Bloodcircle

HE WAS BACK in twentieth-century clothing again, though a vestige of the past still clung to him with his ramrod posture and wind-combed hair.

The five-second stare he gave me served as his only preamble. His eyes were cold, matching his tone of voice. "Last night I was made to understand that you were leaving for the city."

"We did." I quietly shut the door behind me. "And then we came back."

"Obviously. Why?"

"We had a little more checking to do."

"Yes, you've the dirty job of sifting through someone else's laundry.

This is yet a dull village with gossip as the chief source of entertainment. It didn't take long for the story of your friend's pub crawling to filter back to our own servants' hall." He looked ready to belt me again and shoved down the impulse with a visible effort. "When are you planning to leave?"

"We're checking out now."

"For good?"

"Why are you so anxious about it?"

"I'm only protecting my--Miss Francher and her family. Having the two of you intruding into her private business is entirely abhorrent--"

"You mean about the fire?"

"Of course I do. What has it to do with your trying to find Maureen?"

"I thought maybe you could tell me."

"Tell me what? There's nothing to tell. The fire was over and done with long before Maureen ever came to see me."

"And you figure there's no connection?"

"How can there be?" He raised a hand. "No, don't bother answering that with another damned question. I can see you haven't the heart to care about the kind of damage you're doing."

"What damage?"

He started to shake his head in exasperation at my apparent stupidity, then caught on that I'd been trying to goad him.

"What damage, Barrett?" I pursued.

He said nothing and only glared.

"What are you afraid of?"

His face was hard now, nearly ugly from the emotions rumbling under the surface. He looked taller and I could almost feel the anger pulsing from him.

"If you were in my place, what would you be doing to find her?"

That one struck a chord. He paced the length of the small room once with slow steps, subsiding into himself. He stopped next to me, trying to bore a hole through my brain with his eyes. "You said you were checking out. Are you going for good?"

"I don't know."

"Why is that?"

"I can't really say."

"Because you lack knowledge or because you don't trust me?"

"You're sharp, Barrett."

"Yes, and I've had as much of you as I can stomach. Do what you must to find Maureen, but leave the Franchers out of it. Leave them alone and stay out of my way."

Or what? I asked him as much with my expression.

There was murder in his return look, and he took a step toward me to carry it out, or so I thought. The color abruptly faded from his dark clothes and his pale skin drained to the lifeless white of the truly dead. His outline wavered and swam in on itself, melting and merging into a shapeless, gray, man-sized thing.

Impossibly hanging in midair, it twisted like a slow cyclone and tore by me. The wake of its brushing passage pierced me to the bone with a rush of arctic cold. The gray mass slammed silently against the window panes, fell through them as though they weren't really there, and whirled away into the night wind. I rushed forward just in time to see it hurtle across the yard below to vanish into the cover of some intervening trees. A few moments later I heard the innocuous, ordinary roar of a car gunning to life. Its tires spun and screamed against the pavement, an audible expression of Barrett's anger.

Escott often complained that my disappearing act unnerved him. His limited human eyes missed most of the show, though. He didn't know about this, about what it looked like to me. I'd witnessed it once before myself, but not in the close, calm normality of a well-lighted room.

I was still shaking when he came upstairs to help with the luggage.

Sixty miles of bucolic country broken up by quaint towns and picturesque villages chock-full of historical significance can get to you after a while. An hour of it left me longing for the comfort of concrete, streetlights, and traffic signs. Barrett's visit had left a bad taste in my mind.

I'd told Escott all about it, of course. He listened but was inclined to shrug it off for the moment.

"The man has a point--" he started to say.

"But only if he's telling the truth about protecting the Franchers. It's more likely he's trying to protect himself. What I want to know is, what's he trying to hide?"

"Any number of things which we have discussed at length: his job, his regard for Miss Francherand very possibly his condition."

"Condition? You mean--"

"Yes, the one you both share. That's a detail about yourself that you are wisely reluctant to reveal to people. I should imagine he feels the same way. An investigation such as ours could quickly place him in an untenable position. Would you not also be a bit nervous if someone started looking into your past and present?"

