The temperature rose, but the rain didn’t stop. It fel! steadily on the back of a slow-moving wind, easing every so often to a drizzle, and every so often strengthening to a downpour that turned the traffic to a blur and sent pedestrians scurrying for the nearest doorway. Mist rose like steam from the gutters. Gusts slammed under the restaurant’s awnings and caused the large windows that made up most of its south wall to shimmy.
The glass was cold when Richard touched it with a finger.
He sat alone in a booth, watching the entrance, waiting for loanne Minster, a cup of coffee cradled between his palms. She had called his room shortly after nine, apologizing that department business would keep her away until noon, perhaps a little later. Although he was anxious to get started, he hadn't really minded when he checked outside and saw that the weather had gotten worse. There would be no spoors to pick up, not the way things were now.
On the other hand, that meant one more day for the rogue to remain free.
He had used the extra time to go over the reports once more, and the more he read, the more he wondered exactly what he was missing. Ordinarily, a rogue was increasingly affected by his madness. His movement patterns became erratic, his attacks more bold and vicious, and he seldom bothered to try to hide his tracks.
And the freefall into madness seldom took more than a couple of months.
This one was different.
Once a month since late October, give or take a few days, someone had died.
There was no telling whether or not any of the victims had been stalked; none of the interviews with family and friends indicated it, but that didn't mean much. Rogue or not, Garou weren't that careless when it came to the hunt.
And as far as the police were concerned, there were no useable tracks, either animal or human.
He wished he could talk to Fay. She had always been able to cut through the inconsequential details without batting an eye, steering him away from the irrelevant details that threatened to clutter up his mind. He knew he would get there sooner or later; Fay had the knack of making it sooner.
He had already tried calling half a dozen times, but hadn’t been able to reach her. Concern made him call another number which routed through several area codes until he was able to speak to someone who could give a message to |ohn Chesney. Every other time he had taken this step, the Warder had gotten back to him within the hour.
Chesney didn't call, and he didn’t like the sudden feeling that he had been thrust into the dark, and no one had any intention of giving him some light.
Jesus, he thought then, and squeezed his eyes shut, deliberately tightly enough to spark mild pain, lesus, do you think you could get a little more melodramatic, you idiot?
He shook his head slightly and glanced outside, wincing in sympathy when he saw a woman racing down the street after her umbrella. By the time she reached it, he thought, she might as well not bother.
Another check of the entrance made him look at his watch; it was just past one, and no sign yet of the detective.
What he did see was a steady parade of people he imagined were checking in for this convention. They didn't, however, appear to business types at all. Most seemed to be young, almost all in clothes that ran from the carefully casual to the outright grungy. Suitcases and backpacks bulged, bellmen's carts were loaded with cartons and packages, and almost all of them appeared to know everyone else.
The restaurant began to fill.
It was a long, pleasant room, with booths along the window wall, tables everywhere else. A small bar carved its own niche midway toward the back, and beyond it he could see a pair of chefs working over a steaming grill. Two waitresses and a waiter floated around the tables, sidestepping boisterous reunions with an ease and unconcern that made him suspect they had been through all this many times before. One of them stopped by to refill his cup, but slipped away before he could ask any questions.
Several times couples or groups drifted past, staring pointedly, clearly hoping he would take the hint—a single man taking up a large booth, while they had to scrounge for an extra chair for a smaller table.
Finally, one man, in a rumpled safari jacket and stone-washed jeans, with a gray-shot beard that should have been trimmed six months ago, stood over him, glaring, until he looked up.
"Yes?” he said mildly.
The man didn't answer, just an irritated wave toward the empty seat.
"I'm expecting someone," Richard explained, still smiling.
Again the man didn’t answer; his frown did it for him, and Richard had had enough. He picked up his cup, glanced out the window, looked back at the man and stared.
Just. . . stared.
. . . green fire . . .
The man blinked in confusion several times, opened his mouth, and hastily backed away. When he tried to stammer an apology, Richard deliberately turned his head toward the window, feeling the momentary fear and confusion, and scolding himself. The man had done nothing but be a little rude; he didn't deserve the fright.
Voices were raised, laughter at the weather which, he gathered, seemed to be a running joke around here this time of year.
A minute later the restaurant fell abruptly silent, one of those curious moments when all conversation halted for no particular reason.
He looked at the street and realized that the wind and rain had finally stopped, but the sky had darkened. Before he could take a breath, an enormous peal of thunder exploded over the hotel, rattling the panes, making everyone jump. The lights flickered, died, and came on again.
A heartbeat more of silence, then everyone began to talk at once, nervously and nervously laughing. Somewhere behind him, in a small area in front set off by a latticework-and-glass wall, a baby cried.
"That'll get the blood running," said loanne Minster, sliding into the booth opposite him.
Richard started, and she grinned as she yanked a scarf from her head and fluffed at her damp hair. She wore a fleece-lined denim jacket over a baggy rust sweater, and a tiny gold ankh hung from a fine gold chain around her neck.
"You eat yet?"
He nodded at his cup. "lust coffee."
"Good. I’m starving.” She twisted around to get a waitress’ attention, turned back when she did, and said, "Sorry I'm late. Department stuff, like I said. It's a pain in the butt, but I don’t have a lot to say about my life these days."
He said nothing until after the waitress, polite but harried, had taken their lunch order. "I want to talk to that girl. Polly Logan."
loanne lifted a sculpted eyebrow. "You sure? I mean, that was months ago." She grabbed a small notepad from a black shoulder bag, flipped it open, and thumbed through the pages. "Seems to me that Hendean guy, Leon, at the hang-gliding place, would be better. It was only last week, you know?"
