is in your favor, as the police are

 looking for you."

 "For me?"

 "Several people could not help but notice your disheveled appearance as

 you tore around the building looking for Miss Smythe. The police want to

 talk to you and have inquired after Miss Smythe, but Marza told them

 she'd left town to be with a sick relative."

 "She could have come up with something better than that."

 "I believe it was Mr. Pruitt's suggestion."

 "Bright guy. With him on their side, the Communists don't stand a

 chance."

 "Hmmm."

 "Has Matheus talked?"

 "I wasn't able to see him, but did manage a brief chat with a hospital

 orderly who is fond of gossip. The boy is feeling better, but naturally

 upset at the inexplicable death of his friend. The police have been in

 to see him, but no one else except his parents has spoken to him."

 "And everyone full of questions."

 "True, but what can he say?"

 "Yeah, if he tells the truth about hunting down a vampire, they'll think

 he's nuts."

 "You had better hope they do," he said with meaning.

 I took it. Either way somebody would be in trouble; me if they believed

 his story, and him if they didn't.

 His pipe relit and drawing, he leaned back on the sofa. "How much time

 passed between Miss Smythe's call and Malcolm's?"

 "Ten minutes, maybe less."

 "There was no phone in the warehouse. I would guess they made the first

 call to prove they had her, secured her, and made the second call. Then

 they hurried to the warehouse to wait for you."

 I lurched out of the chair, ready to put some holes in the walls, but

 hugged my chest instead. It still hurt. "Gaylen may have died by now.

 She wouldn't wait."

 "Yes."

 "She'll be like me, if it happens."

 "Not like you."

 "It won't be just her. From her talk she'll be trying to change Malcolm,

 too. If it works for him, they'll be the kind of monsters Braxton was

 after."

 "You told me that acquiring this condition is difficult and there is no

 way to tell until after death."

 "That's how I understood it. I'm thinking that it might work for Gaylen

 since it worked for Maureen. Malcolm I don't know about, but it's better

 if we include him as well, just to save us from any surprises."

 "Unfortunately, yes."

 There was one more thought left unspoken. If Bobbi were still alive,

 they would be keeping her as a food source. Oh, God.

 The phone rang, I reached it first, but let Escott do the answering.

 Gordy was on the other end. Escott had once told me I had no real idea

 on the grip and influence the mobs had in Chicago. It must have been

 pretty strong--he had an address.

 "I'm coining over," he said. "You got some iron?"

 Escott said yes, but I shook my head and asked for the earpiece.

 "Gordy, this is Jack. If what I think has happened has happened, guns

 ain't gonna work, at least not on one of them."

 "So what can we do?"

 "Can you get some shotguns?"

 "No problem."

 "And some extra shells?"

 "No problem."

 "And one more thing"I told him what. Escott's brows went up in

 surprise and interest.

 Gordy considered and again said: "No problem. I'm sending some boys over

 to watch the place 'til we get there. Sit light 'til I come for you."

 Almost as soon as we hung up it rang again.

 "Hello? What? Oh, yes." He passed it to me.

 I answered thinking it was Marza.

 The masculine voice was a jarring shock. "Jack, I want to talk with

 you."

 "Dad?" Oh, hell.

 "What kind of trouble are you into?"

 "Trouble? What's the matter?"

 "That's something you can tell me. The cops were by here just now

 wanting to know where you are."

 "Did you tell them?"

 "Hell no. Not until I know what's going on. They wouldn't say and your

 mother's throwing a fit, so start talking, boy."

 Hell and damnation. "Dad, this is just some kind of a mix-up to do with

 those two con men."

 "I'm listening."

 I suddenly felt six years old again with Dad towering over me, ready to

 get the razor strop. I had to consciously shake off the image and

 remember I was thirty years older and a lot taller. "Okay, what happened

 is that the little guy Braxton got shot and killed, and the kid thinks

 I'm involved, so he sent the cops to look me up."

 A long silence.

 "That's the truth. Dad. The kid saw me in the same building. They were

 following me to make trouble, and then some-one bumped off Braxton. The

 kid got knocked out. He saw the killer, but not the killing. He knew I

 was there so he gave my name to the cops, and yours, too."

 The language that followed heated the lines up, and then he repeated the

 story to Mom, who began groaning in the background.

 "Look, why don't you pick up one of the Chicago papers? They're full of

 the whole story--"

 "I did. It's the 'Studio Slaying,' isn't it?"

 "Yes, Dad."

 "What were you doing there, anyway?"

 "I went to see the show."

 "Why couldn't you have seen the show on the radio?" he said illogically.

 "What are you going to do? Are you going to the cops?"

 Double hell. "I don't know."

 "What do you mean?"

 "I mean this whole thing stinks."

 "You're damn right it stinks," he agreed, his voice rising.

 "I mean I need some time to get things straightened out."

 "What things?"

 "It'd take too long to explain. If my boss thought I was really involved

 with this I could lose my job, and I don't want to lose my job."

 "And I don't want the cops coming around here again."

 "I know. Look, could you just hold off giving them this number?"

 "For how long?"

 "I don't know."

 "Shit!"

 "Dad, I've got good reasons for staying out of this, but I can't go into

 them now."

 He growled, hemmed and hawed, but in the end decided he could even if he

 didn't like it. Then we said good-bye.

 I put the earpiece back. "This is ridiculous. The kid sicced the cops on

 my parents to try and find me."

 "So I gathered."

 "What a pain in the ass."

 "Well, at least you have a father willing to help you."

 "Yeah. I guess I'm going to have to talk with the kid and make him

 change his mind about me."

 "Though it would seem the damage had been done. I do admire the way you

 did not quite tell all the truth and yet avoided a direct lie."

 "Yeah, it must be all that journalistic training," I said, beating him

 to the punch line. "Except that bit about losing my job."

 "I suppose if it came down to it, you could say that I am your 'boss.'

 Technically I am, at least on certain occasions, and you arc correct; if

 an employee of mine turned up in this sort of mess, I would not

 understand."

 "Tell me another one."

 Chapter 11

 ==========

 WE WERE READY when Gordy pulled up and touched the horn, but the weather

 wasn't the best for a long trip. Though I had a raincoat and Escott

 loaned me a hat, neither one was going to be much protection against a

 sky that had split open with a vengeance. I didn't like it and felt a

 sharp twist inside because it had been raining out on the lake like this

 the night I'd been killed. Such associations were hard to ignore.