"Jeez, yes. But you said Violet Francher already tried to do that and it didn't faze him. So what's the difference now?"

"You, old man. You're the only one stopping him from fixing me with a basilisk gaze and instructing me to mind my own business. Perhaps he did do just that with Mrs. Francher's own agent. This time he is denied the luxury and is no doubt suffering from the frustration of it all."

He was right, but I was still uneasy and promised myself to keep both eyes wide open if we went back to Glenbriar. I was safe enough, but if Barrett lost his temper, he could snap Escott like a twig--body or mind, take your pick.

Escort helped to make the rest of the trip bearable by reporting on his day and the other details he'd discovered about the Francher household.

"The maid, cook, housekeeper, and gardener are all employees of long standing with Miss Emily. When Barrett arrived, some horses were acquired, along with a groom to care for them. Barrett is the only employee to actually sleep in the house now. When the maid and cook were moved out to live over the garage, the natural conclusion was that they were not meant to see certain things, hence the gossip."

"Which has some truth behind it, from what I saw the other night," I put in.

He acknowledged with a nod. "Yes, though I may also add that there is a general sympathy for their employer be-cause of the way her mother died.

Few people seem ready to condemn the woman for keeping a handsome young man on the payroll."

"What do these people think of Barrett?"

"I can only report that hardly anyone outside the immediate household has ever seen him; which has also garnered the general approval of the locals. If there is something 'going on,' he has the good manners to confine himself to the Francher estate and is not attempting to spread his wicked ways among his neighbors."

"Does that include any society people?"

"Miss Francher has willfully cut herself off from her social and financial peers, so they are relieved of the unpleasant duty of making any public judgment of her private life. That Miss Francher is excluded from their tea parties and other events of import matters not one whit to the lady."

"And her family?"

"That is something I plan to check into--but discreetly," he added, catching my look. "I have no wish to call the wrath of Mr. Barrett down upon my head."

"Amen."

"As for the inhabitants of Glenbriar, Emily Francher may do whatever she pleases in private, as long as it stays that way. If she were anyone else, she'd find life a bit more hostile."

"The old Hester Prynne bit?"

Not having the benefit of an American education, he didn't understand the reference. I gave him a brief summary of Hawthorne's book until he did.

He agreed with the general idea, but added one of his own. "Perhaps it is closer to the point to say that her money makes the difference here.

If a poor man does something out of the norm, he's condemned for a lunatic. When a rich man indulges in kind, he is affectionately tolerated as an eccentric. Thus we have it that no one thinks anything strange about the very late hours kept by the principals of the household."

"They're a pretty understanding bunch around here."

"The Francher bills are always paid on time. That counts for much in terms of tolerance and goodwill these days."

"These days more than most."

Conversation lagged for a quarter hour and I watched the woods on either side blur past.

"Sixty miles is a long way to be quiet," Escott quoted, breaking the silence by doing a perfect mimic of Banks. It jolted me, kicking a vagueness into a certainty.

"It's too much."

"What is?"

"The tip. Banks said he got a five-dollar tip from Maureen. It's too much."

"Perhaps she thought it to be a necessary compensation after such a long trip."

"No, think about her past, about the time she grew up in. In those days you tipped in pennies."

"Some women eschew the practice altogether."

"She wasn't one of them. I mean, she did all right for herself, but she was never one to throw her money around. In an extravagant mood she might have tipped him a buck, but never five, not unless she pulled the wrong bill out by mistake."

"That could well have been the case."

"Yeah." But I still had some doubt souring my mind and he knew it.

"What alternative do you suggest?" he asked.

"Like maybe five years ago Barrett called Banks out to the house and put it into his head he was taking Maureen to Port Jefferson. He gave him the fare and a five-dollar tip to help him remember it all the way he's supposed to."

"Complicated. Why should he do that?"

"So it looks on the level with Mayfair or anyone else who might have seen her arrive at the estate."

"Such as Emily Francher?"