"He didn't see anything," Richard reminded her.
"Neither did the girl."
''Maybe."
He could tell she was unsettled, and it wasn't the weather. Long fingers darted over her food when it arrived, and she tried not to stare at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Department stuff, he thought; sure, right. She had probably spent the morning trying to find out if he was who she’d been told he was.
She hadn’t learned a thing, and that must have raised a red flag or two.
Then she pointed at his plate, at the barely brown chopped sirloin, nothing else, not even greens. “You really ought to try cooked food now and then. What the hell are you going to get from that?"
"Nourishment," he answered dryly.
She laughed. "Why don't you just eat it raw?"
"Too hard to catch." -
She laughed again, silently this time, and he decided there was a very good chance he could grow to like this woman. She was clearly suspicious of him, or of what he appeared to represent, but that didn't seem to get in the way of what had to be done. She was no doubt convinced she would figure it out before long. With or without his help.
Besides, if he was going to be honest, aside from her obvious intelligence, she wasn't all that hard on the eyes, either.
He grinned to himself then, quickly bent his head so the grin wouldn't show, thinking that a remark like that wouldn't earn him any points with a woman like her.
As he ate, she explained that her orders were simple: she was to assist him in any way possible, smooth things over with bruised egos who might think he was trying to steal thunder and credit, and make sure he didn't step on too many toes. “A snap," she said wryly. "I can do it in my sleep."
Not once did she ask for an explanation of his presence. By her tone, she obviously believed he would perform the courtesy without having to be prodded.
Then she waved a fork at the room and filled him in on the purpose of the convention: writers and readers of science fiction and fantasy from all over the South, she told him, with a sprinkling from other parts of the country. They filled the place to capacity once a year, listened to panels, watched movies, spent tons of money here and elsewhere in town, wore funny clothes at night, got drunk, got laid, and went home Sunday afternoon.
The police were usually around, but there was seldom any trouble. The convention had its own security, and handled its own problems pretty well.
This year, evidently, the emphasis was going to be on costumes, so he shouldn't be surprised to see TV and movie characters walking around all day.
'You wouldn't know it to look at them," she said, "but most of them, the rest of the year, actually have a life.”
"More power to them," he muttered, and signaled for the check.
"Hey," she said, "did I say something wrong?"
He shook his head as he stood. But the afternoon had grown noticeably brighter while they’d had their lunch, and he didn’t want to waste any more time. As long as these people didn't get in his way, he really didn't care what they did or what they wore.
Frowning at his change of mood, she took him to the front entrance, where her car waited in a no parking zone. "Privilege," she explained blithely, sliding in behind the wheel, and took off before he was settled.
They headed south, away from the hotel, not speaking until the city’s center had been replaced by low, whitewashed warehouses, bars, and a handful of restaurants with garish neon signs that at night probably looked inviting, but in daylight it only underscored their drab exteriors.
A mile or so later, she pulled sharply into the nearly deserted parking lot of a large supermarket, and stopped without cutting the engine. There were three other cars, a few forlorn shopping carts, and scraps and pages of newspaper fluttering wetly on the tarmac. Lookout Mountain rose starkly, sharply, directly ahead. Bare trees exposed a handful of small houses on the lower slope, and the color of pine only added to the bleak northern face.
The top was hidden in clouds.
Richard leaned forward and looked up to where the slope abruptly became vertical. "People live up there?"
"Nice town,” she answered defensively. "Only the tourists make noise." She nodded at the mountain. "It isn’t fat, but it stretches back a ways. McCormick, last week, was found around there, to the right. You can't see it from here. It’s a couple of miles along.” Without warning, she pulled out of the lot. A block later the road forked beneath a hanging traffic light. "The back way," she told him, pointing to the right. "We're going up the easy way.’’
Five minutes after the announcement, he doubted there even was an easy way up.
The road was narrow and steep, winding sharply around the contours of the slope, and she took it at speed. On the right a steep bank, wooded, with a glimpse of an occasional house or garage; on the left, a low guard rail that wouldn't, he thought grimly, stop a scooter from breaking through and plummeting to the bottom. They were only halfway up, and already he didn’t like how small the buildings down there looked.
"Heights get to you?" she asked, taking a right-hand curve easily, and too fast.
He shook his head. "Nope. Can't fly, that's all.” "Life’s too short," was all she said as the curve veered left around an outcropping of bare rock.
There had been no other traffic since they had left the city behind. The few homes he could see were dark, more than a few were boarded up. A bulge of thin fog left the woods here and there, and a constant drizzle kept the road gleaming.
Another huge boulder swung them left again, and for a second all he could see was the valley between the boles of spindly trees.
Then Joanne said, "Oh, shit.”
The pickup was black, its windshield tinted too dark to show the driver.
It moved slowly, but it was in the wrong lane.
Richard braced one hand on the dashboard as Joanne hit the horn, then touched the brakes and yanked on the wheel to take them into the outside lane.
Without any hesitation, the pickup swerved over at the same time, glancing off the guard rail before centering on the lane.
"Jesus!" she yelled, braked and yanked the wheel again, but this time the tires finally lost their traction.
Richard watched helplessly as the world spun by in terrifying slow motion—trees, sky, trees again, the grinning grill of the pickup, and finally the pocked face of the boulder as Joanne, somehow, used the car's skid to take them onto the narrow verge on the right where they jounced over a spindly bush before shuddering to a halt, not two feet shy of a thick-bored pine.
The truck didn't stop.
For a long time nothing moved, and the only sound was the slow ticking of cooling metal.