 Escott and I recognized the car; it was the same one that belonged to

 Slick Morelli, Gordy's deceased boss. It also stirred up bad memories,

 but it was just a car, so we got in. Escott sat in front with Gordy and

 I shared the back with some hard lumpy things. "Careful with that

 stuff," Gordy cautioned.

 The stuff was covered with an old blanket. I pulled it back and Escott

 turned around to see. They were all from different makers but had the

 same basic look; sawed off, doubled barreled, and at short range,

 appallingly deadly. Gordy handed me an oddly light cartridge box.

 "Check this and see if it's what you want. They're loaded with "em."

 I opened the box, got a cartridge, and pried open the end with a

 thumbnail. The contents spilled into my palm. Less than a quarter inch

 in diameter and dull brown in color, there was just enough light to see

 the grain pattern in each one.

 "They look like beads," I said, noticing the tiny holes drilled in them.

 "That's 'cause they are beads. One of the girls at the club had this

 necklace. They gonna work?"

 "If they're wood, they'll work, but only at short range."

 "They're wood. We'll probably have to go for point blank, then."

 Escott looked uncomfortable. Gordy noticed.

 "You know how this could end up; stay in or get out," he said in an even

 tone.

 Escott locked eyes with him a moment, then put his hand over the seat

 for one of the shotguns.

 It was enough of an answer for Gordy. He gave me an up-and-down. "You

 look like hell, Fleming."

 That was his way of saying hello, how are you. I shrugged. "Where are we

 going?"

 He started the motor and shifted gears. "A house on the south side. Any

 of the guys down there catch my boys in their territory they might get

 annoyed, so keep your eyes open. What kind of iron you got?"

 "This," said Escott, pulling out a huge, odd-looking revolver. It had a

 ring in the butt, which tagged it as an army gun to me. The cylinder had

 a kind of zigzag pattern to it and it looked like the top part slid

 back, as though for an automatic. It even had a safety. I'd never seen

 anything quite like it and neither had Gordy.

 "What the hell is that?"

 "A Webley-Fosbery 'automatic' revolver."

 "Maybe someday you can explain what that means. How 'bout you, Fleming?"

 "This shotgun's enough for me." I tried to sound confident, though I

 hadn't really held a gun since the armistice. "Did Charles tell you

 they've got a sawed-off, too?"

 "Yeah, but the range on 'em's not so good."

 "It's good enough to kill."

 "So duck."

 Pressing deep into the backseat, I inhaled a lot of air and slowly

 released it. My nerves were turning up with some sharp and useless

 edges, mostly because of last night. It'd been a long time since I last

 felt so physically weak, and it was unsettling.

 We slipped through the nearly empty streets. Some stores and a few bars

 were open, their customers huddled inside near the comfort of the

 lights. Now and again a face could be glimpsed framed in a window, eyes

 raised to the sky. Rain crashed down against the roof and bounced from

 the hood.

 "Lousy night," Gordy commented. It occurred to me he was showing some

 nerves as well in extraneous conversation.

 "Quite," agreed Escott, making it unanimous.

 It got worse. The wipers were doing their best in a bad situation, but

 there was just too much water coming down. Gordy slowed the car,

 muttering. A few blocks later we hit a clear patch and made up the time,

 then he took an abrupt turn, parking halfway down a long, empty block

 behind another car. He got out to talk to the men waiting in it and

 returned.

 "That one," he said, his eyes pointing to a white house half-hidden in

 trees. All we could see was part of its wide front and a couple of brick

 pillars supporting the porch roof. There were no lights. "No one's been

 in or out. They think it's empty."

 "We'll see," I said. "Stay in the car while I go look."

 "But-"

 "Let him," said Escott. "He's very good at it."

 I got out, leaving the gun, and strolled casually on the sidewalk until

 I was even with the trees. The area was quiet, with only two other

 houses back at the corner where we had turned. No curious eyes were on

 us, the rain had sent everyone inside to listen to the weather reports

 on the radio. It was a good location: private, fairly isolated, and

 still close to the city. They would feel safe bringing Bobbi here. I

 wanted them to feel very safe.

 The wind kicked up and tugged my coat. The storm cell we'd driven out

 from was catching up, and I felt wet enough already. I stepped under the

 dripping trees and melted in with the shadows. I kept enough solidity so

 the wind wouldn't blow me away, but was virtually invisible, at least to

 night-dulled human eyes.

 The front windows were dark and the curtains drawn. It looked as

 deserted as Gordy's men had reported. Around the side, one of the

 bedroom windows was raised a few inches. I eased close and listened, but

 the rain interfered with any sounds within. There was screening to keep

 out the flies and curtains as well, but not the kind you could see

 through. I moved around to the back of the house.

 We'd found the right place. I recognized the panel truck parked next to

 the open and empty garage. I sighted on it, vanished completely, and

 floated over, re-forming with it between me and the house. The motor was

 cold, the key gone. The front interior was clean but there was a box in

 the back; a box about five and a half feet long, a foot high, and two

 feet wide. I lifted the lid and was not surprised to find three or four

 inches of dirt lining the bottom. What was disturbing was the clear

 imprint of a body in the earth.

 Gaylen had not waited a moment longer than necessary. I wondered if she

 had killed herself or given that task over to Malcolm.

 Going back to the house, I went from window to window, shamelessly

 peering in, but with no results. They were all closed, except for that

 one, and the curtains were firmly drawn. I found one unobscured basement

 window, and it looked like a discreet place for us all to slip inside.

 When I returned Escott and Gordy were anxious for even negative news.

 "Malcolm's car is gone, but the truck's out back. Her box of earth is in

 it--it's been used."

 Gordy didn't like my tone. "Whaddaya mean 'used'?"

 "He means that these guns and the shells in them are no longer a mere

 precaution, but a necessity," explained Escott.

 "She's a vampire, then?"

 "Yes, and every bit as potentially dangerous as our friend here."

 Gordy looked at me, considering the possibilities. I didn't look

 particularly dangerous, but he knew from experience I at least had

 endurance.

 "She will appear to be about Bobbi's age now," I said. "Maybe younger,

 and she could kill either of you without even trying. These guns give us

 a chance against her at night, hut only a chance. If you get a clear

 shot, don't hesitate; I can promise she won't. If you miss and it looks

 bad, do whatever you can to get away, and let me handle her."

 "Are they in the house?"

 "I don't know. It looks deserted. If it weren't raining I'd be able to

 hear something inside."

 "We shall have to break in, then," said Escott. "But quietly."

