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.