Then Joanne slammed herself back in her seat and punched the steering wheel twice, and twice again. "Son of a bitch.” A snarl, and she kicked open the door, jumped out and screamed, "Son of a goddamn bitch!" at the empty road. She stamped a foot on the tarmac, kicked viciously at a pebble, and spun in a tight circle, punching the air with her left hand before, red-faced and panting, she leaned over and looked in the car. "You okay?"
He turned his head slowly. “1 told you ... 1 can t
fly.’’ ’
"Bastard," she muttered, glaring down the mountain. "Goddamn blind bastard.”
Richard opened his own door and, after a moment's pause to be sure he wouldn’t fall, made his way around the rear bumper and through what was left of the bush, his legs trembling slightly, his vision preternaturally clear. The drizzle felt good on his face, and he closed his eyes briefly and licked his suddenly dry lips. His stomach lurched once; a chill touched the back of his neck.
For him, for his kind, dying wasn’t easy, but once over that guard rail, it would have been.
He looked at joanne and shook his head in admiration. "You are one hell of a driver, Detective."
With a vague it-was-nothing gesture she sagged abruptly against the front fender. 'Tell you the truth, 1 don't feel like it right now.” A steady hand passed over her face and back through her hair. "But thanks."
He squinted against a sudden, damp breeze and hunched his shoulders. There were highlights in the valley as sunlight broke through small gaps in the scudding clouds. Another hour, he thought, and there'd be no trace of the storm.
He cleared his throat; it felt packed with cotton. "Could you see him?"
"The driver?" She narrowed her eyes in concentration. "No. Probably some old fart, or some drunk." She spat dryly. "Stupid bastard."
He walked around the jut of the boulder, using the damp stone to keep his balance; the road was empty, and he could hear no engine either approaching or fading. When he returned, she was on the edge of the front seat, hands draped over her knees, staring at the road.
He stood in front of her, waiting until she looked up. "Bastard, yes,” he told her. "Stupid, no.” He jerked a thumb toward the spot where he had first seen the truck'. "He was waiting there for us, Jo. When we came around the bend, he didn't move until he was sure.”
She looked at him in confusion, grabbed the top of the door and hauled herself to her feet. "Are you sure?"
He walked over to the guard rail where the truck had ricocheted off, heard her follow as he crouched and pushed at the dirt and leaves beneath it.
"What?"
"Damn,” he whispered, and straightened, holding up a jagged square of glass. "1 saw something as we came up, but it happened too fast.” He dropped it into her open palm. "It’s not a headlight, it’s part of a mirror. He could see us coming, but we couldn’t see him.”
"From up there?" She looked doubtful.
"It doesn't take much. Just enough to know we were what he wanted." He sniffed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "When he hit the rail, it was no accident. He wanted that mirror gone."
She bounced the shard thoughtfully in her hand, then tucked it into her jeans pocket. A nod got them back into the car, and after a deep breath, she turned on the engine, took another deep breath, and pulled out onto the road
"What you’re saying is, he had to know we were coming,” she said quietly.
He nodded.
"He must have been ... he was in the restaurant."
"Or an accomplice, yes, someone to phone ahead and let this guy know where we would be."
She drove in silence for the next few minutes, flinching when a line of cars rounded a curve ahead of them, glancing in the rearview mirror until they were well out of sight. Richard, meanwhile, stared out his window, seeing nothing but drab colors, no shapes at all.
It could be a trap, the Warders had told him; it was possible someone wanted to put him out of business.
"Possible" was no longer the operative word.
"You know,” she said at last, “you haven't been in town all that long. And if nobody knows who you are or why you’re here, who the hell did you piss off?”
He couldn't answer because he didn't know.
A final turn, the land flattened, and they were there, in Lookout Mountain. Mostly white houses, most of them clapboard, a few brick and stone; hedges and picket fences, all of it looking a little old, a little weary under the clouds that hung not far above the trees. Here there was still no sunlight.
"The park,” he said suddenly. "Take me to this park, then get the girl and bring her.”
The car slowed.
"You going to tell me why?”
He heard the anger, and he ignored it. "No."
Her voice was taut, without emotion: "Whatever you say, you're the boss."
If I live that long, he thought.
The lobby of the Read House was two-stories high. Thick, dark, wood pillars rose from an expansive Oriental-style carpet to a gallery above. Around the carpet's perimeter were settings of high-backed chairs and love seats, cocktail tables and end tables. A small glass-door entrance was recessed in the south wall, facing across the lobby an elegant, now-closed restaurant. The west wall held the long registration counter, crowded now with lines of conventioneers checking in; a portion of the east wall was taken up by a pair of brass-door elevators.
One of them opened, and Miles Blanchard stepped out.
He glanced around as if trying to orientate himself, then headed directly for the nearest vacant chair. He sat with a sigh and a smile, lit a cigarette with a wood match, and dropped the match into an already-filled ash tray on the table beside him. He crossed his legs, leaned back, and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the vaulted ceiling.
Although he wore a dark, pinstripe suit with a muted red club tie, he didn't feel at all out of place. These people were here to have fun, maybe do a little business, and that, he figured, was exactly his own purpose.
The only annoyance had been his room.
The hotel was divided into two sections—this, the original nineteenth-century building, and a newer addition beside it, on the other side of the mostly underground parking garage. To get there, he had to go to the fifth floor and use a skywalk to cross over the garage roof. The inconvenience was minor, however. Soon enough he’d figure out another way to enter and leave without being seen.
He already knew which room was Richard Turpin’s.