 "I've got a window picked out, but I want someone to back me up while

 I'm checking the joint."

 "Just lead the way."

 Loading our pockets with shells, we took the guns, concealing them under

 our coats as Malcolm had done at the radio station. I cautiously led

 them around and pointed out the window. Gordy let out a startled "Jeeze"

 when I vanished and re-formed inside. The catch was a rusty mess and

 nearly broke off in my hand when I twisted it free and pulled. As it

 was, they had to push from the outside while I dug my nails deep under

 the painted-shut framing. There was a sharp crack and a creak and it

 opened. We all stopped moving and listened, but no one came down the

 stairs to investigate. When it was wide enough, Escott came through

 feetfirst, and as soon as they touched the floor he pivoted around to

 get his shotgun.

 "Come on, Gordy."

 His eyes went around the opening. With him next to it for comparison it

 looked a lot smaller. "Are you kiddin'? I'll watch things out here 'til

 you can get the back door open."

 Escott nodded. "Very well, we do need a rear guard."

 Rain spattered our faces, and above Gordy's huge frame the sky burned

 with lightning. The thunder that followed seconds later made me wince

 from the sheer sound, and even Escott paused and frowned.

 "Lousy night," Gordy muttered, showing his nerves again.

 I told Escott to stay in the basement while I looked upstairs, and left

 him in charge of the guns. He didn't argue.

 The basement door was hanging wide open, which was a bad sign to me.

 Most people keep theirs shut because a large opening into a dark pit

 makes them uncomfortable, but only when they're home. The door led

 straight up to the kitchen.

 No one was there, but they had been. The table, counters, and stove were

 all stacked with dishes, pans, and leftover food; a small garbage pail

 by the back door had passed the point of no return some time ago. I held

 still and listened, but the rain on the roof acted like so much radio

 static.

 The back door was locked. I didn't want to chance any noise letting

 Gordy in, he'd have to wait awhile longer.

 The kitchen opened onto a dark living room. No one was hiding in the

 corners. In the middle of the floor stood Gaylen's discarded wheelchair.

 I went back, passing Escott, who waited quietly near the top of the

 steps with a shotgun ready in his hands, his brows raised in a question.

 I shook my head and pointed down the hall to the bedrooms and went

 there.

 The first door on the right was the bath, the second a small empty

 bedroom. The bed was unmade and women's clothing decorated the floor and

 furniture. A crumpled mass of fabric on a chair looked like the

 flower-print dress Norma had worn lust night. It was still damp and

 smelled of the river.

 The door to the second bedroom was shut. I pressed my ear to it. Even

 with the rain, I was certain to hear anyone on the other side, but the

 wood was thick and the thunder made me jumpy. I vanished, slipped

 through the door, and clung close to it while trying to substitute

 extended touch for sight.

 On the right was something large and square, perhaps a bureau; on the

 left, space for the door to swing and another square object. Ahead was

 empty space. I could hear, but only in a muffled sort of way, and by

 then I was imagining sounds. I had to see what I was into and tried for

 a partial materialization.

 Standing out starkly on the walls and ceilings were red splashes--a lot

 of them. My eyes dropped to the body on the floor. She was on her back,

 half-covered with a bedspread, her legs tangled in its folds. The red

 dress still looked new, the bloodstains blending invisibly into the

 bright color.

 Blood was everywhere.

 Everywhere. There was no head.

 I must have made a noise or been too long. I was dimly aware of Escott

 quitting the basement and approaching. I had no memory of leaving the

 room, but he found me on my knees in the hall next to the open door.

 "Jack?"

 I blinked. I was staring very hard at a corner where the wall met the

 floor. There was dust in the crevice. I had to look at that and

 concentrate on it or I would see her instead.

 He stepped carefully past me and turned on the bedroom light.

 "Don't." The word came out of nowhere. It was wrong to put light in that

 room; light would make what was there real.

 He flinched, caught his breath, then looked back at me, but my mind and

 eyes were focused on a meaningless detail to keep the unacceptable at

 bay. The light went out and he remained still for a while, getting his

 breath back to normal. After a time he stepped away from the door.

 "Come on. Jack. Come with me."

 It was something simple to respond to, something undemanding. I got up

 and walked. In the kitchen he pulled a chair out for me. I sat.

 He unlocked the door and went out. His voice and Gordy's drifted in. I

 could guess what was being said, but didn't want to distinguish the

 words because that would make it real as well. I stared at a bent spoon

 fallen from the counter. My arm brushed against a tray on the table and

 tipped over a coffee cup. I righted it again. There was lip rouge on the

 rim. I recognized the color.

 The crash inside was louder than the storm and brought Escott and Gordy

 right away, but by then it was over. The table and all the junk on it

 were now in a shattered heap with the wheelchair in the living room. I

 pushed past them into the rain. Water streamed down my face. It was a

 good enough surrogate for tears that would not come.

 Escott and Gordy trudged into sight, their figures distorted by the

 water on the windows. They got in, the car shaking a little from their

 combined weight and movements.

 "Jack."

 It was hard to raise my eyes, and when I did, Escott didn't like what he

 found there. He didn't ask me if I was all right; he could see for

 himself I wasn't.

 "Jack."

 I shook my head and looked out a window that faced away from the house,

 a window full of darkness and rain. I watched a drop slither down on the

 inside and disappear into the frame and waited to see if another would

 follow.

 "I'd like to take him home."

 Gordy looked at me uncomfortably. "Yeah, go ahead. I'm gonna stick

 around until she comes back for her box." He handed over the key and got

 out.

 "Thank you."

 He didn't quite shut the door. "He gonna be all right?"

 Escott slid over to the driver's side and put the key in the ignition.

 "I'll park it behind my building, you can pick it up later."

 The door slammed, he started the motor, and made a U-turn. I closed my

 eyes in time to avoid looking at the house.

 The sky opened up in earnest as we crawled home. The streetlights did

 little more than mark where the sidewalks began, and lightning flashed

 overhead as though God were taking pictures of it all. Between the water

 hammering the roof and the thunder, conversation was impossible, but

 neither of us felt like talking. Escott refrained from the usual phrases

 of sympathy, his silence was infinitely more comforting. He would leave

 me alone or stick around, whatever was needed. He seemed to understand

 grief.

 He pulled the car around the house, triple-parking behind the Nash and

 my Buick. He must have picked it up from the warehouse sometime during

 the day. He cut the motor and considered without enthusiasm the soaking

 dash to the door.