"Well, figure it. Barrett's got a soft spot for himself with her, and then Maureen shows up. She doesn't like what he's doing and could queer it for him but good if she drops the wrong word in Emily's ear."

"Would she have done so?"

"That doesn't matter. What does is that Barrett thought she would."

"And you think Barrett--"

"Might have done something. Yeah."

"That he might have killed Maureen?"

After a long time I said, "Yeah," and I hated saying it.

Port Jefferson had a shipyard, some gravel pits, and the ferry, all dark now. Compared to Glenbriar it was a bustling metropolis, which wasn't saying much, but then some places aren't at their best at night. Escott and I split up. I took the hotels and he went to inflict more damage on his liver at the taverns. I advised him to find a diner first and line his stomach with the biggest, greasiest butter-fried hamburger he could handle. He didn't look thrilled at the prospect, but nodded agreement and walked off with a grim set to his jaw.

Maureen's stopover--if she had stopped--had taken place at the height of the tourist season. No one remembered a lone woman with a trunk arriving at night five years ago. I talked my way into examining hotel-registration books and learned a lot about kindness from various clerks and managers offering what help they could.

After running out of hotels, I checked out all the boardinghouses I could find, even knowing that Maureen would have avoided them as a matter of course. Like me, she would have preferred the relative privacy and anonymity of a hotel to spend her vulnerable daylight time. But I had to be certain. I covered everything.

Hours later, options exhausted, I climbed back into the car to wait for Escott. We had no set time to meet, though. When the first faint pangs of hunger started up I went in search of a meal.

No stockyards and no stables; it looked like the locals only ate fish, and duck--at least in the business district. I widened my hunting radius to less urbanized areas and soon caught the unmistakable scent of cow manure on a random puff of wind.

There were more stops than starts involved following it, but my nose eventually led me to an open field populated by several bovines clustered under a tree. I climbed through the fence, watched where my feet were going, and strolled up.

They seemed to know I wasn't there for an old-fashioned milking. As a cow, they all moved away. Picking one out, I optimistically followed.

She proved to be quite agile for her size and energetic after spending the whole day eating her head off. Though country bred myself, I'd forgotten how fast cattle can move when they want to, and my dinner got away.

I picked out another, waited until it stopped, and calculated the distance. It bawled unhappily as though reading my mind. Disappearing, I rushed forward, felt its bulk loom close, and went solid with my arms reaching out to wrap around its neck.

The cow had other ideas and bawled again, tossing herself (and me) around like a rodeo trainee. She dragged me over half the field, deaf to my urgent pleas for quiet and oblivious to that special influence I usually have over animals. It only belatedly occurred to me that all the other animals had been in small pens with no place to run. I let go, managed to stay on my soggy feet, and old Bossy galloped off to be with the rest of the girls.

It was ridiculous. I had an easier job finding cooperative livestock in the heart of the city. After a few feet of weary trudging, I noticed the disgusting state of my shoes and opted to go transparent the rest of the way. The wind was in the right direction; I let it take me toward a group of buildings at the far end of the field.

By now I had trouble telling the difference between the yard manure and the supply I had with me. Each shed had to be examined by sight, not smell. Unfortunately, it is also almost impossible to take a casual walk through a working farm. You not only have to contend with uneven and odorous ground clutter and mud, but the local tenants as well. Never mind Farmer Jones and his shotgun, it's his animals that are dangerous.

Chickens are fairly brainless and confined to coops, but ducks are usually allowed to roam free to scavenge and play in their pond. It was just my bad luck that I blundered right into a flock and sent them on a panicky flight to safety. Mixed in with them were a few geese who made more commotion than all the rest together. In turn, they alerted a small pack of large dogs who charged in helter-skelter, baying in full voice.

Their owner coming out of the house packing a gun with a double load of buckshot was a mere afterthought. I didn't stick around to see how the show came out, but vanished and shot up in the general direction of the main bam.