Besides, these people were fascinating. Had he not been on assignment, he might well have taken the weekend just to hang around and observe them.
As it was, on impulse, he had registered himself as a member, the easier to move among the growing crowds without having to answer questions.
The suit, however, would have to go eventually. Costumes were apparently going to be the order of the day once the convention began, and he had already been mistaken for one of the featured guests listed in a program he had been handed when he had signed up, and he didn’t want the attention, no matter how flattering it had been. He didn't want to have to use his kit more than absolutely necessary.
In fact, he rather enjoyed the face he had chosen today—shading to make it lean, graying brown hair, sideburns, mustache, a blunted goatee that, he decided when he studied his reflection, gave him a subtle, rakish look. Pirate, perhaps, or the Sheriff of Nottingham.
Movement on his left turned his head slowly.
A thirty-ish woman took the wingback chair on the other side of the table. Slender, fair skin, high forehead, her cheeks lightly flushed and dusted lightly with freckles. She wore a fawn topcoat opened to expose a dark, silklike blouse and matching slacks. From a bulging pouch at her waist she took a leather cigarette case, took one out and put it to her lips.
Blanchard struck a match, leaned over, and lit the cigarette for her.
She inhaled, blew the smoke out in a rush, and touched a finger to her lips.
"Well?" he asked pleasantly.
She shrugged as she studied the tip of the cigarette. "If he’s not dead, which he probably isn’t, he’s going to be looking behind him all the time from now on."
"Oh, I do hope he’s not dead," he said with mock solemnity. "It would spoil the whole party.”
Her laugh was more a grunt.
He sighed his satisfaction—the game had well begun—and grinned. "Love your hair."
Wanda Strand scowled her disgust. "Oh, please." It was shoulder-length, fair and fine, and at the moment damp and frizzy. "If it rains anymore, it’li look like I'm wearing a goddamn helmet.”
Blanchard crossed his legs. "Where is he now?"
"Talking to the girl, most likely. If he can get by that old dragon who watches her."
He nodded. “He can. But he won't learn anything."
"Are you positive?"
"What does it matter even if he does?" He blew another smoke ring, and a passing young woman applauded sarcastically. He nodded pleasantly to her and, when she was gone, lowered his voice. "Even with that cop around, he won't live long enough to tell anyone anyway.”
The woman didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
The pillars climbed past the gallery to a vaulted ceiling, and between them arches of polished paneled wood framed small areas where chairs and tables had been set against low railings with filigree below.
The rogue sat alone, right above hotel registration, and looked down at Blanchard and the woman, finding it almost impossible not to laugh aloud.
They seemed so earnest, so intent, so incredibly goddamn serious, it was nearly farcical. If they could only see themselves down there, children plotting away in the midst of chaos, smoking like steam engines ... he looking pitifully out of place, and she looking as if she’d rather be anyplace else but here.
It sighed, then placed two fingers to its temples, pressing hard.
The headache was back, subtle and insistent.
Its return was unexpected, and the rogue couldn't help a moment of anxiety as its fingers massaged in small circles, slowly, almost absently, less a cure than a means to pass the time until the throbbing passed.
If it got too bad, there would have to be a hunt whether he wanted it or not.
If there was a hunt, there was a fair chance Richard Turpin would succeed.
Or he would have done, in the past.
But the Strider had never come up against competition like this.
If the stories and rumors were right, the other rogues had been certifiably mad, unable to handle the twin poles of their existence. They had lost touch with Gaia, and with the center of their selves. Killing assuaged the hunger; nothing else mattered, not even the feeding.
Not this time.
The hunger was satisfied, but this time there was an additional goal. When it was achieved, the rogue would never have to worry again.
About anything.
And Richard Turpin would be dead.
Joanne stood beside her car and glared at the entrance to the mountain park. She was mad. No, she was furious. At Richard Turpin, for treating her like a rookie who didn't even deserve to know the time of day, and at herself for reacting to him this way. It wasn't as if they were partners. She had no special standing as far as he was concerned.
Yet it was galling nonetheless.
Get the girl. Bring her to me. Fetch, lo, fetch.
lesus, she thought; get a grip, you idiot, it's only for a couple of days.
On the other hand, someone had tried to run them off the road, and even now her stomach filled with bile when she saw that pickup deliberately switch lanes.
"Sergeant?'’
She blinked herself back and looked over the car's roof at Polly Logan, and couldn't help smiling. The young woman was bundled as if for deepest winter, complete with mittens and a wool cap. Although there had been moments of sunlight, shafts of it teasing the houses, taunting the streets, the cloud cover had thickened again, but the temperature hadn’t fallen. Not yet.
Doris Mau'rin stood protectively behind her, a tall, thin woman of indeterminate age, her thick, black hair without a spot of gray. She wore only a light jacket over a sweater and jeans, her left hand clutching a black purse as if it were a gun.
"This had better be good,” the woman said. "It’s been months, you know. Months.”
Joanne assured her, as she had twice already, that the meeting with Turpin was necessary, and that it wouldn’t take very long.
As they walked toward the gray stone towers, Polly in the middle, Mrs. Maurin shook her head. "Government, you say?"
"Yes."
"FBI?”
Joanne didn't answer with more than a noncommittal grunt, because she really didn't know. Two days ago, Lt. Millson had called her into his office and told her she would be spending part of her administrative leave showing a Washington investigator around. Apparently the Feds, for whatever reasons, were interested in their serial killer. She had asked the same question, and the lieutenant had only handed her a strapped folder and said, "For now. Minster, you don’t need to know ”
There had been no room for argument, and, for a change, she had been wise enough not to start one. She was pleased, however, that at least he hadn’t tried to foist off the preposterous story about a marauding wiid animal.