 "I suppose we can't get any more wet," he said, but hesitated.

 Maybe he was thinking about standing in the downpour and struggling with

 the stiff lock on the back door; it was that or the necessity of having

 to leave me alone for a few minutes. He opened his mouth again, but the

 sound died as his attention focused rigidly on something in the mirror.

 His head whipped around.

 "Oh, good God," he whispered.

 I stared out the back window. A pale shape lurched toward the car. Rain

 streamed past, blurring the view. The shape stumbled and fell against

 glass, and the face, anxious and white, looked inside. Our eyes locked

 with mutual incredulity.

 Numbed only for a second, I tore out of the car, afraid she'd disappear,

 but she came into my arms, solid and real, moving, laughing, crying.

 Alive.

 Some joys are too much for the heart to hold and can even supersede

 grief for intensity. The tears that had not come before now burned my

 eyes and finally spilled out onto Bobbi's upturned face.

 We clung to each other in the car while Escott watched with a mixture of

 happy indulgence and indecision. He looked ready to leave us alone, but

 Bobbi saw his intent, hooked an arm around his neck, and held him in

 place with a hug.

 "Good heavens," he mumbled, embarrassed and pleased, and unsuccessfully

 tried to suppress his smile.

 She finally released him and turned back to me. Her face was swollen and

 red from crying, and her chopped-oft' hair was limp and dripping, but

 honest to God, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Escott

 offered her a handkerchief and she gratefully accepted and blew her

 nose.

 "I thought they'd killed you," she told me with a hiccup.

 "We had drawn the same conclusion about you," said Escott.

 "What do you mean?"

 "We traced down Malcolm's house. There's a woman's body there, wearing

 your red dress."

 "Jesus, no wonder Jack looked so strange."

 "Who was it? What happened?"

 "That was Norma. We had a fight and she lost."

 "Could you be a little less succinct?"

 "Easy, Charles, she's all in," I said, annoyed.

 "No," she gulped, "it's okay. The other two left, the man and old

 woman."

 "She's still old?" I asked.

 "I don't know. I only heard her voice. I'd heard what they wanted you

 for, what they wanted you to do Did you?"

 "Yes."

 She paused, her thoughts on her face.

 "I had to, Bobbi."

 Her fingers brushed my temple, and I caught her hand and kissed it.

 "I heard you," she said. "I think it was you. It was after she pulled me

 from the water, that's when they said you were dead."

 "They were wrong. Charles found me in time to save my ass. Just tell me

 what happened to you."

 "It's hazy; I was drugged a lot of the time. They kept me tied up in

 that bedroom all day, and once in a while the man would come in and

 check on me. The woman, Norma, sometimes shoved some cotton wadding over

 my nose and I'd hold my breath."

 "Chloroform?"

 She nodded. "I didn't think it was perfume, so I faked sleeping, and

 they left me alone most of the day. I spent the time getting untied.

 When it got dark I heard them again, the other woman, Gaylen--"

 "What was her voice like? Old or young?"

 She thought a moment. "Young, I think. I was still pretty woozy, but it

 was strong, at least. She and the man left, and then it was just me and

 Norma. When she came in to check on me she had the shotgun, but I hardly

 saw it because she was prancing around in my new red silk. It was a

 stupid thing to get mad about after thinking you were dead, but it just

 set me off. I jumped her, the gun came up, I pushed it away, and

 it--just--"

 I held her tight. "It's okay, we know."

 "God, I was sick and I had to get out. I grabbed one of her dresses and

 started walking. I didn't know where I was and the rain--"

 "How did you get here?" asked Escott.

 "Some couple in a car saw me, stopped, and offered a lift." She began to

 laugh--with relief, not hysteria. "I told 'em I had to walk home from a

 bad date and they believed it. They took me here, because I had to see

 Charles about you."

 "Do you know where Gaylen went?"

 "No."

 "Probably the Stockyards," said Escott.

 I agreed with him and looked at Bobbi. "Come on, let's get you inside

 before you freeze."

 "Could we go to my place?"

 "Anywhere you want."

 "And Marza, she looked so awful when they grabbed me. Could you call

 her? Please, I know she's worried sick."

 Escott fingered his waistcoat pocket. "My key--"

 "Won't need it." I grinned and left the car, dashed up the hack steps,

 and sieved through, re-forming again inside the kitchen. I opened the

 door and waved at them through the screen, showing off. They couldn't

 see me very well, what with the darkness and rain--

 "Hey Escott." A man's voice. Behind me.

 Again, no warning.

 They must have been expecting him to come in the front way and been

 waiting there, then heard the back door open and quietly come up from

 behind. It might have been avoidable with no rain or with the lights on,

 but then the right man would have been killed. I might have even stepped

 out of it, but my thoughts were elsewhere, and all the emotional shocks

 had made me sluggish. There was no time to react before something like a

 sledgehammer slammed into my back at kidney level. The breath was pushed

 right out of me. I staggered sideways against a wall and slid down, my

 back on fire.

 Legs gave out and crumbled with no strength, right arm hanging loose and

 useless, left one twitching--my nervous system was shot all to hell.

 What was it, what was wrong with my back? My hand flailed around the

 source of the pain and my fingers brushed against hard metal. It was

 sticking out of my back at a firm right angle and I didn't realize what

 it was at first. When I did, I moaned and felt a sudden sympathy with

 Escott's squeamishness.

 Two other people were with me, but only one was breathing. I kept my

 head down and went very still.

 "Is he dead?" She was across the kitchen. Any closer and she'd see who I

 was.

 Malcolm's hand pressed my wrist. He was close enough, but it was dark

 and he didn't have her night eyes--not yet. "Yeah, let's go."

 I had to wait. No matter how badly I wanted them dead, I had to let them

 get clear and hope Escott and Bobbi stayed out in the car. I might be

 able to protect them from Malcolm, but not from her.

 The front door slammed shut behind them.

 Get up, go after them. Push against the wall, get the legs under the

 body. Stand up, get control, walk.

 It was more of a drunken reel. The table got in the way.

 Rest a second. It's not that bad. Now move.

 I shoved the table away and went to the front of the house, trying to

 ignore my back. I made it to the door and twisted the knob. They were

 down the steps and walking quickly to their car parked down the street.

 Her coat was too long, but her figure fit it; it might have been one of

 Norma's spares. Her hair was full and dark, her walk light and strong. I

 didn't have to see her face; it would look like the photo she'd given

 Escott. Her skin firm and smooth again, an image of a girl in her pretty

 youth.