My amorphous form bounced unexpectedly against the vertical wall of wood, nearly sending me solid with the shock. I clung there against the wind and frantically felt around for an opening into the hayloft. It was just above me; I thankfully dribbled over the edge to re-form--and nearly rolled right off my perch. Instead of the loft, I'd shot too high and was hanging onto the roof, and oh, God, I hate heights.

Far, far below, Old MacDonald was circling the yard stirring up the geese and giving a lot of unexpected fun to his pack of semi-tame, lop-eared wolves. They were tearing all over the place, heads down and tails happily fanning, eager to show master how good they were at their job. So what if they never found a thing and only ended up anointing every likely projection turn in turn? It was a great break in the routine.

Shutting my eyes against the dizzy drop, I vanished again and seeped through the bam roof, inching down until I came in contact with a horizontal surface. A second later I ascertained that it was the straw-littered floor of the loft and fairly safe. I lay flat and rested body and mind until the circus outside finally died away.

The bam wasn't much different from the one I'd played in as a kid. I was aware of chickens and mice and another, much larger animal somewhere below. I could have used a ladder, but didn't want to risk making more noise and rousing the dogs again. Far better to disappear and float down to the safe, sane ground.

It was closed up against the night, but seeing in the dark was no problem for me. Over in one partitioned-off corner was a drab white draft horse only a little smaller than Escort's Nash. He was the four-legged answer to a hungry vampire's prayer, and I trotted toward him as though greeting a long-lost friend.

And stopped.

He moved restlessly, his head low and with his ears flat along the skull. His near-hind hoof was raised a little, all set to kick me into the next state as soon as I got in range. If his vocal cords had been designed for it, he'd have been growling.

It just wasn't my night.

Escort was in the car and taking a short snooze. He woke with a slight start when I crawled into the passenger side and flopped wearily back in the seat. My fatigue was mental, not physical.

"Good heavens, where have you been?" he asked, his long nose wrinkling.

"E-i-e-i-o," I muttered darkly, daring him to comment. He read the signs right and restrained himself.

It had been a struggle, but I finally persuaded Dobbin to part with some of what he obviously had too much of. He was a reluctant bastard and considered me to be no better than your average trespasser and thief.

When finished, I made a fast and invisible exit from his stall, very mindful of his huge hooves. There was no point giving him a pat of thanks, he'd have only tried to take my arm off at the roots.

Escott had also been drinking, but was showing less wear and tear. As before, he had only a slight glaze to his eyes to indicate he was in no pain.

"You learn anything?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Did you?"

I shook my head.

"Care to go to Bridgeport?" he asked.

During his alcoholic rambles, Escott encountered a man with a boat who was ready to take us across the sound no matter what the hour. He'd had no similar requests five years ago from a lone lady and didn't know of anyone else who had. For a fee, the low, fast launch left over from his days as a rum runner was at our command.

I grimaced at the wide sweep of Long Island Sound. It was silver and calm under the steel-colored sky, a beautiful enough sight from the land. I hadn't always been afraid of water and could still slosh around in a bathtub with the best, but since my change, huge bodies of the open, free-flowing kind sent me into the sick miseries.

"I think I'd like to sit this one out," I finally answered.

"Really?" he asked, in a tone that wanted to know why.

Maybe it had to do with my basic need to be in contact with the earth, or maybe it's because I'd been murdered over water. I'd had some recent and very bad experiences occurring in or near water. Driving over it on a bridge was one thing, but crossing all of that bleak expanse in a tiny boat was quite another. I was hard put to suppress an involuntary shudder at the thought of only a thin shell of wood holding back such endless, smothering cold.

I tried to give him an explanation that made sense, but he waved me down after the first few stumbling words.

"That's all right," he said. "I understand."

"I'm not running out on you, am I?"

"No." He sounded fairly amused. "Of course you aren't.

I know it's not easy for you at times--and I find that strangely reassuring."

I waved once at him from the shore as the launch started to cut its way across the sound. He was looking back, but didn't respond. Not having my night vision, he couldn't see me. With an inward smile, I got back in the car and drove off to one of the better hotels I'd found earlier that evening.