Instead, she had spent this morning trying to track Turpin down, to find some trace of him through the department’s computer connections to law enforcement agencies across the country. As far as they were concerned, however, the man didn't exist. He was a ghost.
For a ghost, though, he sure had a lot of obviously powerful friends, and she was no longer quite convinced she ought to know more than she did.
Which, she thought bitterly, wasn't a whole hell of a lot.
Polly slowed as they neared the entrance.
Mrs. Maurin immediately put a hand on her arm. "It's all right, dear, nothing to worry about. We're just going to talk, that's all, you don't have to worry."
Joanne felt terrible. The apprehension on Polly's face had turned to fear, and her lower lip began to tremble. "Mrs. Maurin is right, honey," she said gently, a gentle touch on the young woman's shoulder. “There isn't anything here now that's going to hurt you."
Polly nodded uncertainly. "I used to like the park."
ioanne managed a smile.
"I don’t anymore."
They stepped through to the other side, and Polly stopped, staring at the ground, hands jammed into her pockets.
"Damn good reason," Mrs. Maurin muttered.
The blacktop path branched in several directions around the small park. Large, leafless trees studded the grassy areas between, and along the divergent paths white-globed lampposts looked like trees themselves. In the center, on a small rise, marble steps led up to a large dome held up by marble pillars, a monument to the Union and Confederate soldiers who fought in the Battle of Chattanooga. The whole park was only a few acres, its perimeter made of trees and shrubs, boulders and iron railings; beyond was the valley in which the city lay, nearly two thousand feet straight down.
"So where is he?" Mrs. Maurin demanded.
A soft wind began to sift through the bare branches, and a handful of dead leaves scuttled across the brown grass.
Joanne looked around before pointing straight ahead. "There.”
Turpin walked toward them from the far end, taking the easily sloping ground slowly, face up to the wind; almost, she realized, as if he were sniffing it, testing it for a sign.
The three women walked toward him, Polly no longer lagging.
"Oh, my," Mrs. Maurin whispered. "Oh, my, honey, if he's not yours, 1 want him.”
Joanne grinned, but said nothing. She was struck again by how almost ordinary he seemed. Not tall, not hefty, the silver-touched brown hair neither giving nor taking age. Almost ordinary. Except for those eyes, the slight slant of them and the dark green of them.
Mrs. Maurin fanned herself with one hand. "My, my, my."
Polly giggled. "Miss Doris, behave yourself."
[oanne relaxed. The girl seemed to be all right now, her expression bright as Richard smiled at her, holding out his hand as he approached. Polly took it and blushed, her gaze skittering away when he told her, quietly, to please call him Richard.
"1 don't want you to be afraid," he said gently, glancing at Joanne.
"I'm not,” Polly said shyly. "Not now."
Another glance, this one an order, and Joanne tilted her head at Mrs. Maurin, taking them a few yards away, out of earshot. It bothered her that she wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop on the interrogation, but she also recognized that her presence might prevent Polly from saying what Richard needed to know.
Mrs. Maurin lit a cigarette once they stopped beneath the nearest tree, blew smoke into the wind, and batted it away before it stung her eyes. "He’s wasting his time, dear. Polly hasn't said a word about that night since it happened."
loanne shrugged; it wasn't her call. "How ... I mean, Polly, is she. . . ?"
Mrs. Maurin smiled. "How bad is she, is that what you want to know?" Another puff, this time over her shoulder. "She's not the best of my babies, no getting around that, but she'll be all right given a little more time. She’s twenty-five, poor child, be twenty-six come April, but she'll always be no more than thirteen or fourteen. If that." Her voice grew melancholy. "Not a bad age to be, when you think about it." "Will she be able to live on her own?”
"Oh, sure, dear. It just takes time, that’s all. And that's what I've plenty of." She laughed through a cloud of smoke. "That, and a whole ton of patience.” Joanne looked over without being obvious about it—Polly was animated, hands gesturing, eyes wide, while Richard nodded as if every word she said was more important to him than anything else he could think of.
Well, she thought grudgingly, he’s damn good, I have to give him that.
Still, she couldn't help checking the park entrance, half expecting to see that black pickup roar between the turrets. She shuddered and hugged herself, rubbing her arms briefly, looking at the sky and the strips of swirling gray that escaped from the black.
"So, honey," said Mrs. Maurin, crushing the cigarette out beneath her sole, "you got a man or what?"
"He was hurt," said Polly sadly. "I know," Richard answered. "He scared me;"
He nodded. "I know. I can tell." "Your eyes are different." Richard smiled. "I know."
The wind began to keen.
The clouds lowered.
A twig snapped off a leaning, twisted tree and flew like a dart until it shattered against the monument steps.
Two couples wandered into the park, looked around and made their disappointment clear by the hunch of their shoulders as they left again, without a sound.
The wind died.
The air began to haze, and outlines softened while the city disappeared.
There was no sound at all but the bell-like sound of Polly's laughter.
Joanne leaned back against a trunk and folded her arms across her chest. Her admiration for Richard’s rapport with the girl had soured into annoyance. She was damp, she was cold, and she couldn't understand what Polly could say that would take them so long. It had been in the middle of the night, for God's sake.
What the hell could she have seen? What the hell could she say that she hadn't already told the police?
She made a soft noise of disgust and watched as Mrs. Maurin lit yet another cigarette, seemingly unconcerned, filling the time with a nonstop monologue about the other girls—there were four—who lived at the halfway house. By her tone, however, there was no mistaking the fact that Polly, to her, was special.