 Their heads were down because of the rain, so neither of them saw it

 coming.

 A narrow alley ran between Escott's house and the next; kids were always

 charging through it in their games. Malcolm, no gentleman, was on the

 inside of the walk and closest to the opening when a noise like thunder,

 but much louder and briefer, happened there. Raindrops were caught and

 frozen for an instant in the flash before smoke and darkness obscured

 them.

 It had been Escott. He'd seen something from the car and had gone around

 to ambush them. Unfortunately, Malcolm's body was in the way for the

 crucial second and took most of the blast.

 He was thrown hard against Gaylen. She screamed from surprise or pain or

 both, and they went down together. She rolled clear, her coat full of

 small holes. He pitched onto his face, his head and part of one shoulder

 hanging over the curb in the runoff water.

 Gaylen got to her feet, dazed and staring at Malcolm, then looked down

 the alley. She took a half-step toward it, but lights were coming on in

 the surrounding houses. Malcolm moved and moaned, pushing himself up and

 reaching for her. She hesitated; there was blood all over his left side,

 head to toe, but he was somehow still alive. He sobbed her name. She

 made her decision and got him standing and helped him unsteadily toward

 the car. They were too busy to notice as I followed in roughly the same

 condition. I glanced down the alley in passing, but Escott had sensibly

 left.

 She started the car and began rolling away. It paused undecided at the

 end of the street, enabling me to catch up, but not long enough to get

 inside. I grabbed the spare-tire cover and got my feet up on the

 bumper's narrow edge, with most of my weight resting on the slick angle

 of the trunk. It was not the most comfortable or secure position I'd

 ever been in, much less in a rainstorm with a knife in my back.

 The gears were grinding. I dug in with my hands and held on tight. The

 metal began to bend under the pressure. I tried to vanish and slip

 inside the car. but the knife was screwing that up somehow. I tried to

 find a way to hang on with one hand so that I could pull it out, but

 things were too precarious. Literally and figuratively. I was stuck with

 it.

 Dirty water flew up in my eyes, blurring the spinning pavement. I

 squeezed them shut, not daring to spare a hand to wipe them. Headlights

 flashed briefly, then peeled away. A horn honked. The Ford sped up,

 skidded on a corner, and straightened with a jerk. My foot came loose

 from the fender. The damaged muscles in my back protested the sudden

 movement and again at the effort required to put the foot back again.

 Wind caught Escott's borrowed hat and sent it spinning. My hair got

 soaked and dribbled into my eyes. Bobbi had said I needed to cut it.

 Bobbi--

 Not now. I couldn't think of even her now. I had to hold--

 A short skid, more headlights. A truck coming from the other direction;

 its spray blinding, its roar deafening.

 A speed change. Brakes.

 We slow and stop. Stoplight.

 ! stick a foot on the road for balance and reach around. Can't find

 it--there--close the fingers--pull.

 The initial pain returns. I nearly fall, nearly scream. Bite my lip

 instead. There's no end to the damned blade.

 Pull.

 Fingers slipping, gripping, no time to baby it out.

 Pull.

 It's a goddamned sword There the edge catches on something

 There.

 Gears. Car lurching forward. Grab at the wheel cover. Rest.

 It didn't hurt so much now, but the nerves were suffering from the

 aftershock. I looked at the thing. It wasn't a sword, just eight inches

 of good-quality steel and heavy enough not to easily break. A solid

 chef's knife that was meant to be slipped under Escott's ribs so he

 couldn't tell anyone what he learned in Kingsburg. After the first

 hideous shock he wouldn't have felt much, maybe just a little surprise

 as the floor came up. Malcolm was un efficient killer, he liked to do it

 quick and then get away before the fuss started.

 We made another turn, and the streets looked familiar. How'd that story

 go about the man walking backward so that he could see where he'd been?

 We were approaching the neighborhood where Malcolm's house was, where

 she had left her box of earth, where Gordy and his men were waiting.

 Chapter 12

 ==========

 THE CAR CRUISED past the correct turn and took the next one a quarter

 mile down the road. The shotgun blast had made Gaylen cautious. Someone

 knew about her and her changed nature and knew how to fight her. She was

 going to be careful not to approach her box openly. We rolled into an

 area thick with trees and darkness. Branches and leaves stirring

 constantly in the wind made it all seem alive and aware. We stopped cold

 in the middle of a deserted mud-washed road, the motor died, and their

 voices rose up in the relative quiet.

 "Don't leave me here!"

 "I'll be right back. I have to see that it's clear."

 "God, I'm dying. You can't go now."

 "You'll be all right." Her door opened.

 "No! Do it now! You said you would--you promised! Gaylen!"

 She got out. I was flat on the ground by the rear passenger tire

 pretending to be a rock. The door slammed shut on Malcolm's protests.

 From under the car I saw her feet slip on the mud, regain balance, and

 walk away. When I no longer heard her I stood up.

 Malcolm was on his side across the length of the seat and hardly noticed

 when his door opened. He was still alive, and that was all that mattered

 to me.

 His wounds were scattered and colorful and he was bleeding freely in

 several spots. The little skin showing through the blood was white and

 clammy with shock. He and Gaylen had been outside the lethal range of

 the wood pellets, though. His claims of dying were premature, at least

 for the moment.

 "Gaylen, please--"

 "She's gone, all you've got left is me." I wanted him to know, to see it

 coming.

 He didn't know me at first, I was only an unexpected intrusion, then his

 eyes rolled fully open and he started to scream. My hand smothered his

 mouth and part of his nose.

 "You said you wanted it. Does it matter where it comes from?"

 He couldn't move. He was that scared and hardly flinched when my hand

 slid down his face to close around his neck.

 "You want to be a dead man like me? I can do that for you, Malcolm." My

 fingers tightened.

 He struggled for air, imagining my grip to be stronger than it was.

 "I'm not as good as you are, though. It won't be quick, and believe

 me--it's gonna hurt."

 Simple words he could understand, and now simple actions. I brought the

 knife up so he could see. The blade was clean and shining now, the edge

 was so sharp that it hurt to look at it. He recognized the thing and

 realized the mistake he'd made in Escott's kitchen. I let it hover next

 to his face. He shrank back into the car seat, and when he could go no

 farther, the first pathetic mewlings of sound began deep in his throat.

 "Where do you want it first? Your eyelids?" I pressed the flat of the

 blade against his temple, the razor edge brushing his eyebrow. "I could

 cut them away, top and bottom."