After some personal cleanup, I padded downstairs to find someone brave enough to scrape my shoes back to respectability again. The lobby was as deserted as a church on Saturday night. This was no city hotel with twenty-four-hour clerks to keep you company. The man who'd checked me in had worn his slippers, bathrobe, and a sleepy, resigned expression.

Not dressed for a walk, I was too restless to just sit in my room with the radio on. I was at a loss for activity until I spotted the pay phone. A whole pocketful of change was going to waste in my pants; I fished it all out and got an operator on the line.

Bobbi answered on the first ring and we exclaimed our hellos and "I miss yous" for a while, and she assured me she'd been awake, reminding me there was still a time difference between Chicago and New York.

"New York is old news," I told her. "We're on Long Island now."

"Why? You taking some kind of scenic route?"

"We're following up a lead."

"A good one?"

"Doesn't look it, but Charles wants to be thorough."

"What got you up there?"

"This and that. Wewe turned up Maureen's old boyfriend."

There was a long pause on her end. "He's like you?"

"Yeah."

"How like you? I mean, what's he like?"

"Well, he's no Dracula, if that's what you're worried about."

"I was, a little."

"If anything, he's sort of a cross between a lounge lizard and Captain Blood."

"Captain who!"

Considering my dietary habits, it'd been an alarming reference to bring up. I quickly explained about Sabatini's pirate-hero.

"You don't like him much," she deduced, meaning Barrett and not Sabatini.

"It's mutual, believe me. He's all manners, but I'm watching my back."

"Then why would Maureen have gotten involved with him?"

That question had been eating at me as well. "He's just the type, I guess."

"What type is that?"

"The type who always has women stampeding to get to him. Right now it looks like he'll be stringing two of them along at once."

"Sleeping with both of them?" she asked, always one for clarity.

"It's heading that way--and try this on: they all live in the same house. One of them has money and the other's all ready to seduce him."

"Then he's some kind of a twenty-four-carat idiot," she sniffed. "The same house? That's just asking for trouble. Sooner or later his meal ticket'll figure things out. You can't keep news like that from a woman--we're naturally suspicious."

"You suspicious about me?"

"Of course not, I know you'll never meet anyone else who's better in bed with you than I am."

"You've got me spoiled rotten, sweetheart," I agreed.

And we steamed up the lines with similar talk until an operator broke in to say our time was up and did we want another three minutes? She must have been listening in; I could almost see the smirk on her face that her voice suggested. I dropped in more money and ignored her.

"Listen, Bobbi. I want to ask you something."

"You know the answer to that is yes."

"Thanks, but it'll have to wait until I'm back."

"Damn," she said cheerfully.

"I just wondered, would you ever tip a cab driver five bucks?"

She was shocked. "Five bucks? You think I'm one of the Carnegies or something?"

"Would you ever?"

"Only if I were delirious and lost on the South Side in a sleet storm on Christmas Eve."

"So what kind of woman tips a cabbie five bucks?"

"One that doesn't know what it's worth. You're talking about the idle rich, honey--someone who never had to work for it."

"That's what I thought."

"What's this got to do with things?"

"I'll find that out tomorrow night."

"So when are you coming back?"

"I don't know, baby. Expect me when you see me."

She made a rude noise to communicate her disappointment. "Then get yourself a raincoat. The papers say there's a hurricane moving up the coast and headed your way. I don't want you catching cold from all that wet."

I wasn't certain I could still catch a cold, but took the sentiment as it was given, promising to bundle up for her sake. We said good-bye until the operator cut in again, and then hung up.

The rest of the night went by like paint drying, though I spent some of it scribbling out a note to Escott about Bobbi's views on tipping. I didn't know how useful it would be, but thought it worth pointing out again. After his return I planned to make another visit to the Francher estate, with or without Barrett's permission.

I experienced deja vu waking up in the Glenbriar Inn again. My trunk was in the same place as before, but pulled out far enough from the wall so I could lift the lid. Escott was there this time, stretched out on his bed, and contentedly up to his neck in newsprint, past and present.