And it didn't seem to matter that Joanne wasn’t really listening.
“It was scary when he tried to grab me."
Til bet it was.”
Polly scratched behind her ear. "There were noises, too, you know.”
"Well, he'd been hit, Polly. He was hurting.1'
"No." She shook her head emphatically. "No, not him. The other one."
A vehicle pulled up at the entrance, its headlights high and glaring. Joanne pushed away from the tree, trying to see past them to whatever lay beyond.
“Fool idiot," Mrs. Maurin grumbled, shading her eyes with one hand. "It ain’t that foggy out."
But it was, loanne thought nervously-, it was foggy enough that she could barely see the tops of the turrets, and they were only about fifty yards away. And foggy enough that the headlights smeared her vision, gave her nothing to focus on until she looked away.
The older woman edged closer.
"Mrs. Maurin," Joanne said, suddenly remembering the house, "in your front hall there, 1 saw some bulletin boards by the door and the staircase."
"Yes. We keep track of who’s going where, and when. Everybody has to sign in or out." A rueful smile. "At least that’s the theory."
"No, I saw those. I mean farther back, by the stairs."
"Oh!" The woman nodded. "The girls call it the Pride Board. You know, when they make something nice to hang up, or when they get a nice letter, things like that."
“Pictures?"
"I don't have a camera."
The headlights didn’t leave.
"Drawings,! mean."
"Why sure. There's Charlie Wills, she's a cute little thing, not much good for anything else, but she sure can use a brush. 1 got the aquarium people to take some small things on consignment last summer for that gift shop they have. Sold them, too. She’ll never be a Rembrandt, but 1 think she'll make enough some day so she can . . She paused and looked up, shook her head. “Move out, I was going to say." She looked at Joanne sideways. “1 hate when they do that, you know. I know it's my job, but I just hate it.”
"What about Polly? Does she draw?"
"All the time, poor thing, all the time.”
Richard watched the girl’s eyes, deer’s eyes caught in a wood, being hunted. He said nothing; he didn't dare.
Finally, she cleared her throat and gave him a false smile. "1 don't know. I mean, Mr. Abbott, he's got this little bitty dog, it looks like silly rat when it's wet, but it wasn't like that. You know? It wasn’t like that."
"It's okay, Polly. I know what you mean."
Wide-eyed, she looked up. "No,” she said. “Oh no, you don’t know at alL”
Joanne clamped down her excitement. "Where are—" "Hush." Mrs. Maurin held up a finger and looked over Joanne’s shoulder. "Well, damn, she's gone now."
Joanne turned around, and saw the girl shifting her weight from foot to foot, bobbing her head, shaking it, bobbing it again.
“Damn."
Mrs. Maurin lifted her chin. "Polly? Girl? You come on over here, now, you hear? Time we were getting back to the house." Then she lowered her voice. "I’m sorry, Sergeant, but when she gets that way, she's gone for hours. Sometimes days."
Angrily, she flicked a cigarette into the fog. "Took me a month to bring her back after. . . that killing.
The headlights hadn't moved.
Joanne waited until the girl started over, said, "Don’t go anywhere just yet,” and marched up the path toward the light. She kept her head up and her arms swinging, trying to appear as official as she could, given the clothes she wore. Whoever it was, she swore, he was going get his ass royally chewed.
She heard the engine then, soft and throbbing.
The headlights backed away.
She didn’t slow down, she didn't speed up.
Stupid son of a bitch, she thought, able to see now the vague outline of a car; play games with me, you son of a bitch, you're gonna find your ass in a cell. Stupid bastard.
The engine gunned, and she hesitated before realizing the car wasn’t going to charge her. It turned a fast circle instead and sped away, taillights dimming quickly, until there was nothing left but the engine. Mocking her as it faded.
She stopped ten feet from the gateway, rolled her eyes, and turned around. Polly was already there, Mrs. Maurin's arm around her shoulders.
"It wasn't his fault,” the woman said when she saw Joanne's face. "The girl just gets this way sometimes when she’s upset, that’s all.” She hugged the girl before leading her away. "Should have talked in the house. My fault.”
Joanne watched helplessly until the fog took them as well, and her anger boiled over. With hands bunched into fists, she whirled to confront Turpin.
He wasn't there.
The iampposts didn't help; their glow was diffused, creating more shadows than light.
"Turpin!" '
She stomped toward the monument. If there were spotlights, they weren't on.
"Turpin, damn it, where are you?”
He didn't answer.
What she heard instead was a deep-throated growl.
He stepped out from behind a tree and tapped her on the shoulder.
loanne spun around, right hand reaching for the small of her back as she dropped into a crouch.
Richard held up a quick hand to hold her off and cover his smile. "Hey, wait, wait, it's me.”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment he thought she would still pull the revolver he knew she kept back there. It had been a stupid thing, but he hadn't been able to resist it. The timing and the setting had been too perfect.
The hand stayed up, palm out. "Don't say it," he warned, the smile turning to a grin. "Stupid son of a bitch bastard, I know all that already.” The hand lowered slowly. "I’m sorry, okay? !'m sorry.”
It was a long second before he saw the tension drain, her shoulders relax as she straightened and made a show of dusting her hands on her jeans "Never again," she said, walking past him, not looking up. “Never.”
He agreed, apologized again, but couldn't get rid of the smile. It wasn’t so much the easy trick as it was the information Polly had given him. Eyes, she had said; terrible eyes. Until he eased it out of her, she hadn’t really been sure she'd actually seen them. She said something about seeing lights in the sky that no one believed, and so had doubted the eyes and had kept that to herself.