 He jerked at the touch of the steel, causing a tiny nick in the skin. I

 drew back and let him recover. His breath was coming too fast, and I

 didn't want him passing out.

 "That'd hurt, but there are better nerve centers to play with. I want

 you to know what I went through in that stairwell. I want you to know

 what you gave Braxton and Bobbi. You think you're hurting now--in a

 minute you're gonna wish it was this good."

 I threw the knife in the backseat and used my bare hands and, God help

 me, I was laughing.

 * * *

 -----

 I crawled from the car like a drunk and leaned against it, still shaking

 a little from what I'd done. Maybe I should have been sickened by my

 actions, but nothing so normal as that touched me now.

 The wind was damp and cool as it washed over my face.

 I'd stopped in time. He was still alive. Somehow I just managed to shake

 free of the insanity that had taken me over. Malcolm hadn't been so

 lucky. I'd paid him back for all that he'd done and then some. I was

 free of the nightmare. He would always be its prisoner.

 I sucked clean, moist air deep into my lungs and let it shudder out

 again, flushing away the last stink of his terror.

 No regrets. None.

 I pushed away from the car and went after Gaylen.

 The rain had almost stopped, but the leaves above continued to drip,

 creating a false fall. I couldn't count on that to muffle any noise I

 made, and stepped carefully on soft grass whenever possible.

 She'd heard his screams and was coming back to investigate. I saw her

 just in time, put a fat tree between us, and sprinted, closing the

 space. I got within ten yards and froze, peering out from a fork in the

 branches.

 She stopped short of the car; one of her sharp new senses had tipped her

 off and her head snapped around, on guard for an unknown threat.

 The old woman was gone. It was one thing to know that fact, quite

 another to see it. Her face was so very like Maureen's, especially now

 with her anxious expression. But she was someone else, not the gentle

 woman I had loved.

 I stepped out from behind the tree and walked swiftly toward her.

 The body and its inner functions may have changed, but her mind was

 still human-slow to react. I was absolutely the last thing she expected

 to see, and with good reason, since she'd watched me die. She was still

 rooted in place when I caught her arms. The touch confirmed my reality.

 There was some struggling, then she abruptly stopped and smiled, quite

 calm. That smile made me freeze in turn and I knew then why Maureen had

 confined her sister to an asylum.

 "What are you going to do?" she asked. "Kill me?"

 I held her fast. "I can try, and after what you did to Bobbi,

 I'll enjoy it. There's a lot of wood around here haven't you

 noticed?"

 She had. She was still smiling, though. Then her face rippled, faded,

 and became a shapeless something. The hair on my scalp went up. My hand

 no longer clutched arms, but closed through cold tendrils darker and

 thicker than any fog. Her body was gone and in its place was a floating

 blob of about the same size. She had vanished, even as I had done a

 hundred times before.

 But I could see her. She might not know that. It was some kind of

 advantage to me if I could keep fooling her.

 The gray thing hung in the air for a few seconds, then moved away like

 an amoeba swimming in fluid. It fell in on itself, shaping and growing

 solid again. She was laughing.

 "You didn't expect that; I thought you would have. I can do everything

 you can. Did you think I'd just let you kill me?"

 "Do you think I'll let you go? If I don't get you, Escott will. Malcolm

 missed, you know. Did you see him in the alley? His gun? You felt it.

 That wasn't rock salt in the cartridges."

 "I'm not worried about him."

 "Aren't you? You tried to have him killed tonight, but the next time

 you'll have to do the dirty work yourself. Malcolm's finished."

 "I don't need him now."

 She vanished again, or almost. The shape swung to one side and behind

 some trees, but didn't wander far. I kept staring at the spot she'd been

 in, even after she materialized, turning only when she made a sound. It

 was to test me. Apparently I'd passed. Pleased, she vanished again.

 There were noises behind me, near Malcolm, but off to the left. I

 followed their direction, stopping, listening. A loud snap. A foot

 skidding over damp leaves. Silence.

 A glimpse of movement against the wind.

 The gray thing moved closer, coming across open ground to get close to

 me. It seemed larger.

 I circled as though searching, but with my head turned enough to keep an

 eye on her. She would sense my presence and movement. I made it easier

 for her by stopping next to a tree and waiting.

 She went solid and swung the broken branch at my head. I dropped a split

 second early, turned, and dived for her mid-section. Her club broke

 against the tree; she still clutched a two-foot length as we went down.

 I pulled it from her, raised, and struck.

 The angle was bad; there was no force in the blow, nothing near what was

 needed. The raw edge caught her shoulder, not her head. She yelped and

 the splinters tore her dress and scraped her fresh skin, and then I was

 holding on to nothing again as she turned into living fog.

 It slithered along the ground and rose into a rough human shape. I

 remembered to move around as though confused. A face began forming, and

 when there was enough for ordinary eyes to see I brought the branch down

 on its middle. That did no harm and she only retreated again.

 Her direction was good, she was moving toward the house. She must have

 tired of teasing me and wanted to get on with her original business

 before she made a mistake. I let her get ahead and followed, keeping a

 prudent distance.

 The backyard to Malcolm's house came into sight, its width sloping down

 at us, the trimmed grass giving away to weeds as the ground tilted

 sharply. The land did the same again from our side, forming a broad V

 shape. Down the middle, swollen and fast from the rain, was a brown

 stream. It wouldn't be very deep, two or three feet at the most, and in

 some spots no more than four feet wide. As far as she was concerned it

 could have been the Chicago River. Without help she'd find it nearly

 impossible to cross.

 She stopped short at the very edge of the bank, the gray pseudopods

 probing and undecided. She was held back by the invisible barrier of

 free-flowing water. She went solid, with her back to the stream and her

 eyes on the woods to see my approach. I was hunched down behind a bush,

 keeping very still, and she missed me. Now she glanced side to side for

 a bridge of some sort, a fallen tree or stones sticking up, but nothing

 so convenient was at hand.

 She turned again, checking for me and considering the car. She could go

 back for it and reach the house from the front, but would it be any

 easier? It was a long way back and I might be waiting near it. The truck

 with her box of earth was less than a hundred feel away, its nose

 pointing to the street, .ill ready to go.

 Gaylen made up her mind and eased one foot tentatively in the water like

 a swimmer testing the temperature. She didn't like it, pulled out

 quickly, and again looked for an alternative. Nothing presented itself,

 so with a grimace she tried once more, right foot, left, the water

 churning up around her knees, then higher. For all her need of speed,

 she might have been wading through partially set cement.