"So what happened in Bridgeport?" I asked, when my few seconds of confusion passed.

"Nothing, as you may have gathered by our return here. I went to taxi companies and examined police, hospital, and as many hotel records as I could manage. I checked morgue records for Jane Does"

He got a sharp look from me.

"as a matter of course. She might have thought to use an alias, so I searched for Barretts, Flemings, and Franchers as well as Does and Dumonts. There is no official indication she stopped at all in Bridgeport. She may have merely passed through it, but then one could say there is no real evidence she ever crossed the sound in the first place."

All that footwork and probably a hangover to boot, no wonder he looked stretched and discouraged. "What'd you think of my note?" I'd left it on top of my trunk in Port Jefferson for him to find.

Now he smiled thinly. "We have returned, have we not? I'm strongly inclined to agree with the insights the two of you have concerning that excessive tip. All our roads appear to lead back to the Franchers. A new beginning is in order and we need to start with them."

"That's what I wanted. I'm going out to the house again tonight to see if I can fix up a private little talk with Emily. You have to figure she must know something. Unless Barrett got one of the maids to impersonate Maureen, Emily's just right for the part."

"What about Laura?"

"Too tall. Maureen and Emily are about the same height and build."

"Excellent point."

"You get any more from the locals today?" I noticed that a general lassitude permeated his manner and movements and guessed that he'd been working his butt off in one of the taverns again.

"Most of the talk was about a hurricane that's been coming up the coast.

The papers are forecasting massive death and destruction to arrive here soon, and people are busy tying things down in preparation. There's already been a little rain."

I groaned inside. Not so many nights ago, I'd had enough rain to last a few lifetimes; much more and I'd be tempted to move to Death Valley.

"Perhaps you should wait until it blows over," he suggested.

"Nah, I'm all ready to go do it now. I'll go crazy if I have to sit around a hotel room another night memorizing the wallpaper."

"I see your point."

"Look, Charles, this could take a lot of time. Did you really feel like coming along just to wait out in a damp car?"

"Put that way, it does sound most unappealing."

"Besides, you did all that work today; it's my turn now."

He surrendered without argument. "By all means go on without me. I could certainly use a quiet evening of rest."

Lightly put, but he was tired, and I felt better for having him safe at the Glenbriar--away from Barrett and any unforeseen problems.

I wore a dark shirt and black pants with my raincoat. The few tourists hanging around the lobby gaped at me as if I were an out-of-place mobster. They quickly huddled back into their mah-jongg game to resume discussion about how run down things were becoming with that Democrat in the White House.

The rented Ford was in a gravel lot behind the inn. I braved a stiff breeze and a few thick drops of rain and nosed it onto the road.

The possibility of Barrett discovering me going about my unlawful trespass of his employer's property kept my mind unpleasantly busy. Not that illegal entry was something to weigh on my conscience; I was simply shrinking from the embarrassment of getting caught. I planned to be very, very careful.

Preoccupied with the evening ahead, I took a wrong turn and found myself going in a miles-wide circle back to Glen-briar. The rain was coming down heavily and the wind gusted against the car, rocking it. I couldn't go back, the road was too narrow for a U-turn, and I didn't want to chance getting stuck in one of the steep ditches running along either side of the paving. I squinted ahead for a crossroad or driveway to use.

A mile later, the rain was pouring so hard that I was going less than half the posted speed limit. The wind drove the water straight at the front window, making the wipers useless. The headlights only bounced off a shimmering quicksilver wall, illuminating nothing. My night vision was no good for this kind of a mess. The speedometer pointer dropped down below ten miles an hour and I still felt I was going too fast.

Escott had had the right idea about a quiet evening resting up. It was past time to call it a night. At this point I wasn't all that sure of finding my way back to Glenbriar, much less getting to the Francher estate. Even if I did reach it, I was facing a long walk through the woods, and I could hardly conceal my presence while leaving a dripping trail throughout the house. Unless the hurricane blew it into the sound, the place would still be there tomorrow.