Eyes.
Terrible eyes.
There and gone in an instant, while she had been screaming.
Not green, like his—they had been the pale red of a rogue's advancing madness.
Despite the Warders' insistence, he had needed confirmation for himself. They had been wrong before. Not this time.
Now was the time for hunting.
The next step was to decide how far he could trust Joanne.
As they walked to her car, he wondered how involved she would let herself get in this case. A lot, he figured when she yanked open her door and glared him the order to get in. She didn’t seem the type to simply step back, be his faithful liaison, mind her own business.
They sat in silence while she fumed.
If he decided she would truly be a partner, then, she would have to know. It couldn't be avoided. And there was no telling how she would react.
It wasn't an unusual situation; rare, but not unusual Of those times when his contacts had found out, when he had voluntarily lifted the Veil just for them, only twice had he regretted it. His right hand absently drifted to his left shoulder, pressing lightly in the hollow between shoulder and ribs. The scar had never healed properly.
Unusual, but not rare.
It wasn’t the only scar he carried.
Those two—one man, one woman—hadn't lived long enough to lift the Veil for others. He dearly hoped it wouldn't be the same for Joanne.
"Now what?” she asked stiffly.
He considered what he had known and what he knew now, and gestured at the windshield. "That guy, the one who runs the hang-gliding business. Hendean. I want to see that place, and maybe the place where the woman died."
"Now?" She frowned her puzzlement. "There isn't going to be anyone there, not in this weather."
"Maybe there is," he countered softly. "Please. Humor me."
She didn’t like it, that much was obvious, but she drove through town without questioning him, taking him along a two-lane road that followed the narrowing crest of the mountain. The houses soon grew sporadic, the only structure of note a large, pale, brick complex on the right, whose sign toid him it was Coventry College.
He didn’t ask; she didn't volunteer.
The fog thinned quickly, and what remained was swiftly shredded as the wind picked up again, slow and fitful.
They passed occasional houses whose front yards were small, and whose back yards, he thought, must have been mostly straight down. Before long, however, the trees took over, and through the bare branches he could see the spread of land below, and hazy hills in the distance. It was mostly woodland down there, broken only by fields waiting for spring planting.
Joanne cleared her throat. "I told them—Polly and Mrs. Maurin—that you were FBI.” A rabbit skittered across the road, and she swerved easily to avoid it. "So what are you? Really?"
"Spooky." He grinned when she glanced over. "Really spooky.”
"You got that right," she answered, and he looked away when he saw the start of a smile part her lips.
Better, he thought; it’s getting better, thank God. For all his years, all his experience, handling women’s moods and tempers was absolutely beyond him.
Fifteen minutes later she pulled onto the gravel skirt outside the Hendean launch area. The barnlike shed was weathered with spotty gray, Leon's Air stenciled in red and blue on the sharply canted roof. There were no other cars, no sign of any flyers.
“Waste of time," she muttered as they got out. Richard walked to the concrete lip and looked down. Straight down. Wishing he hadn't when he felt his stomach lurch and grow as cold as the mountain-top air. God, he thought, swallowing hard; people actually, willingly, throw themselves off here? He shook himself and stepped back, and saw Joanne watching him closely.
"Acrophobia?" she said with just a hint of mocking. "I don’t think so,” he answered, heading for the only door he could see. "Like I said, 1 don’t fly."
"You should try it sometime. It’s a real rush.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have?”
“Once.”
“Only once?”
"Are you kidding, Turpin? I was scared spitless. I think 1 screamed all the way down. But there’s no getting around it, it was a hell of a rush."
The unmarked door was open, and they stepped over the threshold into one vast room. Frames and foils hung from beams overhead, stirring slightly as drafts found cracks in the walls. Around the walls were workbenches, meta! tool cabinets, a soda machine, and, just left of the door, a table he figured Hendean used for a desk.
In the center of the smooth concrete floor was a smaller work table, at whose bench sat a man in baggy bib coveralls fussing with a length of aluminum tubing caught in a vice. He was thin, with thinning, curly white hair, and granny glasses that kept slipping down the length of his nose. When he noticed them, he grinned and rose.
"Man," loanne whispered.
He was tall, very tall, with watery blue eyes and, despite his lean frame, pudgy cheeks. Despite the hair, he wasn't that old. "Hey, hey," he said pleasantly, wiping his hands on a rag. "Closed today, folks."
Joanne nodded and introduced them.
Curly Guestin shook their hands eagerly. "Police, huh? FBI, huh? Wow. 1 do something wrong?" He laughed, and his face reddened. "Hey, nope. Not me." He gestured toward the table. "I just keep folks from falling out of the sky."
"We’re looking for Mr. Hendean," Richard said.
"Gone." Guestin frowned in thought before nodding. "Yep, he's gone. Was here, now he’s not. Went down the city, I think. I don't know if he’ll be back.” He looked at the rafters. "You want to fly?”
"No," said Richard quickly. "No, thanks.”
The man dropped abruptly onto the bench, hands clasped between his knees, head bowed, "It’s the lady, isn’t it. You don’t want to fly 'cause the lady got killed."
"No," loanne said gently. "In fact, that’s what we want to talk to Mr. Hendean about. We'd like to know just what happened before she died.”
“Wasn't the fall,” the man said quickly. "Like 1 told those police who kept asking me all those questions, same questions over and over, it wasn't me that fixed her gear. Hey, I do good work, y'know?" He looked up at them, his smile painful and brief. "Some kind of maniac out there, FBI," he said solemnly. "Hardly safe around here anymore. Even the regulars aren't making it all the time.”