 When she was in far enough, I broke cover and closed on her with the

 club. She heard me and turned, or tried to; her feet couldn't keep up

 with the changing situation. The branch swung, she caught my arm, and no

 doubt at that moment tried to vanish. The confused surprise was plain on

 her face.

 Had she been floating freely in the water, I'd have lost her, hut her

 contact with the stream bed negated that option. The mud and earth

 beneath her feet held her solid.

 I dragged free and struck again. She deflected it, but the force she

 needed threw her off balance, and she gave out a little scream and

 splashed full length on her side. The next scream was louder and filled

 with anguished pain. She fought to get up and out.

 The branch caught her flailing hand, and she grabbed my arm successfully

 with the other and held fast, either to pull me in or make me pull her

 out. My own balance was tenuous on the loose, slippery bank. The fall

 was inevitable, but only my right arm and leg went in. They were more

 than enough.

 I'd crossed free water before: above it dematerialized and rushing out

 of control to the nearest shore or clinging to the inside of a boat or

 sitting solid in a car to feel only its tug from one riverbank to

 another, but never by direct contact. It was a tremendous shock, like

 being dumped in the Arctic in winter. The actual temperature of the

 water had nothing to do with the freezing ice it felt like to me. I was

 different now and uniquely vulnerable to this element. I was instantly

 weakened. No wonder she'd screamed.

 She clung to me, knowing I wouldn't go in any deeper if I could help it,

 and I inadvertently pulled her out a little as I tried to get free. My

 left hand closed on her wrist, squeezing ,and turning, trying to break

 it. Her grip on my shoulder loosened, then she took a chance, jerked

 free, and slammed her fist into my jaw. It was a solid hit and rattled

 my brain. I slipped deeper into the fiery cold on top of her.

 It was utterly numbing. Our muscles were freezing up, our movements

 slowing to nothing. Neither of us could vanish and neither would let go.

 I pushed her under while trying to get back up on the bank. Breathing

 was no longer necessary to her survival, but such instincts are not

 easily overcome in a few hours. She pushed her body against the stream

 bed and her face came up, her hair matted and her teeth bared. With a

 free hand I hit her as hard as I could.

 Her bones should have shattered under the blow. She felt it but ignored

 it. I hit her two more times before she knocked my hand away and stabbed

 my neck with stiffened fingers. She caught the Adam's apple, and I

 gagged a moment, then shoved her under again, hoping the cold would slow

 her down more than it was slowing me.

 I used the leverage to free one leg from the water. The iciness abated a

 little, and I concentrated on holding her beneath the surface. She

 wouldn't drown, but a lengthy immersion might weaken her.

 The branch was gone, lost in the swirling water, and there was nothing

 large or sturdy enough to take its place. Fingers closed on my ear and

 twisted hard. I hit at her face again and connected with a nose and eye

 ridge. It surprised her and broke her grip. My ear stayed attached and I

 seized her hand before it could do anything else. I had to look to see

 that I had it, for I was losing feeling fast.

 Voices. Lights twitching above and to the right.

 Gordy and one of his men had heard her scream and were investigating.

 They carried shotguns. It took them a full minute to find us; I was too

 busy holding her under to call out. My arms were nearly dead and I

 couldn't tell if my fingers were doing their job properly. At least her

 struggles had slowed.

 Then my knees slipped in again and she exploded to the surface.

 Her eyes were wide with flat, blank panic, and that gave her more

 strength than I was prepared or able to deal with. She wanted only to

 escape from the near-petrifying cold. Twisting and clawing halfway out

 of the water, her hands dug for purchase in the mud, tearing gouges in

 the bank. Wrap-ping arms around her middle, I kept her down, but she was

 kicking and I was already weak and battered.

 Gordy was standing on the far bank, a flashlight disclosing the scene.

 His gun came up uncertainly.

 "It's me!" I yelled, realizing he didn't know me for all the mud.

 He knew my voice, crab-walked down the slope, and waded across, making

 it look easy. Gaylen's knee caught me under the rib cage, knocking my

 breath out. I couldn't warn him to stay back. One of her hands shot out

 and got his ankle. He yelped and fell, his body acting as an anchor as

 she began to pull free of the water.

 I grabbed her a little higher, throwing my weight on top and smashing

 her face in the mud. We slid down the bank, our legs still in the

 stream. It was freezing agony, but safe. As long as she was held in it

 she couldn't vanish and escape.

 Her face lifted, she spit mud and pleaded with Gordy. 'Please help me,

 he--

 I flipped her over, cutting off her helpless-damsel act. She was

 extremely strong, but when it came down to it, I was bigger and just

 able to hold her in the water. The man that had come with Gordy stared

 with openmouthed horror as I shoved her down again. Maybe Gordy had told

 him something, maybe not. He was unprepared for this kind of savagery

 and looked ready to run. Gordy stopped him.

 "Hitch! Stay here and cover her." He got up, stepped back into the

 water, and kept his distance.

 Gaylen fought her way up again, but this time she saw the gun. She

 remembered what I'd said earlier.

 Gordy loomed over us, the muzzles centering on her chest. She tore and

 kicked against me.

 "Fleming?" he asked.

 Gaylen's eyes turned on me, frantic and helpless and with all the

 torment and wanting in the world in them.

 I thought of Braxton staring sightlessly at his own blood on the tiles.

 I thought of Bobbi being mercilessly shoved into the river water. The

 image was blinding.

 "Yes," I choked.

 She was screaming, but without sound, even as I had screamed in the

 stairwell. Gordy put the barrels to her chest.

 There was no color in his face. The tendons in his hands were ridged to

 control the shaking. He was familiar with violence, but this was

 different. The night roared once and went silent.

 The rubber blade squeaked annoyingly as it dragged over the nearly dry

 glass.

 I was so goddamned tired. I was tired and sickened and cold enough to

 lie down and die, but he put his hand out and pulled me from the water,

 away from the red stains before they--

 The window was a good thing to stare at; the movement of the wipers was

 soothing and hypnotic, even the noisy one. You could stare for hours at

 the fan shapes being renewed with each swinging stroke and not think of

 anything at all. You could forget the wetness and the clinging clothes

 and the earthy stink of mud.

 "That shot'll bring the cops," Hitch had said uneasily, his eyes on me

 as I flopped bonelessly to the ground at his feet.