Its taillights were on--the only warning I had of its presence. I hit the brakes, skidded badly, but stopped just short of back-ending a car stopped in the road. I punched my horn once. They didn't move.

Disgusted, I decided to pull around and hoped no one was coming up in the other lane to hit me.

A semi-clear patch opened in the shifting gray curtain of water. My headlights just caught the bright blue-and-yellow check design on the trunk of the car.

Glenbriar was only a small town and John Henry Banks was someone I'd be bound to run into again before our business was ended, but I suddenly got very cold inside. The uneasy feeling persisted the longer I sat and thought about it, getting worse instead of better as I tried to come up with a good reason for Banks to be out here tonight. Scowling at the rain, I swallowed back my fears and levered out of the car into the hurricane.

It was like standing under Niagara, except the water was horizontal instead of vertical because of the wind. I put my back to it, steadied myself with a hand on the car, and staggered over to the passenger door of the cab. It was on the lee side and offered some minuscule protection against the raw force trying to bowl me over.

I couldn't see inside the window for all of the water streaming down. I thumped on the door a few times on the off chance that I was interrupting a lovers' rendezvous and opened it.

As it turned out, I wasn't interrupting anything. It was all finished by now.

Banks was heeled over on his right side, one arm curled beneath him and the other trailing off under the dashboard. His eyes sagged open, looking at nothing. His pockets were turned out and a few stray coins littered the floor. Blood covered his head and face and flooded the seat where he lay. The red smell of it smothered my senses and jammed all thought.

Maybe I said something. I don't know. The shock had hit like a block of ice, leaving me stunned. As though someone else were doing it for me, my hand went out in a futile effort to find a pulse.

"Cha"

I jumped like I'd touched a hot wire. Banks was alive.

"nged." Nonsense slurred from his slack mouth. His eyes were still open and fixed. He was unaware of me.

I leaned in close. "Banks, who did it?"

"Change," he said clearly.

Disturbed by me, a quarter dropped from the edge of the seat and hit the floor. The sound as it landed was lost, masked over by the storm.

"Who hit you, Banks? Who did it?"

"Not."

"Who was it? Did you know him?"

"Lie."

I didn't dare move him. I needed help, but didn't know where to go to find it. A house with a phone could be only yards away, but invisible in the rain. Maybe I could flag down another car if it passed by.

"Was it a man? A woman?"

"Tall."

"Who, Banks?"

"F-fine."

"Banks!"

His eyes were still open, but he'd slipped away. My hand was touching his neck and I felt it happen. The knowledge spread up from my fingers straight to the brain and coiled down my spine. One second he was a man with dreams and needs and desires like the rest of us, and the next he was an inert, empty carcass.

A slow and sticky kind of sickness started in my guts and began working its way up. I quickly backed out of the cab, holding on to the door for support, and sucked in drafts of cold air and rain. I did not vomit in the ditch running along the roadside, though it would have been a kind of release. My condition doesn't always allow me the luxury of a human weakness. The bile stayed in my throat, clinging to the back of my mouth, and wouldn't go away.

I checked Banks. He was dead, I'd not made a mistake. The side of his head was smashed in, hard. The killer had been very fast; so fast that Banks had had no time to blink. I reached in and closed his eyes with numb fingers.

The bile surged inside. Maybe I was going to be sick, after all. I backed out again, the rain whirling around me, and leaned on the cab for support.

I heard a close, sharp thud.

My feet slipped away from under me. I toppled forward against the cab, cracking my chin hard on the wet roof.

Thud.

I felt the second blow and sprawled flat on my face on the streaming road. Water bounced up from the paving, stinging and filling my eyes.

The third was much harder. My head was firmly braced against the unyielding road surface. Whoever was doing it could bring a lot of momentum to bear with their downward swing.

The fourth.

I couldn't hear the rain hissing anymore. The world was reduced to cottony silence and the softly pulsing light beneath my eyelids.

The fifth.

The light was gone.

I don't remember the sixth or seventh.

Just as well.