"Then why are you here all by yourself?" Joanne asked.
Guestin grinned, reached under the table, and pulled out a shotgun. "If he comes in here, I'll take his maniac head off.” Another laugh, and again his face reddened. As he put the gun back under the table, he told them he didn't expect his boss back until morning. There was, he explained, lots to do, making sure the people came back after what he called "the accident.” Hendean was putting new ads in the papers and getting flyers and posters printed. "Maybe you can talk to him tomorrow, hey?"
"Sure," Richard said, and asked him to show them where the woman had crash-landed.
Guestin didn't seem too eager, but he led them outside to the launch lip and pointed to a spot three-quarters of the way down. "Clearing, see it? Right there. Mr. Hendean was standing right here, he told me. Saw her go down, radioed to Nora, got the ambulance moving right away.” He scratched at his chin, looked to Richard, and added, "If you kind of hunker down, Mister, it's easier. Hey, don’t want you to fall." The edge of the ridge was marked with boulders, trees, and high weeds. When Richard did as the man suggested, he realized he’d been right—it was easier for some reason, and he was able to look down the mountain's thickly wooded side without suffering the vertigo that had slipped over him before.
The vertical drop ended when the side flared out like a skirt, but he reckoned it was still a good fifteen hundred feet before that happened. Through the trees he could see the tiny clearing Guestin had pointed out, the road that followed the mountain’s base, and what looked like a doll's house just beyond, with a dark-red shed on a yard that looked to be three or four acres. Nora was Nora Costo, Hendean's ground manager. The gliders landed in either that yard, or the mowed field to its right, she gathered them up, put them in a van, and had them brought back to the summit if they were going to make another trip.
She was also a paramedic.
She was the one who had first seen the body.
Richard looked north and south along the slope as far at the forest would permit, and wondered if Trish McCormick would have lived if she had landed where she should have instead of where she did.
"What was he doing, just waiting around for someone to land?" Joanne wanted to know.
He doubted it. Like the guard in the park, the woman had most likely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The more he looked, the more he understood that the area was a perfect place for the rogue—enough people and animals around to hunt, enough wilderness to hide in.
He knows it well, Richard decided. No wonder he’s been able to stay free for so long.
He knows this place like the back of his hand.
The wind nudged him from behind then, spilling hair into his eyes. He swiped at it absently, backed away, and rose. He thanked Guestin for his help, and smiled to himself as the man nodded politely but gave most of his attention to Joanne, and most of that to her chest. He would have said something when she joined him in the car, but he had a feeling she would probably belt him a good one.
"Now what?" she asked, leaving Leon’s Air behind. "Do you want to see that clearing?''
He shook his head. "Won’t do any good.’’ At least, not in daylight, he thought. He rubbed his forehead, blew out a breath, and checked his watch.
It was going on four.
The sun was already on its way down, and the cloud cover had given the mountain an early twilight.
"You want to drop in on the Costo woman?" She tapped an impatient finger on the steering wheel. "Maybe you can find out something she saw that she doesn't know she saw." She chuckled. "If you see what I mean."
"Later," he answered, keeping his tone neutral, "First thing is, I have to check in with Washington Could we go back to the hotel?"
“I'll drop you off."
"Do you have to? After all this, I was kind of hoping I could treat you to a drink, or dinner."
She looked at him sourly, and he grimaced. "I do have a job, you know,” she reminded him. "The desk shit, remember?"
He nodded.
"Tell you what, though," she said as they reached town, "We'll stay away from that other road. We'll go down the back way."
"Okay. Whatever you say."
“Yeah, right."
There was more traffic now, and people on the sidewalks in hats and heavy coats. A black pickup waited at an intersection, and he stared at it, turned and looked through the rear window until it headed off in the opposite direction.
"This back way. Is it like the way up?”
"Worse," she said gleefully.
She was right.
The hotel was awash with people and noise when he stepped inside, so much so that Richard instantly forgot the harrowing downhill drive, and Joanne’s smug expression when she let him out at the curb.
The lobby was packed, both with registration lines and movement, the noise level almost unbearably high. As he stood waiting for an elevator, he noticed that many had exchanged suits and jeans for what seemed to be costumes. He recognized a few Star Trek outfits, but little else. Capes and cloaks mixed with black leather and chains; Hollywood medieval with street corner grunge.
For no reason at all, it made him feel inexplicably old, and he was grateful when he was able to make it to the third floor. The relative silence was welcome, and he realized that if tonight was the rule rather than the exception, he would have to find another, quicker, way to get up and down. Two elevators for a thousand people wasn't satisfactory at all.
He slipped his key into the door, turned the handle, and froze.
A thousand people. Probably more.
Costumes that he imagined would grow more elaborate with time.
The rogue, he thought; my God, if it knew . . .
He entered the room cautiously, testing the air for the scent of invasion, relaxing only when he was positive there hadn't been another search. Then he dropped on the couch and stared blindly at the opposite wall, ignoring the chill of a tiny draft from the window at his back.
After a moment he slipped the tiny cloth bag from his pocket and opened it, spreading it over his thigh. Inside were three miniatures carved from stone, none more than half an inch high—an owl, a hawk, and, in gleaming black, Anubis.
His fingers brushed over them lightly.
His eyes closed.
His breathing grew shallow.
Within minutes the hotel had been swallowed by a black fog, and a Slack wind howled, and a voice wept with pain.
When his eyes opened again—green fire—he saw the familiar desert.
This time, however, he wasn’t alone.