 No time to rest. Things to do first.

 Malcolm. I told them where to find what was left of him and what to do.

 Back and forth. The squeak changed as some of the rubber loosened and

 trailed after the wiper like a piece of black string. First straight,

 then curled under on the return stroke. Back and forth.

 "It's in the living room," Gordy told him. "Wipe it clean."

 "Yeah, boss." He fled to the house, then stopped just short of it as a

 car pulled up and braked in the driveway. It was Gordy's, and Escott and

 Bobbi spilled out.

 Gordy stared at her, his big face slack with stunned recognition.

 "Bobbi"

 Understanding his surprise, she paused long enough to give him a fierce

 hug, then knelt next to me, asking if I was all right. I couldn't answer

 and held on to her. Escott was explaining things to Gordy and was asking

 what had happened, until the sight of Gaylen's mangled body stopped the

 flow of words.

 We all looked.

 "Jesus," Gordy whispered, and stepped back from the bank.

 The tangled hair was still dark, but the skin was changing. The smooth

 texture was sagging around the jaw, growing puffy under the eyes.

 Wrinkles formed as we watched.

 It was as though your death had caught up with you.

 "She's dying," I said.

 "She's not dead?"

 "We take a lot of killing." I knew what she was going through and took

 no pleasure in the knowledge.

 "Charles, get Bobbi out of here."

 He came and gently took her shoulders. She shrugged him off.

 "I want to stay."

 "Please, go with him."

 "But-

 "I know, but you can't. We have to leave, and fast. I'm all right, I

 promise, but I want you out of here."

 She didn't like it but saw the sense. She kissed me hard. "I'll be

 waiting at my place."

 "I'll come as soon as I can."

 She smiled. It was a wan one, but still a smile, and she let Escott pull

 her away.

 "What about her?" said Gordy, nodding at the stream when they were gone.

 "We can't leave her for the cops. We can't chance an autopsy--not on

 her. And that truck with the box in it has to go."

 "I'll get the boys to fix things."

 Hitch came back then with another mug named Jinky and the shotgun used

 to kill Norma. Gordy sent them across the stream and into the trees.

 "Put his mitts on it, and for Chrissake make sure he ain't got no spare

 shells."

 "Yeah, boss."

 "And clean off that knife."

 "Yeah, boss."

 While they were gone we did what was necessary and did it fast.

 The trail of rubber flapped and twisted, vibrating and adding its noise

 to the squeak. Hitch, who was driving, finally shut them off. We made a

 turn and the blanket-wrapped thing on the floor shifted with the

 direction change. I moved my feet so it wouldn't touch me.

 Silly thing to do.

 For the hundredth time Hitch checked the mirror. He was more worried

 about looking out for cops than not seeing my reflection. He made

 another turn and we swayed. His speed was cautious, but his driving

 technique clumsy. He didn't like what was in the back with me and Jinky.

 Couldn't blame him.

 Jinky was nervous as well and complaining. "This just ain't done, this

 cartin' around. Plug 'em and leave 'em, I sez."

 "Shut up, Jinky," Hitch said wearily.

 He shut up and kept looking sideways at me, uneasy from my silence. His

 hand never strayed far from the bulge under his armpit. Maybe he was

 picking up on my feelings of death. I looked at him once, he blanched,

 and the fear smell came off him, sharp and stinging.

 Gordy was in the front passenger seat and turned his head, noticing

 something was wrong. I kept looking out the window.

 "How's your mother, Jinky?" he asked out of the blue.

 Jinky was gulping. "Wha oh, she's okay."

 "She's doin' okay. Still got that dog? What's its name?"

 "Peanuts yeah, she's still got "im."

 Gordy, not a great conversationalist, kept him talking until he calmed

 down. After five minutes, Jinky looked less likely to make a fatal exit

 out the door. I shut my eyes and pretended to nap, half expecting to

 fight off an army of ugly images from the recent past but finding sweet,

 warm darkness instead.

 We drove north along the lake for a long time. I thought vaguely we were

 going to Wisconsin, but Hitch made a last turn onto a muddy, rutted road

 that curved into thick trees. The car bounced and slewed. The thing at

 my feet shifted again, but this time I didn't bother moving.

 A little later, the four of us were slogging through more mud and wet

 leaves. While Gordy and Hitch carried the rope-tied bundle, Jinky and I

 used the flashlights. Jinky came along because he didn't want to be

 alone.

 Twenty feet of dock and a boathouse waited for us at the shoreline.

 Gordy unlocked the boathouse. I couldn't easily go in since most of it

 was over the water, so I missed seeing them load the thing into the

 boat. Without any delay they rowed free of the house and out onto the

 lake.

 I sat on the damp ground and watched them. They didn't start the motor

 until they were small specks in the distance. Human eyes could not see

 them in that dark, but Gordy was taking no chances.

 Jinky alternately paced and squatted, wanting to stay near me for the

 company, but not wanting to get too close. He'd seen Malcolm, after all,

 and maybe Hitch had been talking to him.

 Jinky was shivering; the wind off the restless lake was cool. He paced

 around, hands in pockets, jingling the change there. "We used to use

 this place a lot," he said out of nervousness. I let him talk; his voice

 took me out of myself. "We used to run some pretty good stuff through

 here from Canada. Mostly for the boss 'n his friends. Stuff that was too

 good for the speaks, they said."

 The boat was at the edge of sight. The wind carried the thin buzz of the

 motor to us. The boat vanished.

 He must have been wondering what I was staring at in the gloom. "Got

 hijacked once," he continued. "Early out. That was fun. Then we started

 packin' big rods and that hotted things up. We went to a lot of trouble

 over that fancy hooch and for what? You get drunk just as fast on the

 homemade stuff, faster even. Richer, too. Half those mugs never knew the

 difference."

 The motor buzz was irregular now, the wind affecting it.

 "There was this girl I had then, always after me for some of the fancy

 stuff. I took an empty bottle that still had the label on and put in

 some of the local make and some tea for color. She never knew the

 difference, but sure knew how to say thanks. Not too smart, but she was

 a lot of fun."

 The buzz changed and grew. I blinked the flashlight a few times to give

 them a direction to aim for and kept it up until they were close. The

 motor cut and they rowed the rest of the way in. The bundle was gone and

 so was the boat anchor and its length of chain.

 They got out and Gordy locked up. "Where to?" he asked me.

 My throat was clogged; I had to clear it first. "Bobbi's."

 He nodded.

 The ride back seemed shorter.




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